The Cuckold's Revelation

The Cuckold's Revelation

Gavin

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My flight home felt endless, a week away from my pregnant wife, Emily, feeling like a year. I pictured her glowing, her smile lighting up the house, ready to welcome me back. But the moment I walked through the door, my world began to fracture. The house was eerily silent, a strange smell in the air, and an overflowing trash can spoke of neglect. Then, Emily' s weak voice called from upstairs, her face pale and clammy, clutching her stomach in pain. At the hospital, a doctor' s cryptic words about "strenuous activity" and needing to be "gentle" left me bewildered, a knot of unease tightening in my chest. I brushed it off, attributing it to stress, clinging to the flimsy explanation when I found a strange bruise on her collarbone-one she vaguely claimed was from clumsiness. But the flimsy facade shattered when I found cigarette ash in our master bathroom sink. I don't smoke, and Emily despises it, making her flimsy explanation about her stepfather stopping by ring hollow. My mother-in-law later confirmed my stepfather-in-law quit smoking years ago, sealing the growing dread in my stomach. Then, my own mother mentioned a new white sedan Emily was seen getting out of, driven by a man-a car I certainly hadn't bought. The pieces clicked into a terrifying mosaic: the doctor' s warning, the bruise, the ash, the unknown man, the mysterious car. But nothing prepared me for the final blow at the doctor' s follow-up: "The fetus is measuring closer to twelve weeks, Mr. Davis." Twelve weeks. A full month older than it should be, a month when I was working fourteen-hour days, thousands of miles away. My world imploded. The doctor wasn't accusing me; he was warning me about her affair. The baby wasn't mine. My wife had cheated, and the life I thought we had built was a cruel, elaborate lie. The man who was supposed to be a father was now the biggest fool. I was a cuckold. And I was going to find out everything.

Introduction

My flight home felt endless, a week away from my pregnant wife, Emily, feeling like a year.

I pictured her glowing, her smile lighting up the house, ready to welcome me back.

But the moment I walked through the door, my world began to fracture.

The house was eerily silent, a strange smell in the air, and an overflowing trash can spoke of neglect.

Then, Emily' s weak voice called from upstairs, her face pale and clammy, clutching her stomach in pain.

At the hospital, a doctor' s cryptic words about "strenuous activity" and needing to be "gentle" left me bewildered, a knot of unease tightening in my chest.

I brushed it off, attributing it to stress, clinging to the flimsy explanation when I found a strange bruise on her collarbone-one she vaguely claimed was from clumsiness.

But the flimsy facade shattered when I found cigarette ash in our master bathroom sink.

I don't smoke, and Emily despises it, making her flimsy explanation about her stepfather stopping by ring hollow.

My mother-in-law later confirmed my stepfather-in-law quit smoking years ago, sealing the growing dread in my stomach.

Then, my own mother mentioned a new white sedan Emily was seen getting out of, driven by a man-a car I certainly hadn't bought.

The pieces clicked into a terrifying mosaic: the doctor' s warning, the bruise, the ash, the unknown man, the mysterious car.

But nothing prepared me for the final blow at the doctor' s follow-up: "The fetus is measuring closer to twelve weeks, Mr. Davis."

Twelve weeks.

A full month older than it should be, a month when I was working fourteen-hour days, thousands of miles away.

My world imploded.

The doctor wasn't accusing me; he was warning me about her affair.

The baby wasn't mine.

My wife had cheated, and the life I thought we had built was a cruel, elaborate lie.

The man who was supposed to be a father was now the biggest fool.

I was a cuckold.

And I was going to find out everything.

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I watched my husband sign the papers that would end our marriage while he was busy texting the woman he actually loved. He didn't even glance at the header. He just scribbled the sharp, jagged signature that had signed death warrants for half of New York, tossed the file onto the passenger seat, and tapped his screen again. "Done," he said, his voice devoid of emotion. That was Dante Moretti. The Underboss. A man who could smell a lie from a mile away but couldn't see that his wife had just handed him an annulment decree disguised beneath a stack of mundane logistics reports. For three years, I scrubbed his blood out of his shirts. I saved his family's alliance when his ex, Sofia, ran off with a civilian. In return, he treated me like furniture. He left me in the rain to save Sofia from a broken nail. He left me alone on my birthday to drink champagne on a yacht with her. He even handed me a glass of whiskey—her favorite drink—forgetting that I despised the taste. I was merely a placeholder. A ghost in my own home. So, I stopped waiting. I burned our wedding portrait in the fireplace, left my platinum ring in the ashes, and boarded a one-way flight to San Francisco. I thought I was finally free. I thought I had escaped the cage. But I underestimated Dante. When he finally opened that file weeks later and realized he had signed away his wife without looking, the Reaper didn't accept defeat. He burned down the world to find me, obsessed with reclaiming the woman he had already thrown away.

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