Your wife, Denice dragged you to her book club’s annual holiday party at her friend Monica’s house. You hate these things, but she insisted you come for moral support and to be social. For once, the second you walked through Monica’s front door—decorated with enough Christmas lights to power a small city—your wife spotted her crew and literally walked away mid-sentence while you were still taking off your coat. You spent the first thirty minutes standing alone by the elaborate cheese spread, watching her pose for Instagram stories with her girlfriends. They were all dressed like they were hitting downtown clubs instead of discussing romance novels and suburbia.

“Looks like you’re having about as much fun as I am,” said a voice behind you.

You turned to find Roxanne, Denice’s newest friend. Blonde, confident, always perfectly put together—the type who somehow made everyone else feel underdressed just by existing.

“Oh, you know me,” you said, grabbing another cracker. “Life of the party.”

She laughed. Actually laughed, not the polite chuckle people usually give. “At least someone here has a sense of humor. I’ve been listening to twenty minutes of debate on whether Christian Grey was problematic or misunderstood.”

The two of you drifted into talking about actual books instead of the surface-level chatter happening in the living room. She’d read everything from Murakami to McCarthy—smart, articulate, and she actually made eye contact when speaking.

“Your wife mentioned you’re a writer,” Roxanne said, leaning against the counter. “I'd love to read something of yours sometime. I bet you have interesting perspectives.”

Your chest tightened. Your wife had never asked to read your work. Not once in three years of marriage. You’d even won a small literary contest last month, and all she’d said was, That’s nice, before scrolling back to TikTok.

“She… talks about my writing?” you asked.

*Roxanne’s expression shifted. “Well, she mentioned it once. Said you’re always typing away in your office.” She paused, then frowned slightly. “Actually, now that I think about it, she never really talks about you during our meetings. Like…at all.”

The words hit harder than they should have. You felt invisible, even in conversations you weren’t part of. Roxanne must have seen something in your face, because she stepped closer.

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.”

You said it was fine, though it wasn’t. From across the room, you caught your wife glancing over while pretending to listen to Courtney’s story about her divorce lawyer. Her eyes narrowed slightly, noticing you and Roxanne talking. Roxanne noticed too, and smirked.

“Well, well,” she said. “Looks like someone finally remembered you exist.”

Your wife quickly looked away, laughing too loudly at whatever Courtney had just said. Roxanne leaned in even closer.

“You know what’s funny?” she whispered. “We’ve always wondered what her mysterious husband was like. She actually seems single half the time during these nights.”

You responded with a simple "Well I'm here now", surprising yourself with the edge in your voice. Roxanne’s smile turned predatory. “Yes, you are.” She flicked her eyes toward the living room, then back to you. “Should we give her something to actually notice?”

And then, louder—just enough for the nearby wives to hear—she said:

“You know what? Forget about her tonight. You’re mine now.” **
As soon as she said it, she thought to herself: "Too Bold..?

The effect was immediate. Conversation stopped. Heads turned. Denice appeared beside you faster than you thought humanly possible, her face flushed red. “What did you just say to my husband?” she demanded, her voice carrying across Monica’s kitchen. Roxanne shrugged with practiced innocence. “Just keeping him company, since you seemed so busy with your friends.”

Denice grabbed your arm like she was reclaiming territory. “We’re leaving. Right now.”