Some suites are shut tight, giving nothing away. Others have smoked-glass windows with half-drawn curtains, offering quick flashes of silhouettes and shadows moving inside. A pair of red heels abandoned outside one door, a man’s jacket draped neatly over a brass handle at another. Every detail feels like proof of what I came here dreading.
My husband is here with another woman. And I’m going to murder is manhood with a machete.
The bass from the main floor has faded to a dull hum, replaced by this heavy silence that feels too knowing, too polished. Like the walls themselves are in on the secrets being kept here.
My phone buzzes, hard and insistent in my palm. I glance down and the dot pulses again—looks like he’s right next door.
“Bastard,” I whisper, the word ripping out of me before I can stop it.
We gather outside the door, whisper-arguing strategy.
“Bang on it like the angry wife and yank that hoe off your man,” Tatum votes.
“Or, Eslin interjects calmly, “play it cool. Get proof, then decide your response.”
Then she leans in and places a hand on my shoulder. “How are you feeling?” she asks me, gently.
“I don’t need therapy shit right now, Es. I need to punch something.”
“Okay, Mayweather. Calm down,” she mutters. “I’m asking because if you’re hurt, don’t let that decide your reaction. You could say or do something you don’t mean. You honestly don’t know what he’s doing here.”
“It’s a sex club,” I deadpan. “There are only afewthings other than sex he’d be doing here.”
“Exactly,” Tatum says, cracking her knuckles.
I decide I’ve had it. Enough waiting. Enough overthinking. Enough wondering what fresh humiliation is waiting for me behind this door.
“You know what? Fuck it.”
My fist connects with the wood in a furious rhythm. Each pound louder than the last. “Declan! Bring your lying, sleazy, cheating ass out here right now!” My voice ricochets down the corridor, sharp enough to draw curious glances from the cracked-open door across the hall.
“Old, tattooed, fine ass!” Tatum suddenly hollers beside me like a hype-woman with no filter. Or good comebacks.
Both me and Eslin whip our heads toward her, jaws slack.
Tatum blinks, hands on her hips. “What? Sorry. I’ve never been good at trash talk. That was the first thing that came to mind.”
Eslin groans and drags a hand down her face. “Lord, help us.”
Before I can snap back, the lock clicks. The door creaks open.
I brace myself for a half-dressed woman stumbling out. For Declan’s guilty face. For a scene that’ll ruin me.
But what greets me instead?
Not moans. Not naked limbs.
But a freaking study hall.
Books stacked like mini skyscrapers. Flashcards scattered across every surface. Whiteboards filled with equations and sticky notes like confetti explosions. And right in the center, Matteo, and Luca— looking up at me like I’ve just interrupted Sunday school.
“What are you doing here?” Declan demands, eyes flashing from me to my backup squad.
“What am I—what are you doing here?” I snap.
Matteo lifts a flash card slowly. “Uh… derivatives?”
Declan scrubs a hand over his jaw. “We’re helping Matteo prep for his college entrance exams.”
