Page 19 of The Bad Husband

Come to think of it, I could call Keira later in the day and ask her to take me to a few stores in town so I can update my wardrobe.

Keira was born and raised in the South. We met at a bookstore in New York and quickly struck up a friendship. She studies political science and plans to enroll in a master's degree and then teach.

Other than school, we share a love for hiking, snorkeling, southern food, and traveling.

There hasn’t been much traveling in our lives because of our hectic schedules. That doesn’t mean we can’t talk about it and plan to travel around the world one day.

We also love to shop, which comes in handy since I want to wear something other than jeans and T-shirts this summer.

A bright sun weaves fire through the leaves outside as I walk out of the bathroom, wearing a white short dress with bell sleeves and flat sandals.

My long amber hair is loosely gathered at the nape of my neck and tied with a red scarf.

I slide my phone and wallet into a small bag and walk out the door, expecting to meet no one other than maybe the staff.

The house is quiet, as always, and not a single person crosses paths with me as I head to the kitchen to maybe grab a cup of coffee and a water bottle.

Convinced there is no one in the house, I walk into the large space, reveling in the cool air moving around my legs.

I stop and dwell in the doorway as a man sits at the kitchen island, the sleeves of his pressed shirt rolled up, his unmistakable signet ring glinting on his finger, his elbows set on the smooth surface.

A cup of coffee sits in front of him. Next to it lies his phone, face down.

“Oh, there you are,” a feminine voice greets me.

My eyes peel away from him before he has the chance to look at me and land on the woman to my left.

Henrietta’s eyes urgently dive into mine as if my entire history with her new husband has just become public.

The woman is a looker.

She’s always been that sort of woman who sucks the air out of a room. Long silky hair, natural plump lips, big eyes, a canopy of eyelashes. She looks great even now in the morning light, with all that makeup.

She’s an expert at applying it, too.

I watched her many times while she was doing it in my father’s home in New York.

And I never quite understood her dedication, since he wasn’t the type of man who truly appreciated her efforts.

He clearly fell for her looks, but he was a normal guy who didn’t believe in a fantasy.

Regardless, she never changed for him. It was like she was playing her favorite character, and part of her performance was to look a certain way.

With a man like the one who is silently witnessing the exchange between us from the kitchen island, I can see why looking that way is a must.

Her hair falls down her back in big waves of ink.

She wears a boyfriend shirt tied at the waist and high-waisted red shorts, her legs tanned, shaved, waxed, the skin moisturized––whatever it takes. Perfect pedicure peeks through her high-heeled sandals.

She’s a goddess of seduction, and she’s always been like that. To her, it's second nature.

I’d almost suspect her crisp shirt to belong to him, if it weren’t for the well-placed seams under her bust, making it fit like a glove.

The lacy edge of a red bra peeks through her cleavage.

She moves her eyes down.

“Ready to go out so early?” she murmurs, taking inventory of my outfit before studying my face.