Chapter 3

The next morning, Richard walked out of the master bedroom with dark circles carved under his eyes and a slight unsteadiness in his step — but there was something disturbingly satisfied about him.

He even started whistling in the kitchen and cracked two eggs into a pan.

"Ellen, breakfast," he called out, his voice carrying that long-forgotten, completely fake fatherly authority.

I stared at the burnt, greasy eggs on the plate and laughed. "Quite a workout last night, huh, Richard? Still savoring it?"

His face darkened instantly. He dropped his voice to a furious hiss. "Shut your mouth. She's your mother."

"Oh, now she's my mother?" I shot to my feet and hurled the red lace underwear I'd been keeping in my pocket straight at his face. "Then what the hell is this? When you were rolling around in her bed with your mistress, did you stop for even one second and think about the fact that she's your wife?!"

The underwear floated lightly to the ground, like a glaring bloodstain.

Richard's face cycled through shades of pale and green. He bent down, picked it up, and crushed it in his fist, jaw tight. "That's all in the past. Your mother is sick now. I have to take care of her."

“Take care of her? Come on, Richard. You’re just reluctant to let go of the Diane from ten years ago—the one who was completely obedient and so enthusiastic in bed, right?” I pierced right through his hypocritical facade.

Richard raised his hand to hit me.

"Richard? Ellen? What are you two fighting about?" Diane shuffled out of the bedroom in her old nightgown, rubbing her eyes. Her collar had slipped open, and the marks on her neck were impossible to miss — deep red, unmistakable. Evidence of what Richard had done the night before.

Richard's hand froze mid-air. In an instant, his expression melted into something warm and gentle. "Nothing, nothing. Ellen just thinks I overcooked the eggs."

Diane walked over and slipped her arm through his, rising on her toes to press a kiss to his cheek. "You're hopeless in the kitchen, you know that? Once I'm all healed up, I'll make you pizza every single day. Your favorite."

Richard's body went rigid — just for a second, barely noticeable. He'd given up pizza years ago. Doctor's orders — high cholesterol, a badly damaged liver. These days, Mia kept him on a strict diet of salads, grilled salmon, and clean eating.

But Diane was looking up at him with so much love in her eyes. He swallowed. Forced out a smile that looked worse than a grimace. "Sure. Sounds great."

For the next two weeks, the old house became a massive, suffocating stage — and none of us could leave.

Diane was constantly whipping up all sorts of heavy, rich dishes every day. Pizza, hot dogs, mashed potatoes—every single meal glistened with grease and was terrifyingly high in calories.

At the dinner table, she'd watch Richard with bright, attentive eyes. "Richard, eat more. You've been losing weight lately. You used to finish a whole pizza by yourself, remember?"

Richard stared at the thick, oily slice on his plate, his stomach turning. But he forced it down, bite by mechanical bite, sweat beading on his forehead. After dinner, he'd excuse himself to the bathroom. I'd stand just outside the door and listen — clearly, unmistakably — to the sound of him gagging, retching, crying and choking until there was nothing left.

But he never said no. Because the moment he showed even a flicker of hesitation, Diane's eyes would fill with tears. "Richard… do you not like my cooking anymore? Are you tired of me?"

The doctor's warning hung over him like a leash pulled tight — don't upset her.

And then there were the nights.

Diane seemed determined to make up for every moment of intimacy she believed she'd missed over the past "ten years." She dug out her old lingerie. Spritzed on a bottle of perfume — Midnight Flight — long past its expiration date. And she wrapped herself around Richard like she had all the time in the world and no intention of letting go.

At first, Richard was miserable. Going through the motions. Performing. But slowly, I started to notice something shift. He was changing.

He had actually started to enjoy the feeling of being completely depended on, of being treated as the center of someone's universe. Sure, Mia was young and beautiful, but she was only after his money, constantly scheming to force her way into his life, with a spoiled, arrogant temper. Diane, on the other hand—this Diane who seemed to have stepped right out of ten years ago—was giving him a love that was absolute and pure.

In that moment, the worst aspects of his male nature were laid bare. He wanted the thrill of a young body, yet he also craved the tender comfort of his wife. He was utterly intoxicated by the taboo thrill and the sense of absolute control this double life provided.

One night, I got up for a glass of water and caught Richard on the balcony, talking on the phone.

"Mia, I really can't get away right now... there's just too much going on at the company. Be a good girl, stop making a fuss. I just transferred another five hundred thousand to your account. Go buy yourself a handbag, and take good care of the pregnancy." His voice was hushed, dripping with obvious impatience and perfunctory indifference.

Hanging up, he turned around and looked through the floor-to-ceiling windows at Diane, who was sitting in the living room knitting a sweater for him. In his eyes, there was actually a faint trace of deep affection and infatuation.

I stood in the shadows, my stomach turning.

He thought he had everything under control. He thought he'd fallen back in love with his wife. What he didn't know was that the blade hanging over his head was already about to drop.