Photo by Marta Rastovac on Unsplash

The Lie Between Us

Not everything Hidden stays Buried

“You’re quiet this morning,” Leah says. Her breath is warm in my ear, her fingers sneaking beneath the hem of my robe. We’ve done nothing but make love since we entered this room two days ago, but with her, it’s never enough.

I exhale. “Just… thinking.”

“About me?” she asks, snuggling into my side, one hand trailing up my belly, then along the underside of my breast. I turn toward her, and she smiles like I’m the only thing she sees.

“About everything. About how we have so little time left. How being with you is the only time I feel I can just relax and let my guard down. How we can’t keep doing this.” My words do little to stop her hand. I hadn’t expected them to.

Leah rolls onto her side, props herself up on her elbow, and parts the edges of my robe. She takes my nipple between her thumb and forefinger and rolls it gently.

“You always say that,” she says. “But here you are.”

“I know.” I smile, but it falters. “Is it terrible that I don’t even feel guilty anymore?”

“No,” she murmurs, her eyes tracing my skin. Goosebumps rise under the heat of her gaze. “Where does he think you are this weekend?”

“In California, helping a friend from college with a charity fundraiser. Doing things a perfect wife, engaged mother, and career woman — with a color-coded calendar and dinner on the table nightly — is supposed to do. ”

“And when I met you last Saturday afternoon at the hotel?” Her fingers are roaming again, tracing the line of my ribs, the dip of my belly button.

“Brunch with my mother. And the Thursday evening before that, yoga.”

“Well, at least you’ve stopped lying to yourself.” She traces my hip bone, the fading caesarian scar that lines my lower belly.

“Do you love him?” Her voice is low, like she doesn’t want, but needs the answer.

The question is heavy in the space between us.

I meet her eyes, biting my lower lip. “I love… the life we’ve made. The history. The safety of it.” My voice softens as I reach for Leah’s cheek. “But with you, I feel like myself.”

She looks at me with some emotion I can’t name. Her fingers still.

“But you’ll still leave.”

“Because I have to. I have children, responsibilities. I can’t simply walk away.”

Something between us changes, and she looks away.

“Say it,” she whispers, her hand drifting to the crease between my thighs.

“I want you,” I breathe, my legs parting to let her in.

“Again,” Leah demands as she slides her fingers inside me.

“I want you,” I reply, my heart knocking against my ribs, hands reaching for her.

She kisses me then, slow and sweet. And I let myself believe, just for now, that we’re the only two people in the world.

I don’t want to watch it. Not at first. But curiosity is a brutal master. It hooks into you, even when you know the truth will hurt.

The video loads to a still frame, but I already know my wife is the highlight. Her bare skin and fair hair are unmistakable. With a trembling hand, I press play.

There she is. Laughing. Moaning. Whispering secrets into another woman’s skin.

She looks younger on screen. Happier. Free in a way I’ve never seen.

A voice I could never forget says, “Say it.”

I watch as my wife’s thighs are caressed.

She answers, “I want you.”

She opens her legs.

“Again.” The voice demands.

Fingers slide into my wife’s soft center.

My wife reaches for the other woman.

“I want you,” she repeats.

The two fall into each other, all tangled limbs, lips pressed together, tongues peeking out.

I pause the screen.

Across from me, Leah sits with her arms crossed, her perfume cloying in the cramped space of my office. That scent. I forgot how it sinks into your skin — how it once meant something else.

“You recorded this?” I ask, my voice hollow.

“I have hours of footage,” Leah replies, calm as ever. “Enough to burn down everything you care about.”

My hands tremble, adrenaline rushing through me.

“What do you think this proves? What do you want, Leah?”

“I want what was supposed to be mine, Tom.” She leans forward slightly. “You’re going to sign a few things. Make some donations. Pull some strings. Smile pretty for the cameras. And you’re going to do it all quietly.”

“And if I don’t?” My voice shakes with rage. I shove up from my chair.

She places a folder on my desk — thick, tabbed, meticulous. I flip through it: financials, photos, newspaper clippings, police files. It’s not just my wife she’s using as collateral. She has everything.

“Then I ruin her. And you.”

“She doesn’t know, does she?” I’m not sure why it matters. My wife’s the one cheating, but truthfully, I’m no better. This folder proves that.

Leah tilts her head, studying me like a specimen. “Oh, I haven’t told her yet. For now, she thinks I’m in love with her. She’s certainly in love with me. She’s a great lay, though. Wouldn’t you agree?”

“You’re sick, Leah.”

“No, Tom,” she says, almost fondly. “I just have unfinished business.”

My stomach twists, and I glare at her. She’s older now, sharper around the edges, but still carries that fire under the surface. A fire I once loved. Maybe it was just fear.

She leans in close, her lips nearly brushing mine. “You should’ve chosen me. Now I’ll take everything you love.”

Before I can speak, she kisses me.

It isn’t tender.

It’s a claim.

A cruel, calculated reminder: she always gets what she wants.

She smooths a hand over my collar, patting the lapels into place. “I’ll be in touch. And Tom, I’m sure I don’t have to tell you not to do anything stupid. There will be consequences.”

The door clicks shut behind her.

I don’t move. I don’t breathe.

The screen stays frozen — my wife, soft and undone in someone else’s hands. Leah’s hands.

But this isn’t about desire. Not even revenge.

The worst is not watching my wife give herself to someone else, it’s the photos inside the folder.

A house that burned down under suspicious circumstances. Me meeting a man whose name I’m not supposed to know. My wife’s signature forged on documents she’s never seen. Emails. So many emails. Ones I thought deleted. And the worst, me, a hand around the throat of a blood-streaked woman at a place that doesn’t exist.

Leah didn’t just want to ruin my marriage.

She wants to annihilate everything I’ve built.

And she could.

I glance at the screen again — at my wife, flushed and open. She looks happy. Free.

She thinks she made a mistake, but I know the truth.

She’s been fooled. Manipulated. And I feel sorry for her.

Because what I’ve done, what Leah holds over me, will break her far worse than this.

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