THE DISCOVERY

~CLAIRE’S POV~

Three years of marriage.

Two minutes to destroy it all.

The champagne I had bought to celebrate was still fizzing in the bottle downstairs while my world imploded in high-definition color above me.

But let me back up.

Let me tell you how I got here, standing in my own bedroom doorway, watching my life crumble like a house of cards in a hurricane.

*************************

The champagne taste of victory still stayed on my tongue as I pulled into our driveway at 8:47 PM. The Dom Pérignon sat in the passenger seat like a promise….tonight was going to be different.

Tonight was going to change everything.

I had landed the Morrison account. The one Richard said was impossible.

The one that would put his firm on the map and prove that marrying me had not been the biggest mistake of his career—his words, not mine, spoken during our last fight when he thought I was asleep.

“You’re dead weight, Claire,” he had whispered into his phone, thinking I was out from the sleeping pills I had started taking.

“She can’t close a deal to save her life. I don’t know why I thought marrying her would help the business.”

Tonight, I was going to remind my husband exactly what he had married.

The silk lingerie whispered against my skin as I shifted in the driver’s seat, the black lace I had bought especially for this moment.

For the look in his eyes when he realized his “useless” wife had just saved his company. For the apology that would surely follow.

For the way he would touch me afterward, like he used to, like I mattered.

Richard’s Porsche sat in the driveway like a promise kept. He was home early for once—another good sign.

Maybe he had been waiting for me. Maybe he had already heard about the Morrison deal through the grapevine.

But Monica’s little red BMW crouched beside it like a predator.

My stomach clenched.

She had not mentioned coming over.

Monica always texted—long, detailed messages about everything and nothing. She had been my maid of honor, my friend, my sister in everything but blood.

We talked every day.

So why hadn’t she told me she was coming over?

I gathered my purse and the bottle of Dom Pérignon I had bought to celebrate. ‘She is probably helping Richard plan something for our anniversary.’

The lie tasted bitter even as I thought it. Richard had forgotten our anniversary three years running.

But maybe this time…

The marble hall echoed with the click of my heels—the red-soled Louboutins Richard had bought me for our first anniversary, back when he still noticed what I wore.

The grandfather clock tick-tocked in the silence, marking time like a countdown.

“Richard?” My voice bounced off the walls, too bright, too hopeful.

Silence.

I set the champagne on the entry table next to the fresh orchids I had arranged this morning. Everything had to be perfect.

Everything always had to be perfect for Richard.

“Monica?” I called out, slipping off my heels. The hardwood was cool against my stockings.

From upstairs came a sound that made my blood freeze in my veins.

A soft, breathy moan.

Female.

My hand found the banister, gripping until my knuckles went white. Each step up was a countdown to something I did not want to understand.

The wedding photos lining the stairwell seemed to poke fun at me as I climbed—Richard and me cutting the cake, dancing our first dance, laughing at something that probably was not even funny.

Had we ever been happy? Really happy? Or had I just been pretending so hard that I had convinced myself?

The sounds grew clearer as I reached the landing. Rhythmic. Intimate. Punctuated by gasps and whispered encouragement that made my skin crawl.

And Richard’s voice, rough with pleasure: “Fuck, just like that. You’re so much better than…..”

The words hit me like a physical blow. Better than who? Better than me?

The world wavered sideways, but my legs moved without my permission, carrying me down the hallway to our bedroom. The door was cracked open just enough for me to see inside.

Monica was on top of my husband.

Her dark hair spilled across my Egyptian cotton pillowcases—the ones I had embroidered with little hearts during all those lonely nights when Richard “worked late.” Her manicured nails, the same shade of red I had helped her pick out last week, dug into my husband’s shoulders as she rode him like her life depended on it.

Like ‘my’ life did not matter at all.

Richard’s hands gripped her waist with desperate hunger—the same hands that had barely touched me in months, the same hands that claimed to be “too tired” whenever I reached for him in the dark.

Apparently, he had been saving his energy for her.

Our bed.

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