You decide to confront her

I clear my throat, trying to keep my voice steady. "Sarah's doing fine. She might’ve broke her arm." I step inside, closing the door behind me. "Funny thing though—when I walked through the lobby, I recognized the guy at the front desk. He looked... familiar. Like I'd seen him somewhere before. Maybe in a more... compromising position."

Mrs. Morgan's smile falters for just a second. Her fingers smooth down the front of her modest dress, the fabric doing its best to conceal the heavy swell of her chest. I watch her face carefully, the way her eyes dart to mine then away. The air between us thickens.

"Anyway," I continue, keeping my tone casual, "he seemed like the type who knows how to handle... guests. Really take care of them, you know? Make sure they're satisfied."

I can see the realization dawning in her expression. Her cheeks flush deeper, and she tugs at the neckline of her dress like she's suddenly aware of how much it tries—and fails—to hide her body. The same body I watched bent over earlier, taking that guy's cock while her wedding ring sat discarded on the nightstand.

"Ethan..." she starts, her voice lower now. She takes a step closer, and I can smell the soap on her skin, mixed with something else. Something that makes my cock twitch despite everything. "What exactly are you trying to say?"

I hold her gaze, letting the silence stretch. "Just making conversation, Mrs. Morgan. Though I have to admit, I didn't expect to see someone I recognized working here. Especially not someone who seemed so... thorough with their work."

Her breath catches. She knows. And now she's wondering what I'm going to do with that knowledge. The modest dress clings to her curves as she shifts her weight, the fabric stretching tight across her chest with each shallow breath.