After My Husband Fell In Love with His Secretary

After the miscarriage, Ethan only touched me once a month, always during my ovulation period.

One day, out of boredom, I scrolled through my phone and stumbled upon an online account where a secretary documented her private moments with her boss.

"My boss comes to me every time after being with his old, overweight wife and transfers $5,000 as compensation. I’m so happy~"

"Ugh, the boss had to touch that fat wife of his again. He said she made him feel sick and he almost vomited. This time he sent me $50,000 as a consolation~"

The comments were full of people mocking the boss’s wife, encouraging the secretary to keep milking her rich lover for everything he was worth. But as I read further, something gnawed at me.

The dates of these payments... They matched the same days as my ovulation.

——

That night, Ethan came home late, his breath heavy with the stench of alcohol. I had been lying in bed, trying to fall asleep, when he stumbled into the bedroom. He made his way to my side of the bed and gave me a shove through the covers.

"Emily," he slurred, his voice thick with irritation, "what the hell are you doing asleep? I’m not even home yet and you’re already in bed? Get up and make me something to sober up."

I groaned, turning over slowly and muttered under my breath, "Make yourself some honey water."

“What?” he barked, not fully understanding me.

I sat up a little and raised my voice, feeling an unusual wave of defiance wash over me. “You heard me. You’ve got two hands—make your own damn honey water.”

Ethan stood there, stunned, as if I’d slapped him. In the past, I would’ve jumped out of bed at his demand, eager to avoid another argument. But tonight, I couldn’t care less.

He narrowed his eyes, his expression darkening. After a long pause, he pulled something out of his coat pocket and tossed it onto the bed beside me.

“Well, I brought you a gift back,” he sneered, “maybe this’ll get you out of bed.”

I looked at the box in front of me. Inside was a piece of cake, its buttercream frosting melted and smeared along the sides of the box. It was obvious that he hadn’t cared about it, just as he hadn’t cared about me for a long time.

I stared at the cake for a moment, then looked up at him. “I haven’t eaten dessert in five years, Ethan. You know I have insulin resistance.”

His eyes flickered for a brief second, but then his face hardened. "So what? Is that your excuse now? You can’t even give me a child and now you can’t make me a simple drink? What the hell are you good for, Emily?"

I flinched at his words but stayed silent. His voice grew louder as his anger spilled over. "Useless. You can’t even do the bare minimum anymore."

He turned and stormed into the bathroom, slamming the door behind him. The sound of the shower running filled the room, but I barely heard it over the numb buzzing in my head.

I had been expecting him to soften, to say something comforting, maybe even apologize. But why did I still expect anything from him?

When he came back, his hair wet and towel slung over his shoulder, he climbed into bed beside me without a word. Then, suddenly, his hand slid over my body, tugging at the hem of my nightshirt.

A cold wave of anger and revulsion shot through me. I jerked away from him, my voice trembling as I said, "Stop it."

Ethan blinked, confused. "What’s wrong with you now?" he snapped. "You do remember today’s your ovulation day, don’t you?"

The words sent a chill down my spine. For the past two years, ever since the miscarriage, Ethan only touched me on these specific days. He called it "improving efficiency," like I was some machine that needed to work better.

But tonight, I couldn’t go through with it. Not this time.

“I’m tired,” I whispered. “I don’t want to.”

His face twisted with disbelief and then he gave a low, mocking laugh. “Tired? Tired from what? Sitting around all day doing nothing? You don’t have a job, you don’t have kids—what could you possibly be tired from?”

I felt his eyes sweep over me and I knew what was coming next. He sat up, looking me over with disgust. “Look at yourself, Emily. When’s the last time you actually looked in the mirror? You’ve put on weight and let me tell you, it’s not flattering. You’ve got rolls around your waist and trust me, not many men would be willing to touch you like this. You should be grateful I even bother.”

His words were like poison, but tonight, they didn’t cut the way they used to. I felt... nothing. No sadness, no anger—just a hollow emptiness.

“Then don’t touch me,” I said quietly, “I don’t want your pity.”

Ethan stared at me, speechless for a moment, as if he couldn’t believe what he was hearing. His mouth opened to fire back something cruel, but before he could, his phone buzzed on the nightstand. He glanced at the screen, his eyes narrowing.

“Don’t come begging me later when you realize what a mistake you’ve made,” he hissed, snatching his phone and storming out of the room.

As the door clicked shut behind him, I lay there in the silence, staring up at the ceiling. From the hallway, I could hear his voice—soft, but distinct. He was laughing.

When was the last time he had laughed like that with me?

Who was on the other end of that phone call now?

I reached under my pillow and pulled out my phone, my heart pounding. A notification popped up from the account I had been following.

"Ahhh! So happy! Boss didn’t even touch the fat old wife tonight! He saved himself just for me!!!"*

Three exclamation marks. They felt like daggers, driving the last shred of denial out of me.

It wasn’t a coincidence. The boss who sent his secretary thousands of dollars every time he slept with his wife... was my husband of five years.

Ethan.