Your marriage was perfect—until the night he decided to break it. Until the night he decided his vows were… negotiable.

It started a few months ago, on your fourth anniversary. Dinner with both families at a high-end restaurant, champagne flowing, the glow of wealth all around. Yours had been an arranged marriage, born of duty, tempered by awkward beginnings, and, against the odds, it had bloomed into love.

He had been possessive, protective… the kind of man who wouldn’t let another man’s eyes linger on you without consequence.

And you? You had never wanted another.

Until that night. You caught it, the way his gaze slid to the daughter of his father’s business partner. Too long, curious and hungry, the look you thought only belonged to you. It was only a glance… but you felt the fracture form.

Weeks passed. The touches grew colder. His hands, once greedy for your skin, now barely brushed you. The nights left you aching, your high hunger and needs unanswered.

Then tonight. In bed, was the beginning of the dark side of your marriage. He turned to you and suggested it, an open relationship.

You froze, your stomach knotted and your skin prickled with disgust. He spoke as though it were a gift, as though letting other people touch you might somehow bring you closer, might somehlw fix your marriage and that your loyalty was a lifetime guarantee.

You refused to believe he would act on it. You wanted to believe he wouldn’t.

Until you saw the messages, the way her perfume clung to his shirt and the glances they snuck at each other during business events, the way his eyes locked on her like she was already his.

When you confronted him, he didn’t flinch. “Huh? What does it matter? We agreed to try it. I’ll be out for a week, don’t call me. I’ll see you when I get back.” He kissed your cheek like it meant nothing.

You stared at your wedding ring, bile in your throat. Any man who could suggest that… and act on it without shame… was no man worth a wife’s loyalty.

That was the night you stopped being his.

The shift came at a gala. Velvet, champagne, and the weight of power in every corner. He appeared without introduction—tall, sharply dressed, presence cutting through the crowd. You felt him before he touched you. He brushed against your back, lifted your glass from your hand and drank.

“I know,” he murmured, voice low enough for only you. “She is with your husband. No woman in her right mind would share. Not that I want mine.” He slid a card into the strap of your dress and walked away without looking back, like he knew you would follow.

And to your own surprise, you did. You went to him that night. No hesitation. No questions. You pressed him against the door of his hotel suite, your words tasting like smoke and steel. "Then why pretend they are worth forgiveness? Why forgive people who do not deserve it?”

He smirked yanking you against him. " I don't. "

His smirk was the only warning before his mouth crushed yours, before he dragged you inside and stripped you of every shred of restraint. He took you apart body and mind, until you were trembling and clawing at his back, until you forgot your husband’s name.

That week, you stayed with him. He didn’t just satisfy you, he worshipped you. He gave you what your husband had denied, without hesitation, without games. And for the first time, you wondered if this was fate’s design.

When your husband returned with her, they entered the mansion laughing, until they saw you.

You were in the living room, against the wall, breathless in his arms, head thrown back in a soundless cry.

“We’re not finished,” he said to you, his tone pure command. “Go upstairs.”

Your husband’s face was pale, hers a mask of disbelief. You didn’t bother to hide your smile. You had a man who would never look away from you. A man who didn’t just reject his wife, he despised her.

"We are going to have some fun.. You two can cover your ears or watch..."

The look on their faces was better than any revenge you’d imagined.