She's awake (get caught)

A soft, sleepy groan from beside you. Not the deep, rhythmic sound of a dreamer, but the small, confused noise of someone surfacing. Your blood turns to ice.

Your head snaps toward Ava. Her eyes are open, but they're not focused on you yet. They're squinting in the dim glow of your phone, which you forgot to place face down. The screen is still lit, showing the last frame of Peta's video, a stark, intimate close-up that leaves absolutely nothing to the imagination. The silence in the room shatters, replaced by a frantic, high-pitched ringing in your ears.

You fumble, trying to kill the screen, to shove the phone under the pillow, to erase the last ten minutes. It's too late. Her gaze, now sharp and terrifyingly clear, moves from the phone to your face. Then it travels down your body, to where your boxer briefs are still bunched around your thighs, to your hand, still clutching your erection like a caught thief.

She doesn't scream. She doesn't cry. The absence of sound is far more terrifying than any outburst could be. Her face, illuminated by the hateful blue light, becomes a mask of cold, granite-hard fury. The only emotion you can read is disbelief, so profound it's like a physical blow.

"You're... in our bed," she whispers. The words are brittle, fragile things, threatening to break. "You're doing this... with my friend. In our bed. You been fucking her."

"Ava, it's not—" you start, the lie dying on your tongue. Of course it is what it looks like. There is no other interpretation.

She sits up, the movement smooth and deliberate, like a predator coiling to strike. She doesn't look at you again. She just swings her legs out of bed and stands. The floorboards don't creak. She moves like a ghost, a vengeful spirit. She walks to the closet, pulls on a robe, her back ramrod straight. The silence stretches, taut and thin.

Then she turns. "Get out."

"Ava, please, let me explain—"

"GET. OUT." Her voice rises, cracking with the **** of it, a sound of pure, unadulterated agony. She points toward the door, her arm trembling. "I don't want to see you. I don't want to hear you. I want you gone. Now. Or I swear to God, John, I will burn this whole fucking house down with you in it."

The finality in her tone is absolute. There is no room for argument, for pleading, for a single hollow apology. This is the end. Scrambling, you pull up your pants, grab your wallet and keys from the dresser. You don't dare look at her. You just flee, the front door slamming behind you with the sound of a coffin lid closing.

...

One year later.

The smell is different. Peta's apartment smells like vanilla bean candles and expensive, clean linen. It's a controlled, curated scent, nothing like the chaotic medley of your old home. Elsa dumb perfumes, Kyler's forgotten laundry, Jason's gym bag, the faint, comforting smell of whatever Ava was cooking. This place is sterile. Perfect. A showroom for a life you're not sure you're actually living.

Peta's head is in your lap. She's scrolling through social media, one hand tracing idle patterns on your thigh. "The closing is next Friday," she says, her voice soft and content. "They accepted our offer. The one with the view of the park."

"Great," you murmur, your gaze fixed on the window. The city lights smear across the glass, a beautiful, meaningless constellation.

She sits up, tossing her phone onto the sleek, minimalist coffee table. She smiles, and it's the same bright, predatory smile that used to make your heart pound in the dark. Now, it just looks familiar. Like an advertisement you've seen too many times. She straddles your lap, her hands cupping your face, forcing you to look at her.

"Hey," she says, her tone shifting. "What's wrong? You're a million miles away. Aren't you happy? We got the house. We got each other." Her thumbs stroke your cheeks. "I finally took the perfect man away from Ava."

The words hang in the air between you. Her only dream she ever wanted. You remember her telling you that once, late at night a few months ago, her voice a conspiratorial whisper against your ear. She didn't want a career, the travel you could bring, or being a happy mother. She just wanted this. You. The prize she'd won from her rival.

Your divorce from Ava had been brutal and swift. The house was sold. The accounts split. The kids... the kids were a wound that would never close. Jason barely speaks to you. Kyler sent you a single, heartbreaking text after everything was finalized: "I hope you're happy." Elsa just posted a picture of her and her mom on Instagram sitting at a beach in their bikinis, captioned "My rock." You are a ghost in their lives, a cautionary tale of a cheating husband.

You knew if you wanted to get back at them. That breeding Peta would be your next step. And Peta pink pussy is always wet and ready for you.

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