Hell, It's Our Anniversary!

I couldn't wait to see Alexander's face when I walked through the door. Five years of marriage, and he still made my heart race like we were teenagers stealing kisses behind the bleachers.

The champagne bottle chilled against my palm as I balanced it carefully, the silk of my new lingerie whispering against my skin beneath my coat. La Perla, in his favorite shade of crimson. The saleswoman had winked when I bought it, saying, "He won't be able to take his eyes off you."

"Mrs. Blackwood, welcome home," our doorman said, tipping his hat as I entered our penthouse building. "Happy anniversary."

"Thank you, James." I smiled, feeling a flutter of excitement. "Is he home yet?"

"Mr. Blackwood arrived about an hour ago, ma'am."

Perfect. I'd caught an earlier flight from Chicago specifically to surprise him. Alexander hated when business trips cut into our anniversary celebrations. Last year, he'd sent a private jet to bring me home early—a gesture that had made me feel like the luckiest woman in Manhattan.

The elevator ride to our penthouse felt endless. I checked my reflection in the polished brass doors, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear. Five years, and I still wanted to be perfect for him.

Our wedding band played softly in my mind as I slipped my key into the lock. "Happy 5th Anniversary, my love," I whispered to myself, pushing the door open.

The sound hit me first.

A woman's moan, low and urgent.

"No, wait—oh God, Alex—"

My hand froze on the doorknob. The sound was coming from upstairs. From our bedroom.

"Keep going," a man's voice growled. "Just like that."

Alexander.

The champagne bottle slipped from my fingers, landing silently on the plush carpet. Something cold and heavy settled in my chest as I moved toward the staircase, my body numb.

Our bedroom door was ajar. Light spilled into the hallway, along with the unmistakable sounds of sex. I should have run. Should have screamed. Instead, I found myself moving closer, drawn by some terrible need to see.

"God, she was so naive," Chloe's voice drifted through the gap, tangled with pleasure. "Thinking you actually loved her."

My best friend. Since college. The maid of honor at our wedding.

I pushed the door open just enough to see inside.

They were on our bed—our marital bed—where Alexander had carried me after our wedding. Chloe was on top, her body arched as she rode him. My wedding dress—the one I'd preserved in acid-free tissue paper—was hiked around her waist.

"Tell me more about how boring she is," Chloe panted, leaning down to kiss him. "I want details."

Alexander's hands gripped her hips, driving her down harder. "Seraphina's so proper. Always the same position. Always so... controlled."

I pressed my hand against my mouth to stifle a sound. The TV across from our bed was on, playing our wedding video on mute. There I was, walking down the aisle toward Alexander, my face radiant with love and