I found the videos on a Tuesday.
I wasn’t even looking for them. I only opened his laptop because mine had frozen mid-edit and I needed to send a file before the deadline. His password was the same one he’d used for years—our anniversary date. Cute. Predictable. The kind of thing a devoted husband would choose.
The folder was labeled “Work Archives.”
I almost closed it.
Then I saw the thumbnails.
My husband—my careful, polished, always-proper husband—on his knees. Mouth open. Eyes glassy with pure, shameless hunger while another man f****d his throat. Then another video. And another. Different men. Different rooms. Sometimes he was the one bent over. Sometimes he was the one doing the bending. But it was always men. Always raw. Always the version of him I had never been allowed to see
