Sext Misfired Husband Cheats Second Chance Burns

"Another night at the office, Viv. Don't wait up."

The text from Crane sat on my screen, cold and predictable. I didn't bother typing a reply. What was the point? I shifted on the velvet cushion of the bay window, the glass chilled by the Thursday night air. My second glass of Merlot was halfway gone, staining the crystal a deep, bruised purple.

I looked down at the streetlamp-lit road three stories below. My mind didn't go to my husband’s mahogany desk or his silent assistant. It went to the grease-stained pavement two blocks away.

I opened my messages and tapped the icon for Margot Reyes. I needed to bleed these thoughts out before they choked me.

"I think I’m losing my mind, Margot," I typed, my thumb flying over the glass. "It’s that man from the repair shop again. Kai Donovan."

I paused, taking a long swallow of wine. The heat of the alcohol emboldened me.

"He was wearing that black leather jacket today. The one with the scuffed elbows. He was leaning against the brick wall, lighting a cigarette, and he didn't even look up when I walked by with the trash. But I saw his jaw. It’s so sharp it looks like it could cut skin. And his hands… Margot, they were covered in engine oil. Dark, thick smears across his knuckles."

I felt a flush creep up my neck that had nothing to do with the wine.

"I keep imagining those oil-stained hands on me. I want him to press me against the cold metal of a car hood and just take what he wants. I want to feel that grit against my skin. I want him to stop being polite and just ruin me."

I stared at the paragraph. It was scandalous. It was pathetic. It was exactly how I felt. I hit the blue arrow and watched the bubble fly upward.

Then I looked at the name at the top of the screen.

It wasn't Margot Reyes.

The name staring back at me, bold and terrifying, was Kai Donovan.

"Oh, God," I whispered.

The room seemed to tilt. I scrambled to tap the message, my fingers shaking so hard I nearly dropped the phone. *Delete. Delete for everyone.*

*The time limit for unsending this message has expired.*

The blue bubble sat there, a permanent confession of my deepest, filthiest desire. I had added him to my contacts three weeks ago when he’d patched my tire. Donovan. Reyes. They were right next to each other in the list.

My stomach gave a violent, watery heave.

I dropped the phone on the window seat and bolted for the master bathroom. I barely made it to the porcelain sink before the wine and the bile forced their way up. I gripped the marble counter, my knuckles white, as I retched into the basin. The acidic burn in my throat matched the searing heat of my shame.

I rinsed my mouth, splashing cold water over my face until my skin felt numb.

*Maybe he’s asleep,* I told myself, staring at my haggard reflection in the mirror. *Maybe he’ll think it’s a prank. Or a virus.*

The phone on the counter vibrated.

The sound was like a gunshot in the silent bathroom. I didn't want to look. I wanted to throw the device out the window and move to another state. But the screen stayed lit, humming with a second notification.

I reached out, my hand trembling, and swiped the screen open.

Kai: "The shop closes at five, but I stay late on Fridays to work on my own bike."

I stared at the words, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird. There was no "Who is this?" There was no "You have the wrong number."

Then, the second message appeared.

Kai: "4:30 PM tomorrow. Use the side door. I won't bother washing the oil off my hands."

I sank to the floor, my back sliding down the cold subway tile. The phone felt like it was vibrating with his voice, even though it was just text. It wasn't a question. It was a command. He hadn't just read my fantasy; he had claimed it.

"Vivienne? You in there?"

The sound of the heavy oak bedroom door swinging open made me jump. My phone slid across the tile, the screen still glowing with Kai's response.

"Crane?" I called out, my voice cracking. "You said you were staying at the office."

"Meeting got cancelled," his voice drifted in, sounding tired and annoyed. "Why are the lights off? And why are you on the floor?"

I lunged for the phone, flipping it face down just as my husband stepped into the bathroom doorway. He was already pulling at his silk tie, his expression pinched with the usual stress of a man who cared more about profit margins than his wife’s pulse.

"I… I dropped my earring," I lied, my heart racing so fast I thought I might faint. "I was looking for the backing."

Crane didn't move to help me. He just leaned against the doorframe, his eyes scanning the room. "You smell like wine. And vomit."

"I’m not feeling well," I said, pushing myself up. I tucked the phone into the waistband of my silk leggings, the metal casing cold against my skin. "I think the fish at lunch was turned."

"Great," Crane sighed, turning back toward the bed. "Just what I need. A sick wife when I have a ten-million-dollar closing tomorrow."

He walked away, leaving me standing in the dark bathroom. My skin was prickling with a sudden, terrifying electricity.

My husband was ten feet away, complaining about his schedule.

And in my waistband, a man I barely knew was waiting for me to walk through a side door and let him ruin me.

I felt the phone buzz again against my hip. Another message.

I didn't dare look at it with Crane in the next room, but I knew what it was. It was the sound of my life shattering.

I stood there in the silence, listening to the sound of my husband ruffling the sheets, while the ghost of Kai Donovan’s words burned a hole through my mind.

I wasn't a good woman. I wasn't a loyal wife.

And as I looked down at my shaking hands, I realized I couldn't wait for 4:30 PM.

The bedroom door groaned as Crane shut it, locking us in together, but my mind was already two blocks away, in the dark, smelling of tobacco and grease.