Angela sat alone by the pool, morning sun warming her bare shoulders as she stared out at the immaculately landscaped grounds of their estate. Seven days had passed since Harry. Seven days of carrying a secret that felt like a stone in her stomach, growing heavier with each passing hour.
She hadn't expected the guilt to be this visceral, this consuming. It ambushed her in quiet moments, when her husband Richard touched her shoulder affectionately as he passed, when he kissed her goodbye before work, when he asked about her day with genuine interest.
He didn't suspect a thing. Why would he? In their twelve years of marriage, she had never given him reason to doubt her. She had been the perfect wife: supportive, elegant, discreet. The kind of woman other men in his circle envied him for.
Angela sipped her coffee, trying to silence the voice in her head that kept whispering: You don't deserve any of this.
And she didn't, not really. The sprawling mansion with its seven bedrooms and marble floors. The vacation homes in Aspen and on the Amalfi Coast. The vineyard in Tuscany that Richard had bought for their tenth anniversary because she'd once mentioned loving Italian wines. The closets full of designer clothes. The jewelry that sat in a safe, pieces worth more than what most people earned in years.
Richard had built this life for them brick by brick, deal by deal. He worked tirelessly, even now when he could easily retire. "Building a legacy," he always said. He'd never strayed, never complained about the social obligations that came with his position. He was, by all objective measures, a good husband.
A good husband you betrayed with a stranger.
Angela closed her eyes, the memory of Harry's hands on her body flashing unbidden through her mind. She set her coffee cup down with more force than necessary, coffee sloshing over the rim.
"Careful there."
She startled at the sound of Richard's voice. He stood in the doorway to the terrace, already dressed for work in a perfectly tailored navy suit. At fifty-two, he was still strikingly handsome: salt and pepper hair, strong jawline, the confident posture of a man accustomed to commanding rooms. Women still eyed him openly at galas, at business dinners, flirting shamelessly even with Angela on his arm.
"I thought you'd left already," she said, composing herself.
"Forgot my tablet." He crossed to where she sat, dropping a quick kiss on the top of her head. "You look beautiful this morning."
A simple compliment, delivered with the casual certainty of a man who had been saying similar things for years. Once, such words had thrilled her. Now they felt like part of a script they both followed.
"Thank you." She smiled up at him, wondering if he could see the guilt behind her eyes. "Dinner at seven?"
"I'll try. The Singapore deal might run late." He was already checking his watch. "Don't wait up if it does."
Angela nodded, the familiar disappointment settling in her chest. "Of course."
As he walked away, she found herself remembering how they'd met. Fifteen years ago at a fashion show in Milan. She had been twenty-five, a working model but nowhere near supermodel status. Mostly catalog work, some runway. It paid the bills, barely, but the glamorous life people imagined was largely fiction. She shared a tiny apartment with three other models, ate ramen most nights to save money, and took the subway to castings.
Then came the Valentino show where she'd been booked as much for her height and slenderness as for her face. Walking the runway in a dress she could never afford, she'd locked eyes with Richard in the front row. He hadn't looked away, hadn't pretended he wasn't staring. His attention had been direct, unapologetic.
Later, at the after-party, he'd approached her with two glasses of champagne and a confidence that had taken her breath away.
"I've been to dozens of these shows," he'd said, handing her a glass. "You're the first woman who made me forget I was watching clothes."
It had been a line, of course, but delivered with such genuine admiration that she'd laughed instead of rolling her eyes. They'd talked until the venue started shutting down, and when he'd asked for her number, she'd given it without hesitation.
What followed was a whirlwind. Private jets to weekend getaways. Dinners at restaurants with months-long waiting lists. Hotel suites bigger than her entire apartment. Designer clothes delivered to her door because he'd mentioned liking her in a certain color.
Richard had pursued her with the same focus and determination he brought to his business deals. Three months after they met, he proposed on a private beach in the Maldives, the ring so heavy it had nearly slipped from her finger.
Six months after their first meeting, they got married in Monaco, the ceremony covered by exclusive arrangement in Vogue. From catalog model to millionaire's wife in less than a year. It had been dizzying, intoxicating.
She hadn't married him for the money, though plenty of people assumed she had. She'd married him because he made her feel seen after years of being treated as interchangeable with a dozen other tall, thin brunettes. He'd wanted her specifically, pursued her specifically, chosen her specifically.
The early years had been good. Great, even. They traveled constantly. Made love in hotel rooms overlooking the world's most beautiful cities. Stayed up talking about their childhoods, their dreams, the lives they wanted to build together. He made her laugh. Made her feel safe for the first time since leaving her chaotic home at eighteen.
Angela couldn't pinpoint exactly when things had changed. There was no dramatic moment, no clear line between "before" and "after." Just a slow, almost imperceptible shift. More business dinners. More nights apart. Sex that grew increasingly perfunctory, scheduled rather than spontaneous.
When had they become so predictable? When had Richard stopped looking at her the way he had that first night in Milan?
When had she started looking elsewhere?
Angela stood abruptly, pushing the thought away. It was normal, wasn't it? Every marriage cooled eventually. Every couple settled into routine. The passionate beginnings gave way to comfortable middles. That was life. That was reality.
What wasn't normal was hiring an escort.
She had promised herself it would be a one-time thing. A momentary madness. A secret she would take to her grave. She had woken the morning after Harry left feeling hollow, disgusted with herself, vowing never again.
Yet here she was, a week later, still thinking about him. About the way he had commanded her. About how it had felt to surrender completely, to stop being Angela Westfield, perfect society wife, and just be a woman with desires.
That night, Richard came home earlier than expected, finding her reading in bed. He smiled when he saw her, loosening his tie as he crossed to her side.
"The Singapore call was shorter than anticipated," he said, sitting beside her on the bed. "They accepted our initial offer."
"That's wonderful," she replied, setting her book aside. "We should celebrate."
Something in her tone must have registered, because Richard's eyebrows rose slightly. His hand came to rest on her thigh above the covers.
"What did you have in mind?"
Angela leaned forward, kissing him with more intent than she had in months. Her hands went to his tie, finishing what he had started, pulling it free. He responded with mild surprise but definite interest, his own hands sliding up her sides.
"Someone's in a mood," he murmured against her mouth.
"Is that a problem?" She was already unbuttoning his shirt, determined to recapture something of what they'd once had. To exorcise Harry from her mind.
Richard chuckled, the sound warm but somehow diminishing. "Not at all. Just unexpected."
They undressed each other, though there was something hesitant in his movements, as if he wasn't quite sure what had prompted this sudden passion. Angela tried not to let it bother her, tried to focus on the moment, on her husband's familiar body.
When she moved to straddle him, he seemed momentarily taken aback.
"Like this?" he asked, hands settling on her hips.
"Why not?" She leaned down to kiss him again, trying to convey her need without words.
Richard went along with it, but there was a hint of awkwardness to his movements, as if they were following slightly different rhythms.
“Fuck me like you mean it,“ she whispered, her hands roaming his chest. “Hold me down. Make me yours.“
He blinked up at her, then burst out laughing. “What’s gotten into you?" he asked, more amused than aroused.
"Just trying something different." Her cheeks burned with embarrassment, but she pressed on. "Don't you want to?"
"Of course I do. But we don't need theatrics, darling. We know what works for us."
That was exactly the problem. What "worked" for them had become as exciting as paying bills. But Angela swallowed her disappointment, nodding as if she agreed. She let him guide her into more familiar patterns, the comfortable, predictable dance they'd performed countless times.
As they moved together, Angela closed her eyes, and unbidden, Harry's face appeared in her mind. His hands on her body, his voice in her ear, commanding rather than requesting. The fantasy was so vivid, so immediate, that her breath caught.
Richard, misinterpreting, increased his pace slightly. "That's it, darling."
But it wasn't him she was responding to. It was the memory of being bent over the couch, of having her hair pulled, of being told what to do instead of always having to decide. The contrast between fantasy and reality was so stark that she almost cried out in frustration.
Instead, she buried her face in Richard's neck, letting the fantasy take over completely. In her mind, it was Harry above her, Harry inside her, Harry's voice growing ragged as he approached his climax. The imagined scene was so powerful that her body responded as if it were real, tightening around her husband as pleasure washed through her.
Richard followed shortly after, sighing her name as he finished. He held her close afterward, clearly pleased by what he perceived as a reconnection.
"That was lovely," he murmured, already sounding half-asleep. "We should celebrate my deals more often."
Angela lay beside him, staring at the ceiling as his breathing deepened into sleep. The guilt she'd felt before had doubled, trebled. Not only had she physically cheated on her husband, but she'd now mentally cheated on him while in their marital bed.
What kind of person was she becoming?
For three more days, she fought against the urge. She threw herself into charity work, into redecorating the guest wing, into anything that might distract her from the memory of Harry's hands on her body. She was more attentive to Richard, more present when he was home, determined to recommit herself to her marriage.
But at night, alone with her thoughts, the wanting returned. Not just for the physical release, Richard could provide that, even if it lacked imagination, but for the freedom. The escape from being Angela Westfield, with all the expectations and responsibilities that came with the name.
On the tenth night after meeting Harry, she found herself in her home office, staring at the business card she'd kept hidden in a drawer. The escort agency's number was embossed in simple black letters on heavy cream cardstock. Nothing overtly sexual about it, it could have been a law firm or a high-end tailor from the look of it.
Her finger hovered over her phone. She should destroy the card. Forget it had ever existed. Forget Harry had ever existed.
Instead, she dialed.
A woman's voice answered, professional and discreet. "Platinum Select Services. How may I assist you?"
Angela's heart hammered in her chest. This was her last chance to hang up, to walk away. To be the woman Richard thought she was.
"I'd like to schedule an appointment," she heard herself say. "With Harry. For tomorrow evening."
There was a brief pause as the woman checked her system. "Harry is available tomorrow evening at eight. Would that suit?"
Tomorrow. Richard would be in New York for a board meeting. The house would be empty except for staff, who never entered the east wing where her rooms were located.
"Yes," Angela said, surprising herself with how steady her voice sounded. "That would be perfect."
After confirming the details and ending the call, Angela sat motionless, the phone still in her hand. What she had just done felt irrevocable somehow, different from the first time. The first encounter could be dismissed as momentary weakness, a one-time lapse in judgment.
This was a choice. Deliberate. Premeditated.
She set the phone down carefully, as if it might shatter. Outside her window, the grounds of her perfect home stretched into the darkness, the garden lights illuminating paths through manicured lawns and sculpted hedges. All of it a testament to the life Richard had built for them. The life she was now risking.
But as she thought of Harry, of the way he had looked at her, touched her, understood what she needed without her having to explain, Angela felt something unlock inside her chest. A door opening to a room she had kept sealed for years.
She would see him tomorrow. And God help her, she couldn't wait.
ns216.73.217.31da2
and then Add to home screen.