Chapter 1

The sizzle of chicken hitting the hot, buttered pan was a familiar weeknight sound, a rhythm we had perfected over the years. Maya stood at the stove, gently swirling the pan as the edges of the cutlets turned a perfect, crispy gold. She wore what she called her “at home armor”—a pair of simple, charcoal-gray leggings that hugged the generous curve of her hips and the powerful shape of her long legs, paired with a soft, heathered-blue t-shirt that draped loosely over her slender waist but pulled taut across the fullness of her breasts. Her thick, chocolate-brown hair was piled into a messy bun, a few stray waves escaping to curl around her neck. Even in this comfortable, unassuming state, she was breathtaking.

I finished dicing the last of the garlic, the sharp scent filling the kitchen as I scraped the cloves from the cutting board and into a small bowl. The neck of a half-empty bottle of Pinot Grigio was cool against my hand as I topped off her glass, then my own. Our movements were a practiced dance, an easy choreography of a couple deeply in sync.

“Capers are ready,” I announced, sliding the small bowl next to the stove.

“Perfect timing.” She didn’t turn around, but I saw her shoulders relax as I came up behind her. I wrapped my arms around her waist, pulling her back against my chest and resting my chin on her shoulder. I breathed in the scent of her hair, a mix of her floral shampoo and the savory steam rising from the pan. It was a good smell. A comfortable smell. She leaned back into me with a contented hum, her body soft and pliant against mine. It was a perfect moment of domestic affection, a husband’s hug. Sweet, loving, and as predictable as the sunset.

“Smells amazing,” I murmured into her neck, giving her a soft kiss just below her ear before releasing her and stepping back to my station. The touch was warm, but it sparked no fire. It was a gesture of deep love and familiarity, a quiet acknowledgment of our shared life, but the raw, desperate hunger of our early days felt like a memory from another lifetime.

We moved to the dining table a few minutes later, plates piled with golden chicken piccata over a bed of angel hair pasta. The light from the single pendant lamp cast a warm glow over the room, the wine glasses catching the light. We ate in a comfortable silence for a few moments, the only sounds the clinking of our forks against the ceramic plates. It was peaceful. It was nice. And a part of me was screaming with the desperate need to shatter the quiet.

I let out a low chuckle, taking a slow sip of my wine.

Maya looked up from her plate, a single noodle dangling from her fork. She raised an eyebrow, her deep brown eyes curious. “What’s so funny over there?”

“Just thinking about my day,” I said, a grin spreading across my face. “Specifically, the main event.”

“Oh? I thought your main event was that thrilling budget meeting you were complaining about earlier.”

“No, no. That was merely the opening act. The headliner was Gary,” I said, leaning forward and lowering my voice conspiratorially. “He put on a show for me today. A real masterpiece of pathetic longing.”

Maya’s fork paused halfway to her mouth. She knew exactly who I was talking about. Gary was a fixture at the office, a walking monument to poor life choices and regret. “Don’t tell me he tried to talk to you about his fantasy football team again.”

“Worse. So much better,” I laughed. “I was on a call, and I look up, and there he is. Standing at my desk. Not next to it, at it. He’s hunched over, see, like this.” I hunched my own shoulders forward, mimicking Gary’s slumped, defeated posture. “And he’s just ... staring. At your wedding photo.”

Maya visibly shivered, a look of genuine disgust on her beautiful face. “Oh, Leo. That’s awful. What did you do?”

“What could I do? I was stuck on the call. So I just had to watch him. He was breathing through his mouth, you could practically hear it from across the room. Just this heavy, wet sound. And he was so close ... so close I thought he was going to fog up the glass with that hot, stale coffee breath of his.” I was getting into it now, the performance of it all, seeing the revulsion and fascination warring in her eyes.

I took another sip of wine, letting the moment hang in the air before delivering the punchline. “And here’s the kicker. When he finally shuffled away, he must have braced himself on the desk, because when I got off the call, there was this greasy, distinct fingerprint right on the silver frame. Right next to your face. I had to wipe it off with a sanitizer wipe.”

“Ugh, Leo, stop! That’s vile,” she said, putting her fork down. “My poor photo. It’s probably tainted forever.”

I laughed, a loud, genuine bark of amusement that seemed to surprise even myself. “Vile? Babe, it was performance art. The sheer, undistilled yearning. It was honestly kind of impressive. A man that beaten down by life, and a single picture of my wife can hold him completely captive. There’s something beautifully pathetic about it.”

She looked at me. Her disgust was still there, but it was being overshadowed by a sharp curiosity. She wasn’t just hearing the story; she was studying my reaction to it. She was trying to figure out why the thought of that sallow, bloated man fantasizing over her picture brought such a look of dark, glittering amusement to my eyes. The quiet in the room was different now. It wasn’t comfortable anymore. It was charged.

We cleared the table together, the earlier energy from my story still hanging in the air between us. As I rinsed the plates under the hot water, Maya stood beside me, drying, her hip brushing against mine in the narrow space by the sink. The casual touch sent a spark through me, a low hum of electricity that had nothing to do with the comfortable domesticity of the moment. The silence wasn’t awkward anymore; it was a space filled with unspoken possibilities, a question mark hanging between us. I could see her stealing glances at me, her brow furrowed in thought as she methodically dried a wine glass, polishing it until it gleamed.

“You’re still thinking about him, aren’t you?” she said, her voice low. She placed the glass carefully on the counter.

“Not him, specifically,” I corrected, turning off the water and facing her, leaning my back against the counter. “I’m thinking about the look on your face when I told you. I’m thinking about how the thought of that sad, pathetic man being completely captivated by you made the air in this room crackle.”

She didn’t deny it. She picked up another glass, her movements deliberate. “It was a little ... intense.”

I reached out and placed my hand over hers, stilling her movements. “Good intense?”

Her deep brown eyes met mine, and I saw a flicker of something new in them—a cautious curiosity. “Maybe. What are you getting at, Leo?”

I took the dish towel from her hand and tossed it onto the counter, taking both of her hands in mine. Her skin was warm. I brought her hands to my lips, kissing her knuckles gently before speaking. “The company barbecue is on Friday.”

She raised a perfectly sculpted eyebrow. “And?”

I pulled her a half-step closer, my voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, the same tone I’d used to tell her about the photo. “And I think we could have some fun with this. With him. Not just talking about it after the fact. I want to be there. I want to watch it happen, together.” I paused, letting the idea sink in, watching her expression shift. “I want you to wear that yellow sundress.”

She knew the one I meant. It was a simple, elegant dress, with thin spaghetti straps and a flowing skirt that caught the slightest breeze. On her, it wasn’t just a dress; it was a statement. It hugged the curve of her waist before flaring out, hinting at the shape of her ass and legs with every step she took. It was sunny, innocent, and devastatingly sexy all at once.

“Leo, I don’t know,” she said, pulling her hands away, a line of concern creasing her forehead. She crossed her arms, a defensive posture. “That feels ... mean. He’s a pathetic person, you said it yourself. It feels like we’d be kicking a dog that’s already down.”

“No, you’re looking at it all wrong,” I insisted, stepping closer, closing the space she’d just created between us. I gently took her arms and uncrossed them, lacing my fingers with hers again. “It’s not about him. Fuck him. He doesn’t matter. This isn’t for him, it’s for us. It’s a game, Maya. Our game. Think about it. We’ll have a secret that no one else in that entire crowd knows. A live performance that only we understand the meaning of.”