Page 37 of Cursing My Cheating Husband

“Figure it out. The internet is your friend here.”

“But this is too much mess to clean up in one night!”

“You better hope it can be cleaned up in one night, because if it’s not, I will be… unhappy.” As I stretched out that last word, he appropriately quavered with fear. “And I’ve heard enough excuses from you.” I stepped toward him, holding his eyes. “Has it not sunk in yet?”

“I… umm… I love you,” he said weakly.

I continued to stare daggers at him.

His head bowed in surrender. “Where are the cleaning supplies?” he mumbled.

I had so completely carried this man he didn’t even know where to find the cleaning supplies in his own damn house. “I’m sure you can find them if you look hard enough.”

And at that, I exited to my bedroom and left my despondent ex-husband to wallow in filth like he deserved.

CHAPTER 16

MADDOX

As my fourth test omelet set, I looked nervously at the clock. It was almost seven.

My latest attempt looked marginally less shitty than the first three, but still nowhere near the quality of what I’d seen online. I had watched multiple how-to-cook-a-French-omelet instructional videos over and over, but the results were proving impossible to replicate.

I had at least succeeded in returning the kitchen to spotlessness, though the effort left me sore and exhausted. I’d thought my intense workouts had taught me what it was to be completely physically drained. I’d known nothing. Housework at this level went beyond anything I’d previously experienced. My knees were killing me after hours spent scrubbing the floor. My hands were raw from exposure to too many abrasive cleaning supplies. But I’d cleaned up every last drop and glass shard and blob of smashed food. I’d beautifully restocked the fridge. Hopefully, that would keep her happy enough.

This had been the darkest of dark nights of the soul. Too many hours of solitude doing tedious manual labor, replaying all the condemnations of the last few days, struggling to process the extremity of my fall from grace.

Only two weeks ago, I had everything I’d ever wanted. Now I’d lost it all, with only the slimmest chance of gaining any of it back.

Maybe trying to get out of this at all was a fundamentally stupid idea? This could be a total waste of time. Perhaps I should simply admit my life was over and go join a remote monastery or something. My defeat might already be final.

But I knew I wasn’t ready to give up yet. Callie was only allowing me to stay to toy with me, but that was still an opportunity. I would just have to submit to that and look for ways to win her over.

Though if it was really going to require me to cook the perfect French omelet, then there was probably no hope for my dick to recover.

From upstairs, I heard the braying of Callie’s alarm clock, quickly silenced, and immediately followed by her footsteps as she got out of bed. She always sprang right up in the morning, bright and excited.

I winced, remembering how that had annoyed me. Why? Now that I thought about it, it was actually sweet and endearing, the happy cheerfulness with which she greeted each day. Why had I always been so sour about it?

But there was no time to think on that now. The clock had run out. All right, this fourth omelet would have to do. It looked… passable.

As I did my best to slide it onto a plate without totally destroying it (I’d give myself a C minus for how well I managed that), Callie glided into the room, wrapped in her sheerest robe. “Good morning! Did you have a nice night?”

Watching how the gauzy fabric clung to her, I felt stirrings of arousal. This was going to be a rough journey.

“It was a really difficult night,” I admitted.

“Good, glad to hear it.” She swanned into the chair at the head of the table.

Which used to always be my seat, but I guessed now it was appropriately hers, wasn’t it? I did my best to suppress the pain of how recently this house had belonged to me.

Now I had nothing left to my name. Nothing except the charity of the wife I had betrayed.

So I better make sure she felt like continuing to issue that charity. I placed the omelet in front of her. She regarded it skeptically and took a first dainty bite. As she chewed, her expression was carefully neutral.

“I made three practice omelets before it. I would have made more, but that was all the time I had left after cleaning the place, and I tried to watch as many cooking instructional videos as I could find online. I promise I’ll get better with practice.”

“Let’s hope so. The taste is decent, but the presentation is poor. Also, the texture of the eggs needs to be fluffier. But it’s good enough. You’ve won yourself at least one more night in the house.” She paused for a long moment. “Now, please bring me a glass of ice water and have a seat. I need your thoughts on something.”