Love's Cruel Contract, His Endless Regret
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Not with a bullet, but with a tex
... ASAP." My first thought was our sixteen-year-old son, Marco. But an anonymous online forum quickly pointed out the holes in my theo
ndry-the same brand I'd found in our son's room months ago. I
bout my "episodes" and mocked me for being predictable. Marco even told his f
the walls of my own home, destr
ext week. It's the perfect stage. He thinks I'll be the supportive wife on his arm, but he's wrong. I'm n
pte
ssa
Not with a bullet, but with a tex
ntertops of our sprawling, silent kitchen. It was my job to maintain this silence, this perfection.
, likely scrolling through h
er for a charity luncheon the next day. A green bubble popped up on the screen
inking about that hotel room. You owe
age wasn
rco. He was sixteen, the heir to this formidable legacy, and a lia
ocating. I sank onto a barstool, m
nzo. I couldn't go to
who lived a certain kind of life. Anonymously, I typed out a vague version of the truth, framing it
, a mix of sympathy an
e: Why do you ass
ngers trembling. My husband was a pillar of
e another moment like that' sounds transac
-old even book a suite at The Ath
spending limit that wouldn't cover a bottle of their cheapest champagne, le
ent appeared, si
e another man
mpossible, treasonous thought. He was my
utation only, LegalEagle88, a trusted advisor from
. It suggests an older
my bones. Lorenz
s voice, deep and confident, boomed t
it with a broad smile. He held a box of expensi
sweetheart. Ev
t felt like cracking
my waist, his chin resting on my shoulder. "I
e. I'm glad you're home." I pulled away gently, be
y. I was left alone with his briefcase. I needed to unpack for him, to
ket, closing around a small, foil packet. I pulled it out. It was the kind designed fo
s laundry basket months ago. I'd dismissed it then as ty
he wrapper clutched in my fist. The truth hit me li
rco. It was
s Lor
rivate message. It w
y advice to you is this: Do not confront him. Gather
ed, replaced by a glacial calm. The
a single, b
l me