Goodbye, My Superstar

My flats slapped the hardwood floor of the foyer. The house was completely dark, save for a sliver of light spilling onto the second-floor landing.

I had just left Sarah and the girls at the downtown lounge. Tomorrow was game day, and I fully expected to find my husband asleep.

Instead, a loud, vulgar moan drifted down the staircase.

My stomach knotted. I gripped the banister and climbed the stairs, the sounds growing sharper with every step.

The master bedroom door hung wide open. I stopped in the doorway.

Anson, the star quarterback of the league, had his face buried in a woman's neck. Max. The pop singer whose face plastered every billboard in the city.

"Fuck, you feel good," Anson growled. He gripped Max’s ass, pulling her flush against his groin. He thrust deep into her pussy, the wet slapping sound echoing off the vaulted ceiling.

Max threw her head back. "Fuck me harder, Anson. Ram it in. Show me what that big cock can do."

He pulled almost all the way out, then slammed back in. "I’m going to wreck your fucking wet little cunt."

"Yes! Fuck yes!" Max screamed, her legs wrapping around his waist. "Fill my pussy! Give it to me!"

I watched my husband of five years fuck the biggest pop star in the country.

"If you're going to wreck her, do it on your side of the mattress," I said. "I just washed those sheets."

Anson stopped. He didn't scramble. He didn't shove Max off in a panic. He simply withdrew from her, his cock glistening under the bedside lamp, and reached for a pair of boxer briefs on the rug.

Max didn't even flinch. She sat up, her bare breasts fully exposed, and dragged a hand through her blonde hair.

"Barbara," Anson said, pulling the underwear up his thighs. "You're home early."

"Clearly," I replied. I crossed my arms, leaning against the doorframe. "Good thing I didn't stay out till two."

Anson grabbed a towel and wiped his chest. "It's not what you're thinking."

"I'm thinking my husband is fucking a pop singer in our bed. Did I misinterpret the visual?"

"Babs, listen to me," Anson said. He walked toward me, but I stepped back. "This is purely business."

I let out a flat, hollow laugh. "Business. You were balls-deep in her for business?"

"Yes!" He threw his hands up. "You manage the team. You see the numbers. My jersey sales tripled this month. Why? Because X and Instagram are obsessed with me and Max."

"So you have to fuck her?" I asked, my voice terrifyingly even.

Max stretched her legs out on my duvet. "You have to sell the fantasy, Barbara. The fans want us together. If we don't have real chemistry, the paparazzi catch on."

"Real chemistry," I repeated.

"Exactly," Anson said, seizing the excuse. "You know I love you. We've been married for five years. Who is the one I come home to? You."

"You're right," I said. "You come