The next day, Andrew visits once more

The next day, Laryssa seemed abnormally chirpy. She told me that her shopping trip with Andrew was the most fun thing she'd done since marrying me. Of course it was; they managed to spend 8 thousand dollars using my credit card, and she hadn't even shown me what the money had bought. I looked at her, she was still wearing her old cotton sweater and jeans. Not that she looked bad. The top stopped just above her belly button, revealing her smooth abdomen and thin waistline.

Ping! My phone screen lit up. "Andrew's five minutes out," I announced, staring at the screen of my phone. I didn't know why I was acting as the messenger, but the text from Andrew was brief: 'Coming over now-ah.'

The reaction from Laryssa was instantaneous and violent. She didn't just stand up; she practically launched herself from the sofa, a look of genuine panic crossing her face. "Five minutes? He said he was coming over tomorrow!" she shrieked, her voice hitting a octave I hadn't heard since our honeymoon. She bolted toward the bedroom, nearly knocking over a lamp in her haste. The suddenness of her desperation was jarring; she had spent the last week praising Andrew's "boldness," but now, the prospect of his immediate arrival had her spiraling into a frantic crisis.

From the hallway, I could hear the chaotic symphony of a woman possessed. There was the heavy thud of a dresser drawer being yanked open and the subsequent crash of a jewelry box hitting the floor. Laryssa wasn’t just getting dressed; she was strategizing. Between the frantic rustle of fabric and the muffled curses she directed at her own wardrobe, I could tell she was spiraling. She wasn't wondering if she looked good—she always did—but whether her aesthetic choice would align with Andrew’s newly forged sense of dominance. I caught a glimpse of her through the open bedroom door, clutching a sequined mini-skirt in one hand and a crochet crop top in the other, her face a mask of pure anxiety. She didn't know if he'd prefer "red carpet" glamour, a nostalgic "Y2K" vibe, or something more overtly "spring break." To Laryssa, this wasn't just a casual visit from a friend; it was an audition.

I stood in the center of the living room, blinking, genuinely perplexed. I didn’t know why she was panicking so much. To me, Andrew was still the guy who spent forty minutes explaining the difference between a Vulcan and a Romulan. Sure, he’d developed a streak of arrogance that bordered on the sadistic, but he was still just Andrew—the guy with the bad haircuts and the penchant for wrestling terminology. Why on earth did the arrival of a man who once wore a "Certified Nerd" t-shirt to a funeral necessitate a wardrobe crisis of this magnitude?

The front door didn't just open; it surrendered. There was no polite rap on the wood, no cautious chime of the doorbell—only the sudden, authoritative thud of the deadbolt being ignored as Andrew strolled inside. The sound of his footsteps was a rhythmic, heavy cadence that echoed down the hallway, sounding less like a guest and more like an owner returning to his estate.

In the bedroom, the atmosphere was pure chaos. Laryssa was a blur of blonde hair and panicked breathing, her fingers trembling as she wrestled with the clasp of her bra. She was fighting a losing battle against physics and time, her breath coming in short, jagged gasps. Every heavy footfall from the hallway seemed to synchronize with her desperation; as Andrew’s shadow stretched across the threshold, Laryssa gave one final, frantic tug, the metal hook snapping into place just as the door frame vanished from view.

Laryssa didn't just walk out of the bedroom; she practically vibrated into the hallway, a vision of calculated desperation. She had settled on a red top that barely qualified as clothing, a scrap of crimson fabric that functioned more like a bra than a shirt, straining against her curves and leaving almost nothing to the imagination. Below that, she wore a microskirt so daringly short that it seemed to be holding on for dear life. As she pivoted toward the living room, the sheer audacity of the outfit became clear: the thin, lace straps of her panties had migrated upward, visibly framing her hips and peeking out from the waistband of the skirt. It was a look designed to provoke, a silent plea for the kind of attention Andrew had been providing with his newfound arrogance.