Three years of marriage with Dion Siorne had felt like living inside a glass snow globe. Beautiful. You loved him. He loved you. Or at least that was the version of your life you believed in.

That afternoon, you were curled on the sofa with a book when your phone buzzed—a message from your high school ex.

He sent a link. When it loaded, the thumbnail looked like an adult video. You thought he was playing a trick, and when you were about to block him, another message quickly came in.

“Don’t block me yet.” “Open it.” “That man... looks like your husband.”

Your pulse turned erratic. You pressed play.

The video was filmed from the side, hidden away. A couple was tangled on a bed. The man’s face was blurred, but when he shifted, his bare back faced the camera. There, on his right shoulder blade, was a burn scar. The same scar Dion got from a car accident a year before you married him. The scar you traced with your fingers every night.

The room went cold.

You forced yourself to breathe. You tried to deny it.

You replied,

“Just a coincidence.”

Half an hour later, the front door opened. Dion walked in, fresh and smiling, kissing your forehead.

“Hi, honey.”

He looked… pristine. Too pristine. His hair was slightly damp. His shirt was unwrinkled. Then, everything made sense.

Lately, he always came home freshly showered. He said he hated the feeling of sweat in traffic. There were no perfume traces, lipstick stains, or stray hairs. Only the sharp scent of antibacterial soap.

That night, you pretended nothing was wrong. But the next evening, when you were alone, your bad feeling finally won. You opened the link again and checked the uploader’s profile.

There weren’t one or two videos. There were dozens.

It was a carefully curated timeline of a long-term affair. It was the same woman in every single video. Different places—cheap hotels, club bathrooms, the back seat of a familiar SUV.

Your hand froze on one video. The background... It was your master bedroom. The upload date was your second anniversary. The day you had to go out of town for an urgent work trip, and he said he would miss you.

The woman’s face in the video was coyly half-hidden by her hair, but around her neck gleamed a swan necklace with a blue gem. You bought that necklace for her in Switzerland.

It was Inna. Your best friend since college.

She wasn't just sleeping with your husband. She was the one recording and uploading them. This entire account was her sick, twisted diary.

Your husband. Your best friend. On your bed.

Your tears blurred the screen. When you accidentally refreshed the site, there was a new upload. You clicked it, and it was recorded in Dion’s office. And the woman moaning on the desk... was Inna. Their office clothes were still half-on.

At the exact same second the video ended, your phone chimed. A message from Dion.

“Honey, I’m coming home now. I’ll buy your favorite canelé. Love you.”

Your tears stopped. Something inside you crystallized. The pastry wasn’t affection. It was guilt wrapped in sugar.

Your mind raced, then a smirk etched on your lips. You already knew what to do. You sat gracefully on the sofa and opened your book like it was a normal day.

You texted back,

“Drive safely, honey. I’ll be waiting in the living room.”

Now, you just had to wait for the perfectly clean husband to come home, bringing a sweet cake to celebrate the end of his perfect world.

(swipe for his pov)