Chapter 1: The Violation of Sex Boundaries
Sophia’s P.O.V
I stepped through the front door, balancing a bag of groceries in one hand and Sara and Tara’s tiny hands in the other. Their laughter filled the space between us, warm and innocent, a sound I never wanted to stop hearing. But the moment I looked up, my heart stilled.
Clothes. Scattered across the living room floor. A blouse, a pair of jeans, a belt unbuckled and abandoned near the couch. At first, my brain struggled to process what I was seeing. The house was spotless when I left this morning.
A break-in?
My stomach churned, threatening to bring up this morning's breakfast, but I forced it down.
This wasn’t the time for that. My husband and I had rules—strict, unshakable rules. We had agreed that whatever we did outside of our marriage, it would stay there. Hotels. Different apartments. Never here. Never in our home.
And yet, the evidence was staring back at me, bold, unapologetic.
“Did he come to the house?” I muttered.
My breath came uneven as my eyes darted toward the staircase, my mind racing with possibilities. Was he still here? Was she? My fingers clenched around the grocery bag, the paper crinkling loudly in my grip. But I couldn’t let the girls see me unravel.
I forced my lips into a soft smile, turning toward my daughters. "Sara, Tara, go upstairs, okay? Put your things away. I’ll call you when dinner’s ready."
They hesitated, looking up at me with those bright, curious eyes—too perceptive for their age.
“Mommy?” Tara asked, her voice tinged with concern. “Are you okay?”
But Sara’s gaze was elsewhere. “Mommy? Why’s Daddy’s belt there?”
My heart skipped several beats as I realized what she said.
“It's fine, baby. I think I forgot to put the clothes away. Please go upstairs.” I said quickly, brushing a strand of her hair behind her ear. “Go on now.”
They lingered for a moment longer before nodding and heading up the stairs, their little feet padding against the wood. The moment they disappeared around the corner, the breath I’d been holding escaped me in a shaky exhale.
I took another step into the house, my pulse hammering. The silence felt suffocating, thick with something I wasn’t ready to name. My gaze flickered toward the closed bedroom door down the hall, and suddenly, I didn’t know if I had the strength to go on anymore.
The absence of our usual house help made it clear that Tristan, my husband, had sent them away on purpose, so he could maintain the image of the perfect couple while violating our set boundaries.
I kept telling myself that I had agreed to this, that I was the one who had given him the green light to do whatever he wanted, hoping it would save our marriage. But I was now sure that it had been the worst decision of my life. Because the moment I stepped inside our home and saw those clothes on the floor, something in my marriage changed forever.
The rhythmic sound of the knife against the cutting board filled the kitchen, a steady, almost meditative pattern as I sliced through the vegetables with methodical precision. But no matter how hard I tried to focus, the sickening noises from the guest bedroom crept into my mind like poison.
The soft, breathy moans, the hushed whispers, the muffled laughter. I listened as the bedframe creaked which was followed by a low chuckle, no doubt belonging to the woman Tristan brought home—it all pricks at my skin like tiny needles.
My grip tightens around the knife as I stare blankly at the onions in front of me, their pungent aroma stinging my already burning eyes. It doesn’t feel real. It can’t be real. This was my husband. The man I built a life with. And yet, here I am, standing in my own kitchen while another woman—someone young, someone undoubtedly beautiful—takes my place in our bed.
My throat tightens as I swallow hard, the lump of nausea threatening to rise. I could storm in there. I could throw open the door, scream, demand an explanation, make them both feel the same gut-wrenching humiliation that is currently splitting me open from the inside out. But I don’t move. I can’t.
My feet are rooted to the tiled floor, cold and unyielding beneath me. Instead, I stand here, slicing, dicing, pretending that my world isn’t crumbling to dust around me. I want to tell myself that I misheard, that it’s something else entirely, but the walls are thin, and the unmistakable sounds of betrayal filter through every crack and crevice, wrapping around me like a suffocating shroud.
Tristan Bernard and I had been together for almost twelve years. We first met as sophomores in high school and since then, we have been inseparable. I had been with Tristan through every thick and thin. I stood by him when he had nothing, when he had to built his life up from scratch, all the while hiding my true identity because Tristan came from a humble background, and I didn’t want him to feel any less in front of me.
Getting his company off the ground had been a struggle, as several investors refused to invest in a fresh graduate without any financial backing. But we stayed strong, withstanding all the trials and tribulations in our relationship, until finally, five years ago, Tristan was finally made the CEO of Bernard Technologies and he proposed to me in front of the whole company, and swore to love only me and be loyal to me forever.
And I believed him, because I loved him unconditionally and didn’t think for a second that the man who had loved me for so long could ever betray me in any form. We had been each other’s first’s, each other’s lifeline.
But when I gave birth to our twin daughters, Sara and Tara, I begun focusing less on myself and more on raising my daughters to have the life they deserved. And then, one day, the unthinkable happened.
I still remember the way Tristan had looked at me that night…calm, confident, the man I had loved for over a decade. But something was different about him that day.
“I want an open marriage.” Tristan told me, his voice resolute. “I no longer find you physically attractive. But I love you, Sophia, to the moon and back. I just…I need sex. And I just can’t do that with you anymore.”
It wasn’t a suggestion. It had felt like a declaration.
“What on earth are you even talking about?” I had been beyond livid. “How can you do this to me, Tristan? After everything?”
“Look, Sophia, I’m not cheating on you. It’ll be just sex. No feelings, no strings attached.” He sighed, as if speaking to a child. “You can find someone as well, and I’ll do the same. Recently, we’ve lost that spark between us. And we both know that you’d rather spend time with the kids than be intimate with me anymore. So, it’s beneficial for us both.”
At first, I hadn't been willing. How could I just…watch my own husband share his body, his soul with another woman while I watched helplessly from the sidelines?
But slowly, when I saw how much stress Tristan had been in from his company and I hadn't been able to be with him in the way he wanted me to be…so I decided to rethink the offer.
After all, it was just sex, right? And no strings attached?
So I had agreed, unable to see my husband distance himself from me. I had chosen to sacrifice a little bit of myself to keep him next to me.
But even though we had set firm boundaries…Tristan no longer seemed to care about them. And the woman in the guest room with him was proof of that.
The pressure in my head builds, a relentless pounding that echoes my racing heart. The onions I was cutting blurred as my hands shook, tears threatening to fall down my eyes.
How had it all come to this? Why was I so powerless to stop this from happening in my own home…right under my nose.
The thought sends a barrage of emotions racing through me and I press the knife down harder than necessary, the blade biting into the vegetable beneath it, and then—pain.
Sharp, searing, immediate.
I gasped as the knife slipped, slicing through my finger, and before I can process the severity of it, a strangled scream tears from my throat. The sound was raw, involuntary, and in that split second, everything stopped.
The noises from the guest room—those sinful, disgusting sounds—cease. There were the sounds of shuffling, hurried footsteps, the rustling of sheets.
And then the door creaked open.