The Player's Wife: A Queen's Revenge

e quiet house. I saw it from the kitchen, left open on the coffee table where he' d been sittin

house was clean, dinner was prepped for tomorrow, and our son, Ethan, was asleep upstairs. My

in the study. But the words on the screen caught my eye. It was a private message forum,

ad just posted a long messag

house for us, for our son' s college fund. She buys it every time. She even packs me a 'late-night work snack.' Last night' s snack fed me and my new

They were cold, methodical, a strategy memo from a man I di

You' re a legend. My wife is getting su

ity. You bring home small, thoughtful gifts. You praise her for being so understanding. You make her feel guilty for even doubting you. And you use the kid. Kid

whole Saturday in the garage, hammering and painting. David had told me it was a surprise for my birthday

room I had curated. The family photos on the mantle, us smiling at Disneyland, Ethan on David' s shoulders. The th

own the entire theater. He thought this manipulative game was his own invention. The irony was so

the front d

' s voice boomed through th

eart was pounding, a frantic, trapped bird against my ribs. I turned,

id every day. He looked every bit the part of the devoted husband. His tie was slightly

air. "But I closed the Henderson account. It'

him, really watched him. The charming smile, the tired eyes, the whole well-rehearsed act.

ut you holding down the fort. You have no idea how much it means t

I said. The lie taste

run to the store to get milk for Ethan' s break

m the charging stand on the kitchen counter. His messages were synced. I

ght the whole 'work'

at the camera, wearing a lacy black bra. The background was a hotel r

deep, cold ache. But something else was rising to the surface. A dormant part of

refully built for myself. He thought he was the player, but he had j