Husband Chooses Mistress Over Me

The diamond bracelet I'd carefully selected for Dalton's anniversary gift sat wrapped in our bedroom, its velvet box mocking me as I realized my mistake. Five years of marriage, and I'd forgotten the most important part of our celebration.

"I'm such an idiot," I muttered, grabbing my keys. Dalton had mentioned he'd be working late tonight—something about quarterly reports that couldn't wait. His home office would be empty, and the safe key was hidden exactly where it always was.

The drive to Harrison Enterprises took twenty minutes, the weight of my oversight pressing heavier with each mile. The security guard nodded as I passed, accustomed to my occasional visits. "Mrs. Harrison," he greeted with a smile. "Happy anniversary."

"Thank you, George." I returned his smile, though it felt hollow. Five years of marriage to a man who claimed he was "slow to warm up" to intimacy. Five years of patience while he insisted we needed more time.

Dalton's office was dimly lit, the city lights casting long shadows across his immaculate desk. The safe behind his degrees was barely visible—a testament to his preference for discretion in all things.

My fingers trembled slightly as I dialed the combination—our wedding date, the one thing he'd insisted upon when we first married. "A reminder of the day that changed everything," he'd said then, his eyes warm in a way they rarely were these days.

The safe swung open silently. The small velvet box containing his gift sat exactly where I'd left it this morning. But as I reached for it, my elbow knocked against something else—a stack of videotapes pushed to the back corner.

"What are these?" I murmured, pulling one out. The label read simply "Session #1."

Curiosity overtook caution. I slid the tape into Dalton's VCR and pressed play.

The screen flickered to life, and my heart stopped.

There was Dalton—my husband of five years—naked on a couch I didn't recognize. And beside him, equally exposed, was Violeta Cooper. His "therapist." His "friend."

Their movements were intimate, practiced. His hands on her body with a familiarity he'd never shown me.

"Oh God," I whispered, my stomach lurching as I fumbled for the remote. I ejected the tape with shaking hands and grabbed another. Then another.

All the same. All of them.

I don't know how long I sat there, surrounded by evidence of my husband's betrayal. Long enough that when I finally stood, my legs had gone numb.

---

"You went through my things." Dalton's voice was ice cold as he stared at the tape I'd placed on our dining table. Our anniversary dinner—roasted duck with orange glaze—grew cold between us.

"It was an accident," I said, my voice barely audible even to my own ears. "I was getting your gift."

"An accident." He repeated the words as though tasting them, finding them bitter. "And now you're confronting me with... what? Evidence of my therapy sessions?"

"Therapy doesn't look like that, Dalton." I pushed the tape toward him. "This is