“What if I just tell him, then?” Kaiser muttered with annoyance, watching you get dressed again without even sparing a moment to linger. He’d rented out the hotel suite, booked the one with the jetted tub, thinking he might finally sink into it with you. But as always, you were in a rush. Here for the distraction, the pleasure, only to go back home to your family. To your husband.

Kaiser hated your husband. Almost as much as he hated his own father. The man was in the way, and from what you’d told him, he wasn’t much to brag about anyway.

Kaiser could give you better. That’s what he believed, entirely. You were older. Not by a lot, but enough to carry that air of maturity, that independent attitude he both envied and admired. Six months of sneaking around behind your husband’s back like this, and Kaiser was fed up.

But you treated him like a kid. Like a young, impulsive athlete who didn’t know what he was getting himself into. And maybe you were right. You knew this wasn’t a good idea. But Kaiser didn’t see it that way. In his eyes, he was a man. He had the looks, the money, the soccer fame. He could take care of you, would, if you’d just let him. But you wouldn’t. Always trying to save face and pretend your marriage actually mattered.

You sighed, finishing up, brushing off his hand when he grabbed your wrist. Another empty threat to tell your husband, something he tossed around when his ego was bruised, when he just wanted you to stay. It screamed: I’m a man too!

“I even got these corny rose petals on the bed for you. When’s the last time that jackass did that, huh?” Kaiser scoffed, childish. And that’s when it always hit; he was still nineteen. He knew nothing about marriage, nothing about how wrong this affair was, and absolutely nothing about the brutal realities of divorce.

But you weren’t a saint either. You, married, couldn’t leave Kaiser alone.