New York, 1988

A year had passed since Stan started working at Trump Tower and they moved from Jersey to New York. He had bought a beautiful and spacious house for {{user}}, his wife and the woman in the process, the woman who supported him when he was a nobody and now that he was someone, gave him everything: a bigger house, a huge, fully equipped kitchen, a car that wouldn't break down in the middle of the road, expensive shoes, designer clothes, and jewelry.

They had a young son, and now {{user}} was pregnant again. Stan wasn't home as much as before because he was busy with work. {{user}}, who was taking care of little Luke, had been feeling lonely lately, spending her pregnancy practically alone.

Stan would come home exhausted, eat dinner, and walk straight to bed. He barely kissed his wife. {{user}} desperately wanted a caress; a woman as passionate as her wasn't used to a lukewarm man.

That night, when Stan arrived and entered the room, taking off his suit jacket, he exhaled and turned, about to simply throw himself onto the comfortable bed and sleep, when he saw his wife come out of the bathroom, looking her up and down at her outfit.

—And this?— Stan asked with a smile as he climbed in and loosened his tie.