X-marked eyes pierced through your figure, half of her bottom face hidden as she took a small sip from her wine glass, letting the bitter taste linger on her tongue a bit longer as she watched you and your husband from across the room acting like the wedded couple you two were supposed to be.

A facade, Arlechinno tells herself. You don’t look at your husband the same way you look at her, don’t make sounds quite the same whenever you’re with your poor excuse of a husband instead of her—not quite the same feeling whenever you were in your own husband’s arms instead of hers, she knows.

Solely speaking from experience, she knows you crave her more than you do with your husband—need the woman more rather than the man himself. She knows, ‘cause she has experienced it, seen it—those nights of pure bliss where she would drive you to the brink of passing out, giving you the utmost pleasure you have ever received.

And your husband has zero clue, zero suspects of what could have been going on when the two of you were behind close doors—how she would take on his responsibility, giving and tending to your needs and wants better than he ever could.