The sun had dipped below the horizon by the time Camila pulled into the driveway with her red wine Ford Escape SE 2024 of her townhouse in Clayton, Missouri. The street was quiet, lined with maple trees whose leaves had begun to blush with autumn. Her husband's car was gone—still at work, as usual. She unlocked the door and stepped inside.
The townhouse was abstract in design, each room a curated expression of her husband's aesthetic. He had chosen everything—the asymmetrical lighting fixtures, the geometric wall art, the minimalist furniture with sharp angles and muted tones. It was beautiful, in a distant way. Like a gallery. Like something meant to be admired, not lived in.
Camila slipped off her shoes and walked through the living room, where a glass coffee table sat atop a rug patterned with concentric circles. The walls were painted slate gray, broken only by a single canvas of swirling blue and gold. She passed the hallway mirror, catching a glimpse of herself—tired eyes, soft features, the white bow still in place.
She entered the bathroom and turned on the shower. Steam rose quickly, fogging the mirror and softening the edges of the room. The tiles were black marble, the showerhead a sleek chrome arc. Camila undressed slowly, folding her clothes with care and placing them on the vanity.
The water was warm, almost hot, and she let it run over her shoulders, her back, her neck. She closed her eyes and breathed deeply, the scent of eucalyptus from the soap filling the air. For a few minutes, she let herself dissolve—into the steam, into the silence.
After drying off, she slipped into her white nightgown. It was soft cotton, sleeveless, with lace trim at the hem. She tied her hair into a loose bun and padded barefoot into the kitchen.
The kitchen was a blend of modern and whimsical. Her husband had designed it with clean lines and stainless steel appliances, but Camila had added her own touches—a ceramic frog cookie jar, a sunflower dish towel, a magnet shaped like a smiling avocado. The contrast was subtle, but it mattered.
She opened the fridge and pulled out the ingredients: russet potatoes, carrots, celery. She peeled and chopped with quiet efficiency, the knife clicking gently against the cutting board. The soup pot was green enamel, slightly chipped at the rim. She filled it with water, added the vegetables, and set it to boil.
As the soup simmered, the kitchen filled with warmth and scent—earthy potatoes, sweet carrots, the clean bite of celery. Camila stirred slowly, watching the steam rise. She added a pinch of salt, a dash of pepper, and waited.
When it was ready, she ladled the soup into her favorite bowl—a round ceramic frog with wide eyes and a gentle smile. The matching spoon was shaped like a lilypad, its handle curved like a vine. She placed the bowl on the wooden brown table her husband had bought from IKEA, its surface smooth and slightly glossy.
She sat down, unfolded a napkin, and began to eat.
The soup was simple, nourishing. Each bite warmed her from the inside out. The frog bowl made her smile, just a little. The table was sturdy beneath her elbows. The nightgown clung softly to her skin.
Outside, the wind rustled the trees. Inside, Camila ate in silence.
She didn't mind the quiet.
The townhouse door creaked open just past 9:00 p.m., and Camila heard the familiar cadence of her husband's voice—light, amused, tinged with flirtation.
"Stop it," he laughed, stepping inside, phone on speaker. "You're gonna get me in trouble."
A woman's voice replied, smooth and teasing. "Only if you let me."
Camila sat at the kitchen table, her frog bowl rinsed and drying in the rack. She didn't move. She didn't speak. She listened.
"I'll text you the café address," the woman said. "We'll talk contracts...and maybe dessert."
He chuckled again. "Alright. I'll see you tomorrow."
The call ended. He turned toward the hallway, catching sight of Camila.
"Good evening," she said, voice calm. "And who was the woman you were talking to?"
He blinked, then shrugged. "A worker. She invited me for coffee to discuss our new contract with Costco."
Camila tilted her head. "I thought you and Kevin were closing the contract together?"
He walked toward the bathroom, unbuttoning his shirt. "He's out sick, so...I need someone to fill in his spot."
The door clicked shut behind him. The sound of running water filled the silence.
But something wasn't right.
Camila stood slowly, her bare feet quiet against the hardwood. She walked to his office—sleek, modern, untouched by warmth. The MacBook sat on the desk, screen dark. She opened it, typed in his password. It hadn't changed.
She clicked on Photos.
There it was.
Image after image of a woman with pumpkin orange hair, blue eyes, and red wine lipstick. Her eyeliner winged like flight, her skin warm and luminous. Her figure was hourglass—hips wide, breasts full, her posture confident and inviting. She looked like a siren sculpted in silk.
Camila's breath caught.
There were photos of them at restaurants, laughing over wine. On vacation, wrapped in towels. In a bedroom, tangled in sheets. At the park, holding hands. The timestamps stretched back to 2026.
It was 2030.
Three years of betrayal.
Camila and her husband had been together for thirteen years—three dating, ten married. She was 29. He was 32. And he had been unfaithful for nearly a quarter of their marriage.
Her fingers trembled as she exited the app, shut the laptop, and walked to the bedroom.
She slipped under the covers, curled on the right side of the bed, and held her chest. Her heart ached—sharp, deep, relentless. Tears welled up, and she let them fall. Little sobs escaped her lips, quiet and broken.
The bathroom door opened.
He stepped out in white boxers, steam trailing behind him. He didn't notice her face. Didn't ask.
He crawled onto the bed, leaned over her, and kissed her neck. His hands moved with routine, lifting her nightgown to her chin, trailing kisses down her collarbone, her breast, her belly.
Camila bolted upright, tears streaking her cheeks.
"Stop," she whispered, voice cracking.
He froze, confused.
She pulled the nightgown down, wrapped her arms around herself, and turned away.
Her body was hers.
Her pain was hers.
And tonight, she would not be touched.