The Perfect Housewife's Secret Lover

Stella's POV

I woke up at five-thirty, before my alarm had a chance to ring. It was my routine—becoming the shadow of our home before everyone else stirred. In the kitchen, I moved silently, careful not to wake Theo and Jason sleeping upstairs.

Dawn barely filtered through the windows, coating the kitchen in a bluish-gray stillness.

I took a sip of cold water, letting it slide down my throat and wake my thoughts. Looking around this space I knew by heart, fifteen years of memories flashed through my mind.

I, Stella Foster, had somehow transformed from an ambitious nursing student into the "perfect housewife" of Oak Street that everyone envied. A successful husband, a twelve-year-old son—that was how the world defined my entire existence.

Pushing these thoughts aside, I opened the refrigerator and pulled out ingredients I'd prepped the night before. Jason needed a protein-packed breakfast for his fitness test; Theo required a low-fat meal because he was "staying trim for clients." As for me, I'd eat whatever was left.

The eggs sizzled gently as I simultaneously stirred oatmeal, my wrist flicking the spatula with practiced ease.

Hot oil suddenly splattered, burning the back of my hand. "Shit," I hissed, quickly running my hand under cold water. An angry red mark appeared, stinging fiercely.

"Is breakfast ready?" Theo's voice came from behind. I reflexively turned off the faucet and spun around with a forced smile. He stood in his crisp suit, eyes locked on his phone screen.

"Morning, honey." I pushed a plate of perfectly fried eggs, avocado, and whole wheat toast toward him with my uninjured hand. "Coffee's almost ready."

He glanced at my reddened hand and frowned. "Can't you be more careful? Always causing problems."

"Sorry," I replied quietly, my throat tightening. "Just an accident."

His phone rang, and he checked the screen, his expression suddenly alert as he stepped into the kitchen corner. "Now? No, that won't work... Fine, I understand. I'll handle it."

My stomach twisted, but I pretended to focus on Jason's lunch box, ignoring the burning pain as I drew a smiley face with ketchup on his eggs.

"I need to leave early," Theo grabbed his briefcase, snatching the lunch I'd just packed without even looking at me.

"Don't forget the community barbecue at six-thirty tonight," I reminded him softly, handing him his coffee.

"Yeah, yeah," he rolled his eyes impatiently. "Can you stop reminding me? I'm not a child."

The door slammed harder than usual. I stood there, staring at the barely touched breakfast, and sighed deeply.

The Oak Street Park barbecue was bustling. I stood on the lawn holding my homemade quinoa salad, forcing a smile. This was community tradition—every family brought a dish and spent the evening judging each other's cooking skills and family harmony.

"Stella, darling!" Martha waved as she approached. As neighborhood committee chair and gossip central, she beamed, "That salad looks fabulous."

"Thanks, Martha," I replied politely.

"I've been wondering," she lowered her voice, eyes gleaming with curiosity, "didn't you once want to become a nurse? Whatever happened to that plan?"

My heart raced, but before I could answer, Theo's voice came from behind. "Oh, that was just her passing fancy."

He gripped my shoulder so tightly I flinched slightly. "Stella lacks the professional temperament. I advised her to give it up for her own good. After all," he paused dramatically, making sure everyone was listening, "the family needs her full attention."

I felt a stab of pain. Theo had told this story countless times, as if my dreams were just a joke.

"Mom's only good at cooking anyway," Jason chimed in, laughing with his father.

In that moment, I felt dizzy. My own son's words cut through my heart like a blade, but I just smiled stiffly.

"Boys will be boys," I explained to Martha, my throat tight.

After the crowd dispersed, Helen—the retired teacher from the corner house—approached me quietly.

"Honey, don't listen to them," she squeezed my hand. "Everyone knows how brilliant you are. Those medical journals with your notes—I've seen them. That's not ordinary comprehension."

I widened my eyes in surprise, wondering how she'd noticed. The feeling of being truly "seen" nearly took my breath away.

"Thank you, Helen," I whispered, tears welling up.

Late that night, only the bedside lamp cast a yellow glow across our bedroom, throwing long shadows. While Theo showered, his phone vibrated on the bed.

I hadn't meant to pry, but when the screen lit up, my eyes were drawn to it. The message preview was clear:

"Miss you. Last night was amazing. Same time tomorrow? S."

My heart stopped, blood freezing in my veins. Who was S? Sofia? Sarah? Time seemed to stand still, with only the sound of my rapid breathing filling the room.

Is this why he's been coming home late? The mysterious calls and sudden schedule changes?

The bathroom door opened, humid air flooding the bedroom. Theo emerged wrapped in a bathrobe, hair still dripping. When he saw me sitting on the bed, his expression flickered, brows furrowing.

"Your phone got a message," I kept my voice steady.

"Oh?" he quickly grabbed it, his expression turning guarded.

"Who's S?" I asked softly.

His expression instantly darkened. "You're checking my phone now?"

"No, I just saw the screen light up."

"Here we go again," his voice sharpened. "Your controlling behavior is SUFFOCATING, Stella. This is exactly why I can't tell you anything—you always blow things out of proportion!"

I felt a stabbing pain in my chest but gathered courage to ask, "What does 'last night was amazing' mean?"

"S is Smith, my client," he moved aggressively toward me. "We closed a big deal last night. That's what 'amazing' means."

"You're lying," I regretted the words immediately.

"What did you say?" his eyes widened. "You're accusing me of cheating now?"

"I didn't say—"

"But your reaction IS the problem!" he suddenly exploded, his volume making me shrink back. "Your paranoia needs professional help! This controlling behavior is choking me!"

His voice grew louder, and I instinctively retreated to the corner of the bed, feeling smaller by the second.

Fifteen years—how did our marriage become this?

"I just care about you," I said quietly, feeling tears gathering.

"You're not caring, you're MONITORING me!" he snapped. "I'm SICK of your suspicions! This is why I'd rather come home late than face these endless interrogations!"

I bit my lower lip, never countering his words. Once, I was that confident girl dreaming of saving lives in hospitals. Now, I couldn't even question a suspicious text.

"I'm sorry," I heard myself say, my voice barely audible.

Theo angrily turned off the light, plunging the room into darkness. The mattress shook violently as he lay down, his back to me, building an invisible wall.

In the silence, I lay with open eyes, tears silently sliding down my cheeks, dampening the pillow.