I used to believe the highest form of loyalty a woman could offer was keeping her legs closed for any man who wasn’t her husband. That was my moral line. Solid. Unbreakable. I wore it like a wedding ring tighter than the one Lincoln slipped on my finger.
Until the afternoon I walked into our bedroom and found the evidence that he’d never wanted me at all.
Not the lipstick on a collar. Not a text from some anonymous number. A video. Playing on the laptop he’d left open like he wanted me to see it. Lincoln on his knees, mouth stretched around another man’s c**k, eyes glassy with the kind of hunger he’d never once shown me. The date stamp was three days after our wedding. The moans were his. The words—“f**k my throat, Daddy”—were his.
I didn’t scream. I didn’t throw anything. I just sat on
