My husband stood in front of the mirror, fixing his shirt like he was heading out on a date—not to work.

Too much cologne, too much excitement… far too much for someone claiming he had “meetings.”

I stood in the kitchen, watching the coffee finish brewing.

In my hand… a small bottle of laxative.

This wasn’t impulsive.

It came after months of silence, phone calls that ended when I walked in, and “urgent meetings” that always seemed to happen on Friday nights.

And most of all… after the message I saw the night before:

“I’ll be waiting for you tomorrow. Don’t forget the perfume I like.”

Signed—Carolina.

The new secretary.

Elegant name. Too elegant.

I took a slow breath.

“And my coffee?” he called from the doorway, adjusting his belt with more energy than he’d shown me in weeks.

I handed it to him.

“A little surprise,” I said, smiling calmly.

I watched him drink.

One sip.
Two.
Three.

He finished it without hesitation.

That stung more than I expected… he hadn’t rushed anything I gave him in a long time.

“So where are you going all dressed up and smelling like that?” I asked, leaning casually against the frame.

“Meeting,” he said, grabbing his keys. “Important one. Strategy… projections… synergy.”

He threw those words around like they meant something.

“Synergy with lace?” I muttered.

But he was already gone.

The door shut.

Silence.

I looked at the clock.

One minute.
Two.
Five.