She Fucked My Husband. She Stole My Ring

I was organizing patient files when I heard Marcy on the phone with her boyfriend, complaining about him not buying her designer bags. Just another Tuesday afternoon at our small-town dental clinic—gossip, teeth cleaning, and more gossip.

"Mrs. Martinez, your 2:30 is here," Marcy poked her head into my office. "The Henderson girl."

I glanced at the appointment book. Paisley-Rose Henderson, 18, routine cleaning. I remembered her—former head cheerleader, blonde and blue-eyed, graduated a few months ago.

Another recent graduate, probably wisdom teeth trouble. These kids always wait until the pain's unbearable before seeing a dentist. At least she has insurance—probably her parents' family plan.

Paisley walked into Treatment Room 2, and I immediately noticed several things: she was dressed like she was going to a nightclub, not a dental appointment. Tight red dress, full makeup, and those damn stilettos. But I also noticed her purse—clearly a knockoff, not real designer.

"Hi, Deli!" she said with saccharine sweetness, like we were best friends. We weren't.

"Hello, Paisley. Please have a seat." I gestured toward the dental chair. "What brings you in today?"

She sat down, deliberately pulling her dress up short. "Oh, just some... discomfort. You know how it is."

I put on my gloves and adjusted the overhead light. "What kind of discomfort?"

"Well," she made an exaggerated expression, "I have this loose tooth. Coach Brock says he has the same problem, probably from all the... biting."

She paired this with a sultry look, and my blood ran cold. Brock? My Brock?

Why does she know about my husband's dental issues? Why does the way she's talking make me want to vomit? Keep it professional, Deli. Maybe it's just a coincidence.

"Open please." I examined her mouth. "I don't see any obvious problems. Your teeth look fine."

"Do they?" She smiled, then deliberately let her bracelet catch the light.

I stopped mid-examination. That bracelet. Tiffany & Co., classic chain design. The exact one I'd had saved in my Amazon cart for six months.

"That's a beautiful bracelet," I managed to keep my voice steady.

"Oh this?" She lifted her wrist. "My special friend gave it to me. He says I deserve the best, that I'm worth more pretty things than some old women."

Old woman? I'm only 28! And how dare she... wait. Special friend? Tiffany bracelet? My stomach is churning.

"Your special friend has good taste." I continued the examination, but my hands were shaking.

"He does!" she said excitedly. "Actually, you might know him. He's Coach Fitzgerald from the high school?"

The world stopped spinning.

"Brock Fitzgerald?" My voice sounded strange, even to me.

"Yes! You know him?" She feigned surprise, but her eyes were full of malicious triumph. "Such a sweetheart. He's been... mentoring me since graduation."

Mentoring. Sure.

"He's my husband." I set down the probe and looked her straight in the eyes.

"Oh!" Her hand flew to her mouth in mock shock, but I could tell she wasn't surprised at all. "What a small world!"

This little bitch knows. She absolutely knows. This isn't a coincidence—she came here on purpose.

"So you two are close?" I asked, though I already knew the answer.

"Very close." She sat up, no longer pretending to need dental care. "Actually, he drove me home last night. Such a gentleman."

"That's... nice of him."

"And look what else he gave me!" She pulled out her phone, swiping to a photo.

It was our kitchen. I recognized the old fridge and peeling wallpaper. But in the photo was Paisley, wearing a silk robe, sitting on my kitchen counter.

That's my kitchen. My marriage. My life. She's sitting where I make coffee for Brock every morning.

"Beautiful kitchen," she continued. "Brock says once the obstacle is removed, we can redecorate. Maybe something more... modern?"

Obstacle. She called me an obstacle.

"I think we're done here." I started putting away the instruments, my fingers numb.

"Already? But I was hoping we could chat more!" She reapplied her lip gloss. "Girl to girl, you know?"

"About what?"

"About reality." Her voice suddenly turned sharp, all fake sweetness gone. "About how some women know when to step aside gracefully, and others... don't."

This 18-year-old bitch is actually lecturing me about reality? In my workplace? But now I see something else in her eyes—not just malice, but desperation. Like she needs this to work out, needs him to choose her. Why would an 18-year-old girl be this desperate?

"Here's some reality for you," I turned to face her. "You're eighteen. He's thirty. That makes you jailbait last year."

She shrugged, but I caught a flicker of uncertainty. "Age is just a number. Maturity is what matters. And clearly, some women never really grow up."

She stood up, smoothing down her dress. "Thanks for the... cleaning. I'll be sure to tell Brock how professional you were."

She headed for the door, then stopped.

"Oh, and Deli? Don't worry about the money. Brock says he'll handle the divorce very generously. Of course, you'll need to find somewhere else to live, but I'm sure you'll figure it out. You seem... resourceful."

Money? What money? Our joint account? And she sounds so confident, like everything's already decided. Like I don't get a vote in my own life.

The door closed, leaving me alone with the fluorescent lights and dental equipment.

I sat on the rolling stool, staring at the spot where she'd stood.

Did that really just happen? A teenager, my husband's former student, just told me in my workplace that she's going to steal my husband? And they've already been in my house... in my kitchen...

My hands started shaking. That bracelet. The one I'd wanted for so long, now on another woman's wrist. What money bought it? Our joint account? Our mortgage payment?

I pulled out my phone and dialed Brock's number. Straight to voicemail.

"Hi, you've reached Coach Fitzgerald. Leave a message and I'll get back to you!"

That cheerful, familiar voice broke my heart a little.

"Brock, it's me. Call me when you get this. We need to talk."

I hung up, immediately regretting it. I should have sounded casual, not... desperate.

Maybe this is a misunderstanding. Maybe Paisley's lying, trying to cause trouble. But that photo... that was definitely my kitchen. And Brock was late coming home last night. Said it was a team dinner.

I remembered last night. He came home smelling like perfume, sweet and flowery. When I asked, he said it was from hugging parents at the team banquet. I believed him. I always believed him.

My phone buzzed, drawing my attention to one particular text.

From an unknown number, but I recognized the manicure from the photo.

"BTW, that robe is Victoria's Secret. Pink is my color, don't you think? 😘"

Attached was another photo. This time our bedroom. Our bed.