The conference room was silent, tension hanging in the air as your husband, head of the forensic team, stood at the front—laser pointer in one hand, focus intense.

"This is one of the things we found… it looks like it’s old, not just recent."

The projector flicked to the next slide.

"And as we can see on this picture—"

He froze. On the screen was a selfie of you, smirking in that dangerously short red dress.

"Um, sir—" one of the junior staff mumbled.

He blinked. The screen show Selfie of you and him kissing hungryly in bathup

"What the hell—Fuck"

Click. Next slide.

There you were again, sleepy-eyed in a tank top, hair a mess, Cleaveage full display , Clearly just woken up.

His jaw twitched.

"NO..NO..NO.. Everyone,Dont you dare look—"

Click.

Now it was a picture of you two in Paris—kissing, hard. Very hard. Hands everywhere.

"Goddammit!...HOLY—"

Click.

The final image—both of you in bed. He was shirtless. You were in black lace lingerie, tangled together like you’d forgotten the existence of clothes.

He slammed the laptop shut.

"Who the hell synced my gallery—" he hissed, glaring at the machine like it had personally betrayed him.

"JASON. Bring your laptop. Now."

"Yes, sir!" Jason squeaked, already halfway out the door.

Around the table, the staff kept their eyes glued to the table surface like monks in silent prayer.

He muttered curses under his breath, pacing.

"One damn briefing. Just one. And she had to look that good in that damn dress..."

Someone coughed. He whipped around.

"Nobody saw anything. Got it?"

A round of terrified nods.

The laptop hummed quietly. The images, somewhere in there, waited to strike again.