CHAPTER THREE
Henrik
The Affair
The motel room was exactly what I expected—cheap, anonymous, and perfect for what we needed. Amelia was already pulling off her dress before the door fully closed, her body revealed in the black lingerie I'd bought her last month.
"Fuck, you're beautiful," I said, and I meant it. She was all curves and confidence, so different from Bryony's hesitant uncertainty.
"Show me how beautiful you think I am," she purred, backing toward the bed. "Show me what that wife of yours doesn't get anymore."
The mention of Bryony should have bothered me, but it didn't. If anything, it added to the thrill—the forbidden nature of what we were doing, the way I was betraying my vows with every touch.
I crossed the room in three strides, my hands already reaching for her. "You want to know what she doesn't get?"
"Tell me." Amelia's eyes were dark with lust, her breath coming faster.
"Everything." I pushed her onto the bed, covering her body with mine. "She doesn't get this. Doesn't get me like this—hard and desperate and willing to do anything to be inside you."
"God, yes." Her hands were already working at my belt, freeing my cock. "I love when you talk like that. Tell me more. Tell me what you do to me that you don't do to her."
This was our game, the dirty talk that made everything more intense. Amelia loved hearing about how I'd chosen her over my wife, how much better she was, how much more I wanted her.
And I loved saying it.
"I don't fuck her like I fuck you," I said, my voice rough as I pulled her panties aside. "I don't make her scream. I don't make her beg. I barely touch her anymore."
"Why not?" Amelia's hand wrapped around my cock, stroking slowly. "Why doesn't she get this?"
"Because she's not you." I thrust into her hand, groaning. "Because she's clingy and needy and wants things I can't give her. Because being with her feels like drowning, and being with you feels like breathing."
"Fuck me, Henrik." Amelia guided me to her entrance, her legs wrapping around my waist. "Fuck me like you wish you could fuck her."
I slammed into her, and she cried out, her nails digging into my shoulders. This was what I needed—raw, uncomplicated pleasure. No emotional baggage, no expectations beyond the physical.
"Harder," she demanded, her hips rising to meet mine. "I want to feel you for days. I want to remember this every time I sit down."
I obliged, pounding into her with a force that would have scared Bryony. But Amelia loved it, loved the roughness, the way I used her body without apology.
"Tell me I'm better than her," she gasped, her head thrown back. "Tell me you'd rather be here than home with your wife."
"You're so much better," I groaned, my rhythm becoming erratic. "So much tighter, so much wetter. She doesn't make me feel like this. Doesn't make me lose control."
"That's right." Amelia's hand slid between us, rubbing her clit. "I'm what you need. Not her. Never her."
The words should have made me feel guilty, should have reminded me of the woman waiting at home, the vows I'd broken. But I was too far gone, too caught up in the pleasure and the escape.
"I'm going to come," I warned, my thrusts becoming desperate.
"Inside me," Amelia demanded. "Fill me up. Give me what you don't give her anymore."
That pushed me over the edge. I came hard, groaning her name, my body shuddering with release. Amelia followed moments later, her pussy clenching around me as she cried out.
We collapsed together, sweaty and satisfied, and for a few minutes, I let myself just exist in this moment. No guilt, no consequences, just the afterglow of good sex.
"That was incredible," Amelia said, trailing her fingers down my chest. "You're incredible."
"You bring it out in me." I kissed her shoulder, already feeling the familiar post-orgasm clarity starting to creep in.
"Does she know?" Amelia asked, her tone casual but her eyes sharp. "Your wife. Does she suspect?"
I thought about Bryony's questions, her concerns about being watched, her attempts to connect with me. "No. She's too wrapped up in her own paranoia to notice what's really going on."
"Paranoia?"
"She thinks someone's stalking her or something. Keeps saying she feels watched, that weird things are happening around the house. It's ridiculous."
Amelia was quiet for a moment. "What if she's right?"
"She's not. She's just trying to get my attention, trying to make me worry about her so I'll be more present. It's manipulative."
"Or maybe she's actually in danger and you're too busy fucking me to notice."
The words hit harder than they should have. I pulled away, sitting up. "That's not fair."
"Isn't it?" Amelia sat up too, wrapping the sheet around herself. "Henrik, I love what we have. I love the sex, the excitement, the way you make me feel. But I'm not blind. You're using me to avoid dealing with your marriage."
"I thought you didn't want to talk about my marriage."
"I don't. But I also don't want to be the reason something bad happens to your wife. If she's really in danger—"
"She's not." I stood, pulling on my pants. "She's fine. She's just dramatic and needy and trying to manipulate me into paying more attention to her."
Amelia looked at me for a long moment, and I saw something in her eyes I didn't like—pity, maybe, or disappointment. "You really don't care about her at all anymore, do you?"
"I care," I said, but even I could hear how hollow it sounded. "I just... I can't give her what she wants. And I'm tired of trying."
"So you're going to keep stringing her along? Keep lying to her while you fuck me in cheap motels?"
"What do you want me to say, Amelia? That I'll leave her? We both know that's not happening. This is what it is—an affair. That's all it's ever been."
She flinched slightly, and I realized I'd said the wrong thing. We'd never explicitly discussed what this was between us, had always kept it light and physical. But maybe she'd been hoping for more.
"You're right," she said finally, her voice cool. "This is just an affair. Just sex. Nothing more."
"Amelia—"
"You should go. Your wife is probably worried about you."
The dismissal stung, even though I knew I deserved it. I finished dressing in silence, and when I looked back at her, she was staring at the wall, her expression unreadable.
"I'll call you," I said.
"Sure."
I left the motel room feeling unsettled, the post-sex glow completely gone. The drive home was quiet, my mind churning with thoughts I didn't want to examine too closely.
Was Amelia right? Was I using her to avoid my problems? And what about Bryony's concerns—was there any validity to them, or was she really just being paranoid?
I thought about the past few weeks, about the times Bryony had tried to tell me something was wrong. I'd dismissed her every time, too wrapped up in my own shit to really listen.
But what if she was right? What if someone really was watching her, threatening her?
No. That was ridiculous. We lived in Crescent Falls, a quiet town where nothing bad ever happened. Bryony was just anxious, probably picking up on the distance between us and manifesting it as external threats.
She was fine.
Everything was fine.
I pulled into our driveway around ten, later than I'd intended. The house was dark except for a light in the bedroom. Bryony was probably already asleep, or pretending to be to avoid another awkward interaction.
I let myself in quietly, heading straight for the shower. I needed to wash off the smell of Amelia, the evidence of my betrayal. It was a routine I'd perfected over eight months—shower, brush teeth, slip into bed beside my wife like I'd just been working late.
The perfect husband, hiding his perfect affair.
But as I stood under the hot water, I couldn't shake the feeling that something was off. The house felt different somehow, charged with a tension I couldn't name.
I dried off and walked to the bedroom, expecting to find Bryony asleep. Instead, the bed was empty, the covers undisturbed.
"Bryony?" I called out, checking the bathroom. Empty.
I walked through the house, a knot of unease forming in my stomach. Her purse was gone. Her phone was gone. The car was gone.
Where the hell was she at ten o'clock at night?
I pulled out my phone and called her. It rang four times before going to voicemail.
"Bryony, where are you? Call me back."
I tried again. Same result.
The unease was turning into something closer to panic now. This wasn't like her. She never went out at night, never went anywhere without telling me first.
Unless...
Unless she knew. Unless she'd found out about the affair and left.
But how? I'd been so careful. I'd deleted messages, used a separate phone for most of our communication, paid for everything in cash. There was no way she could have found out.
Right?
I went to the bedroom and checked my nightstand drawer, my heart sinking when I saw it was open. My old phone—the one I'd kept as a backup, the one I'd forgotten to wipe—was gone.
"Fuck."
She knew. She'd found the phone, read the messages, seen the photos. She knew everything.
And now she was gone.
I should have felt guilty. I should have been worried about her, about where she was, about whether she was safe. But mostly, I just felt angry. Angry that she'd gone through my things, that she'd invaded my privacy, that she was making this into a bigger deal than it needed to be.
It was just sex. Just an affair. It didn't mean anything.
Except it did mean something, didn't it? It meant I'd betrayed her, lied to her, made a mockery of our marriage vows. It meant I'd chosen another woman over her, again and again, for eight months.
It meant I was exactly the asshole she probably thought I was.
I tried calling her again. Still no answer.
I paced the house, my mind racing. Where would she go? She didn't have any friends in Crescent Falls—I'd made sure of that, keeping her isolated, dependent on me. She didn't have family nearby, or at least none that she'd mentioned.
Unless...
She'd been vague about her past, about her family. What if she'd gone back to them? What if she'd called someone for help?
The thought made me uneasy for reasons I couldn't quite articulate. There was something about Bryony's past that she'd never fully explained, something that had made her run away and marry me in the first place.
What if that something was dangerous?
I shook my head, dismissing the thought. I was being paranoid now, just like she'd been. She was probably just driving around, crying, being dramatic. She'd come home eventually, and we'd have it out, and I'd... what? Apologize? Promise to end things with Amelia?
Would I even mean it if I did?
I didn't know anymore.
I sat on the couch, my phone in my hand, waiting for her to call back. The house felt too quiet, too empty. For the first time in months, I actually missed her presence, missed knowing she was there even if we weren't really together.
An hour passed. Then two.
I called her phone again and again, each time going straight to voicemail.
By midnight, I was genuinely worried. This wasn't like her. Even if she was angry, even if she'd found out about the affair, she wouldn't just disappear like this.
Would she?
I thought about calling the police, but what would I say? My wife found out I was cheating and now she's gone? They'd probably tell me to wait twenty-four hours, that she was an adult who could go where she wanted.
But something felt wrong. That same feeling Bryony had been trying to tell me about for weeks—the sense that something bad was coming.
I'd dismissed her concerns so easily, so completely.
What if I'd been wrong?
What if she really was in danger, and I'd been too wrapped up in my affair to notice?
The thought made my stomach turn. I grabbed my keys and headed for the door. I didn't know where I was going, didn't have a plan, but I couldn't just sit here anymore.
I had to find her.
I had to make sure she was okay.
And then... then I'd figure out what the hell I was going to do about the mess I'd made of our lives.
I drove through Crescent Falls, checking all the places I thought she might go. The grocery store parking lot. The park. The coffee shop she liked. All empty.
I was heading toward Route 9, thinking maybe she'd gone to the next town over, when I saw the flashing lights up ahead.
Police cars. An ambulance. Fire trucks.
An accident.
My heart stopped.
No. No, it couldn't be.
I pulled over, my hands shaking as I got out of the car. A police officer tried to wave me back, but I pushed past him, running toward the scene.
And that's when I saw it.
Bryony's car, twisted and mangled, wrapped around a tree on the side of Route 9.
And my wife, broken and bleeding, being loaded into an ambulance.
"No," I whispered, the word barely audible over the chaos. "No, no, no."
This couldn't be happening. This couldn't be real.
I'd been with Amelia, fucking her in a cheap motel, while my wife was dying on the side of the road.
I'd ignored her warnings, dismissed her fears, and now she was paying the price for my negligence.
"Sir, you need to step back," an officer said, grabbing my arm.
"That's my wife. That's my wife in there." I said, my voice breaking azs the ambulance pulled away.
The officer's expression softened slightly. "You can follow the ambulance to the hospital. But you need to let them do their job."
I nodded numbly, watching as they loaded Bryony into the ambulance. I couldn't see her face, couldn't tell how badly she was hurt, but the amount of blood, the way the paramedics were moving with urgent precision—it was bad.
Really bad.
And it was all my fault.
I got back in my car and followed the ambulance, my mind reeling. This was supposed to be a simple affair, a way to escape the suffocation of my marriage. It wasn't supposed to end like this.
Bryony wasn't supposed to get hurt.
But she had. And now I had to face the consequences of every choice I'd made, every lie I'd told, every warning I'd ignored.
I had to become the perfect husband I'd been pretending to be.
Even if it was too late.
Even if she never forgave me.
Even if I never forgave myself.