Marcela
The silence between us at dinner felt louder than the clinking of forks. Kester sat opposite me, his shirt slightly unbuttoned, his tie hanging loose around his neck. He looked exhausted, shoulders slumped, jaw tight, as though he was holding back words.
I studied him carefully, as I often did these days. He had always been a devoted man—gentle, steady, the kind of husband every woman would envy. Yet my heart wouldn't rest. His friends, all of them, had become cautionary tales. Men who brought flowers home while secretly meeting other women at cheap hotels. Men who kissed their wives in front of their children, then sneaked away to betray them.
What if Kester was one of them?
My mother's voice from earlier still echoed in my head: "A good wife keeps her eyes open. Don't ever assume a man is above temptation."
I cut into my chicken, trying to suppress the unease rising in my chest.
"Kester," I said softly, "you've been working late a lot these days."
His eyes flickered up to mine, wary. "Marcela, I told you—it's the project. Deadlines don't move just because I'm tired."
"I know," I replied quickly, too quickly, as if to erase the sting of suspicion. But it was there. I saw the way he tightened his jaw, the way his knuckles pressed hard against the table as though he was gripping back something unspoken.
I hated myself for doubting him. Yet, the thought remained—what if he's like them too?
Kester
She doesn't trust me.
Every word she says, every glance, carries this invisible accusation. It's in the way she hesitates before she smiles, the way she observes me like a detective gathering evidence.
Do I look like those men she despises? Maybe I do. My best friend, Charles, cheats openly. He even laughs about it—boasting about secret affairs as though it's some sort of accomplishment. I've never been that man. I've never wanted to be that man. But Marcela doesn't see the difference anymore.
And if I'm honest, her constant suspicion cuts deeper than she knows.
The truth? I'm starving.
Starving for her touch. For the warmth we once had. For her to reach for me without hesitation, without doubt. But lately, our bedroom has turned into a cold battlefield where suspicion sleeps between us.
Last week, I reached for her. She turned away.
"Not tonight, Kester. I'm tired."
Tired. She's always tired.
And then there's Linda.
Her best friend. The woman who always seems to linger just a little too long when she visits. The woman with sharp eyes and a laugh that's both dangerous and inviting. I try to avoid thinking about her, but I'd be lying if I said she didn't stir something inside me.
And that terrifies me. Because if Marcela keeps doubting me, keeps pushing me away… how much longer before temptation becomes unbearable?
Linda
I shouldn't want him.
He's hers. The ring on his finger is proof enough. Yet, every time I see Kester, I can't ignore the way my heart betrays me. He is everything I've ever dreamed of in a man—strong, protective, grounded. And Marcela, my dearest friend, doesn't even see it.
She treats him like another item on her checklist. Complains about his late nights, questions his loyalty, doubts his love. Does she not realize how lucky she is? If I had him, I would never make him feel unwanted.
I've tried to bury these feelings. I've gone on blind dates, even reconciled with my ex for a short while, just to prove to myself that Kester is off limits. But nothing compares to the way my chest tightens when he speaks, the way his presence fills a room.
Last night, when I visited Marcela, Kester walked past in a crisp white shirt, his sleeves rolled up, veins flexing along his forearm. He nodded at me politely. My stomach fluttered so hard I could barely breathe.
I knew then—I was losing the battle.
I've tried to fight it. But how do you fight love when it demands to be felt?
Marcela's Mother – Grace
I raised my daughter to believe that men are not to be trusted blindly. My own marriage taught me that lesson in blood and tears.
Marcela is a good woman, too soft, too forgiving. She looks at Kester and sees a saint. But I see a man. And men, no matter how sweet, are still flesh and blood. Still capable of falling into temptation.
"Keep your eyes open, my child," I told her on the phone earlier. "Don't let love make you blind."
If Kester strays, she must not be caught unprepared.
Marcela
Later that night, after dinner, I found myself scrolling through his phone when he was in the shower. My heart pounded, guilt washing over me, but I couldn't stop.
Nothing. No suspicious messages. No lipstick-stained selfies from unknown women.
And yet… one chat caught my attention. Linda.
Linda: "You didn't have to carry those boxes for me today. But thank you. You're always so kind."
Kester: "It was nothing. You shouldn't be lifting heavy stuff alone."
I froze. My best friend. My husband.
It wasn't incriminating. Not yet. But it was enough to plant a seed of fear that wouldn't let me sleep.
Kester
When I stepped out of the shower, she was already in bed, pretending to sleep. But I knew.
Her breaths were uneven, her body tense.
I stood by the window, staring into the night, wondering how long we could go on like this—her suspicion, my frustration, and now… Linda.
The cracks in our marriage glass were widening. And I didn't know if love alone was enough to hold it together.
Linda
That night, lying awake in my own bed, I whispered the confession I couldn't dare say aloud.
"I love you, Kester."
And for the first time, I no longer felt guilty.
Because in my heart, I knew—I could love him better than Marcela ever would.