My Husband’s Mistress Told Reddit Everything

Alex stopped coming home before nine.

When he pushed the front door open, his eyes rarely found mine. He would drop his briefcase, slide his phone straight into his trouser pocket, and head for the bathroom. Even when the shower ran, the phone went inside with him.

"How was the quarterly forecast?" I asked him from the kitchen doorway on Sunday evening.

"Fine," he muttered, unbuttoning his collar without turning around.

"Did the board approve the expansion?"

"Erin, please. I talk about balance sheets twelve hours a day. I don't want an interrogation when I walk into my own house."

I kept my mouth shut. The questions burned my throat, but I clamped down on them. Once the words were out in the open, there would be no going back.

On Monday night, six hours before his flight to Chicago, Alex went down to the garage to check the tire pressure on his car.

I stood by the bed where his gray carry-on suitcase lay open. My fingers trembled as I reached into my pocket and pulled out the tiny, magnetic black disc I had bought from an electronics depot. I pressed it beneath the hard plastic trim of the suitcase's inner zipper lining. It clicked softly into place, completely invisible beneath the seam.

"All packed?" Alex asked, walking back into the bedroom, wiping motor grease from his thumb with a rag.

"All set," I said. My voice sounded flat, hollowed out. "Flight leaves at six, right?"

"Six-fifteen," he said. He didn't look at me as he zipped the bag shut.

By Tuesday afternoon, the rain had hit Chicago.

I sat on the living room floor with my knees pulled tight to my chest, an earbud jammed into my left ear. The static on the audio receiver hummed, followed by the muffled roar of wind and the rumble of a heavy downpour outside a window.

A hotel room door clicked shut.

"Alex, please," a woman's voice came through the speaker, breathless and high-pitched. Blair. "The front desk manager said there's an electrical failure on the fourth and fifth floors. They lost rooms there."

"Call another hotel, Blair," Alex's voice was firm. "The Palmer House is four blocks south. Take a cab."

"I'm scared." Her voice cracked, trembling with practiced misery. "The streets are flooded up to the curbs. There are no cabs running."

"That's not my problem," Alex said coldly. "We're coworkers. Company policy explicitly forbids sharing accommodations."

"I'm not asking as an employee!" She began to sob, the ragged little gasps coming straight into the microphone. "I'm terrified, Alex. I've had panic attacks in bad weather since I was a kid. Do you think I planned this? Do you think I want you to think I'm some shameless girl trying to force you into a room?"

Silence hung over the line. Heavy. Dragging.

"Alex," she wept. "If you hate me that much, I'll go sleep in the lobby armchairs."

A rustle of fabric. Then Alex exhaled a long, defeated breath.

"Stop crying," he said, his tone softening into something dangerously gentle. "I'll take the sofa. We leave for the conference center at seven sharp tomorrow morning."

"Thank you," she whispered, her voice dropping into a purr. "Thank you, Alex. I knew you weren't heartless."

Static hissed. Fifteen minutes passed in near-total quiet, punctuated only by the distant rush of running water in an adjoining bathroom.

The bathroom door squeaked open.

"Alex?"

"What is it, Blair?"

"Can you help me turn the bathroom vent fan on? The switch is stuck."

Fabric rustled. Heavy footsteps crossed the carpet.

"It's just stiff," Alex said. A sharp plastic snap sounded. "There. Done."

"You have such strong arms," Blair whispered. Her voice was right against him now. "Alex... your shirt is getting wet."

"Blair. Step back."

"I can't," she breathed, her words slick and teasing. "I've been staring at you all day. You have no idea what you do to me when you give orders in those meetings, do you?"

"We shouldn't," Alex said, but his voice had lost its edge, thick and raspy. "You're playing a dangerous game."

"Then punish me for it," she hissed. "Fuck the rules, Alex. I know you want this. I saw how you looked at my legs in the taxi."

A sharp slap of skin against skin echoed through the speaker. A wet, harsh gasp ripped from Blair's throat.

"Fuck," Alex growled, his voice dropping into a guttural rasp I had never heard in three years of marriage. "You talk too much."

"Then shut my mouth," she moaned. "Put your hands on my tits, Alex. Rip the towel off."

The audio surged with frantic rustling, the sound of cotton hitting the tile floor, followed by Alex's ragged grunts.

"Look at you," Alex snarled, the bed frame groaning under sudden, violent weight. "You've been begging for this since the day you transferred."

"Yes! Fuck, yes, Alex!" Blair screamed as the rhythmic, brutal thudding of bodies slammed into the mattress. "Harder! Jam your cock deep inside me! Don't hold back!"

"Is this what you wanted?" Alex panted, the sound of skin slapping furiously against skin filling my ear. "Huh? You like getting fucked in my bed?"

"I love it—I love your cock, Alex! Fuck me harder! I love you, Alex, I'm yours, only yours—"

"Quiet," Alex grunted, breathing hard, his groans heavy with pure, unchecked indulgence. "Take every inch of it, Blair."

"Ah! Alex! Yes, right there—fuck!"

I ripped the earbud out.

The plastic clattered against the floorboards. My throat closed up. I dropped my forehead onto my knees and pressed both palms against my ears, but the phantom rhythm of their panting echoed inside my skull like hammer blows.

I didn't sleep.

When the gray dawn crept through the living room blinds, my hands finally stopped shaking. I picked up my phone with dead fingers and opened Reddit.

A new post sat at the very top of r/TrueOffMyChest, submitted twenty minutes earlier by VelvetSecret_.

Attached was a photo: a wide-angle shot through floor-to-ceiling glass, showing the Chicago skyline covered in morning fog. In the corner of the frame, a man's muscular, bare arm rested across crumpled white hotel sheets.

The caption read:

*Some people will never experience a night like this in their entire life.*

The comment section was an explosion of hearts, fire emojis, and cheering.

*"Congratulations, sis! You got your man!"*

*"Told you he was miserable at home. Keep him!"*

*"Living the dream. Hope he wrecked you."*

I locked the screen.

On Thursday evening, the front door clicked open.

Alex stepped inside, pulling his gray carry-on bag behind him. He looked freshly shaved, his posture straight, carrying a glossy, white boutique shopping bag in his left hand.

"Erin?" he called out.

I walked out of the kitchen, wiping my dry hands on an apron. "Welcome back."

He forced a quick, practiced smile and handed me the boutique bag. "Traffic from O'Hare was a nightmare. Here. I saw this in the terminal arcade and thought of you."

I pulled the tissue paper aside.

Inside lay an emerald-green satin blouse with a plunging neckline and ruffled cuffs.

It was two sizes too small.

I hated green. I had never worn satin in my life, and my closet was filled entirely with muted neutrals, creams, and grays. Emerald green was the exact shade of the top Blair Miller had worn in her corporate directory badge.

I lowered the box onto the console table.

"Did you sleep well last night?" I asked, staring right into his face.

Alex flinched. His jaw tightened, and he instantly looked away, turning his back toward the coat closet.

"I'm exhausted," he said flatly, hanging his coat up with a sharp clatter of wood against the rack. "Drop it."