The First Cut Was His

The key paused just outside the lock, trembling between my fingers. My knuckles were pale from the pressure, and beneath my scrubs, sweat clung to my spine.

Ten hours in the ER had left me hollowed out—another endless stream of traumas, code blues, and unspoken grief. My shoulders ached from tension I hadn’t noticed until I tried to exhale.

All I wanted was a hot shower, a glass of wine, and the quiet comfort of Alexander’s arms. That thought—the image of his arms around me—had been the only thing keeping me upright during the final hour of my shift.

The deadbolt gave way with a soft click. I stepped inside.

The house was quiet. Too quiet.

Alexander’s briefcase sat near the door, a corner of his monogrammed handkerchief peeking out. His keys were tossed haphazardly beside the ceramic bowl where I always placed mine. But what stopped me cold was the unfamiliar flash of crimson next to them. A handbag. Red Hermès. Victoria’s.

My stomach gave a slow turn.

She must have dropped by unannounced. Maybe to go over the final seating chart for the foundation gala next month. She often came by when Alexander and I were both home—never when I was alone. Still, something felt off. My shoes came off with a quiet sigh as I padded across the marble floor, each step slow and uncertain.

Then I heard it.

A woman’s laugh.

Muffled. Breathless. Intimate.

I froze. My pulse thudded against my eardrums as I strained to listen.

A man's voice followed—deep, smooth, and low with something that sounded like pleasure. Alexander’s voice. But not the tone he used with me. This one was softer. Almost reverent.

I moved toward the source of the sound—the study. The door was slightly ajar, a thin edge of light spilling into the hallway like a blade.

“They’re probably just talking,” I whispered to myself. “Just... planning.”

But my hand was already rising, fingers brushing the door. Some part of me—a desperate, clinging part—still hoped I was wrong.

I pushed it open.

The scent struck me first—something floral and sweet, too strong for a room that should’ve smelled like old books and leather. The overhead lamp cast a golden pool of light across the desk, illuminating a scene so vivid it stole the air from my lungs.

Victoria was perched on the edge of Alexander’s desk, her silk blouse unbuttoned to the navel, skirt bunched around her hips. Her legs were wrapped around my husband’s waist. His hands gripped the backs of her thighs, anchoring her to him. His dress shirt was open, his pants halfway down, exposing skin I knew too well.

They didn’t flinch. They didn’t scramble apart. They just turned—together—as though I were an interruption to a business meeting.

“Elena.” Alexander’s voice was calm. Measured. The same voice he used at campaign fundraisers. “You’re home early.”

The walls of the room seemed to curve inward. I gripped the frame to steady myself. My throat felt raw.

“What... are