"Sir, did you find the Fountain of Youth over the weekend?" Greg's secretary, Saya, leaned against the doorframe, a playful smirk dancing on her lips.
Greg didn't look up from his monitor, though satisfaction stirred in his chest. "Is this a request for a day off, Saya? Because flattery is a very transparent tactic."
"I'm serious," she insisted, stepping into the office. "You're different. You're smiling at spreadsheets. Those stress lines between your brows? Gone. You look younger, sharper. It's actually motivating the rest of us to keep up."
"The phone, Saya," Greg countered, pointing toward the buzzing intercom to mask the satisfaction warming his chest. She retreated with a lingering grin, leaving him to the quiet thrill of his own transformation. It was true: the gray monotony of his life had been replaced by a constant, jagged anticipation. Every hour was merely a countdown to the next time he could lose himself.
The illusion of the "good husband" continued at home. When Greg arrived that evening, he found Mayette amidst a sea of suitcases, preparing for a seminar out of town.
"Two days, Hon," she said, her voice tinged with a soft regret as he helped her fold a silk blouse. "I'm devastated I'll miss your actual birthday."
"The firm is throwing a luncheon," Greg assured her, his voice a smooth, practiced lie. "We'll celebrate properly when you're back."
"I hate leaving you. That's why..." Mayette reached into a cabinet and produced a sleek paper bag. "I wanted you to have this now."
As she handed him the gift, Greg pulled her flush against him, his hands finding the familiar curves of her waist with a sudden, forceful possessiveness. Mayette gasped, a playful blush coloring her cheeks. "Greg! Honestly, after last night, I thought you'd be exhausted."
He ignored the jab, pulling a dark blue silk necktie from the bag. It was elegant, tasteful—the exact shade of his favorite suit. Mayette took the silk from his hands and looped it around his neck, using it to pull his mouth down to hers. The kiss turned frantic, a desperate collision against the bedroom wardrobe. Clothes were shifted, zippers hissed, and Mayette met his aggression with a fervor born of her own blossoming confidence.
He took her right there, her back pressed against the wood, her legs hooked around his waist. He told himself he was loving his wife. Even as they moved together, his mind betrayed him.
The next morning, the moment Mayette's car cleared the driveway, Greg's phone was in his hand. He canceled his afternoon, the weight of his responsibilities evaporating. He didn't pick up Selene; he collected her. When she stepped into the car, fresh from dance class, the air in the vehicle became instantly combustible.
They returned to the house—his and Mayette's sanctuary. Selene claimed the master bath with queenly nonchalance emerged wrapped in Mayette's thin silk robe.The sight felt like blasphemy—and Greg found it intoxicating.
"I hate the smoke," she grumbled, seeing the cigarette between his fingers. Her rebellion was a spark to his gasoline.
"Then dance for me," Greg said calmly. blowing a slow plume of smoke into the space between them. "If you dance, I'll stop."
She hesitated, then began to move. It wasn't the disciplined dance of the studio; it was a slow, grinding rhythm of invitation. Her fingers trailed over her skin, her tousled hair shielding eyes that burned with a frightening awareness. Greg crushed his cigarette and rose, his shadow falling over her.
He bound her to the headboard with the silk tie Mayette had given him that morning. It was a supreme desecration, a symbolic tying of his two worlds into a knot he had no intention of undoing. On the bed he shared with his wife, beneath the smiling gaze of their wedding portrait, he claimed Selene.
He was a man possessed, a monster released from the cage of decorum. He covered her in icing from the cake Mayette had baked, tasting the sugar and the sin in equal measure. He poured wine over her skin, licking the bitterness away, lost in the terrifying exhilaration of her defenselessness. They moved from the bed to the kitchen table, then to the cold tiles of the bathroom floor, a cycle of hunger that seemed to have no bottom.
"Sir? The documents?"
Greg jerked back to the present. The office was quiet. Saya was standing over him, her expression one of mild concern. He realized his hand was hovering over a signature line, his mind miles away, still hearing the ghost of Selene's moans against Mayette's headboard.
"I'm fine, Saya," he muttered, scrawling his name with a trembling hand. "Just thinking about the anniversary."
After she left, he reached for his phone, desperate to call Selene, but it vibrated first. It was Mayette.
"Hon, please come home early," she said, her voice trembling with an emotion he couldn't quite place. "I have something to tell you."
He arrived home to a house lit by candles, the atmosphere thick with a romance he felt he no longer deserved. He held a bouquet of red roses, a shield against the guilt rising in his throat. Mayette met him at the door, her eyes shining with tears.
"Finally," she whispered, clinging to him. "Our wait is over, Greg."
He stared at her, his heart slowing to a heavy, sickening thud.
"I'm pregnant. We're finally having a baby."
The words hit Greg like ice water. The "miracle" he had spent years praying for had arrived, and it felt like a death sentence. As he held his sobbing wife, the crushing weight of his betrayal fractured his soul. While Mayette had been carrying the future he always wanted, he had been busy destroying it in their own bed.
The fire that had warmed him all month suddenly turned into a pyre. Greg stood in the candlelight, a father-to-be, feeling, for the first time, the true cost of his hunger.