My Fiancé’s Live Stream Affair

I stared at the densely packed seating chart on my MacBook screen, my finger hovering over Andrew's parents' names. Left side of the head table or right?

This question had been eating at me for half an hour. Boston's late-night lights spilled through the floor-to-ceiling windows, casting a cold glow on the keyboard.

Ten days. In just ten days, I would become Mrs. Andrew Maxwell.

Three years ago, when the doctor announced they'd found a bone marrow match, I thought I was dreaming. After two years battling leukemia, I'd almost given up hope. That anonymous donor not only gave me a second chance at life but, at our meeting a year later, became my soulmate.

Ding—

The sudden notification snapped me out of it.

An email? This late?

Frowning, I clicked open my inbox. An email with no sender, no subject line, sat at the top.

"Spam?" I muttered, moving to delete it, but something made me click it open instead.

The body contained only one line: www.room4729.com/live

"What the hell." I was about to close it when an inexplicable impulse made me click the link.

The page loaded.

Black background, bare-bones layout, and in the center livestream window—

My face instantly burned like it was on fire.

In the dimly lit room, a couple wearing Venetian masks were going at it like animals.

God! The man pressed down on the woman like a beast, his hands gripping her ass tightly, hips slamming into her violently, each thrust going deep to the hilt, making her body shudder intensely.

The woman's legs wrapped tightly around his waist, her full breasts bouncing with the rhythm, her deep, wanton moans bursting from the speakers like a heat wave assaulting my eardrums and... lower regions.

The movements were so rough and urgent, the wet friction sounds crystal clear, nothing like Andrew who was always so gentle, kissing me for ages first, softly asking if I was ready...

I should have closed it. But my fingers froze on the trackpad, and I couldn't look away.

The man on screen suddenly gripped her throat, gentle yet dominantly controlling, his hips accelerating their assault, the sound of skin slapping echoing like drumbeats.

The woman's moans turned to screams, mixed with heavy panting, as if begging him to be rougher.

This was too fucking intense!

A wave of heat rushed through my lower abdomen, my thighs involuntarily pressed together, my underwear instantly soaked—not from simple embarrassment, but from that mix of fear and curiosity, like the first time secretly watching porn, wanting to explore more despite being scared.

God, what was I doing? My body was actually responding to this?

Just then, the screen went black. Stream ended.

A line of red text appeared below: [Next Live: Tomorrow 9PM]

I snapped back to reality, slamming the laptop shut. My heart pounded like it would burst from my chest.

"Fucking weird website." I panted, trying to calm myself.

But that number—4729—and that strange desire, both seemed branded into my mind.

I shook my head, forcing myself to focus. Should Andrew's cousin sit at the same table as her ex? No, need to rearrange...

The next evening, 8:55 PM.

I sat alone in the bedroom, my phone showing Andrew's message: "Baby, the merger will take another two hours. You go ahead and sleep."

Sighing, I walked to the vanity to remove my makeup. The woman in the mirror glowed with health, no sign I'd almost died.

9:00 PM sharp.

That weird heat from last night was back. I told myself it was just curiosity, just wanting to know...

My fingers automatically opened the laptop and typed in that URL.

"Just one look," I told myself, "just to see what kind of people are so... wild."

Page loaded. Livestream window lit up.

Same dimly lit room, same king-size bed. The man was taking the masked woman from behind, movements still fierce.

I bit my lower lip, feeling that heat building inside again. Until—

The moment the man turned over, I froze completely.

His hip—those scars.

Of course I knew Andrew had bone marrow donation scars there. I'd kissed them countless times, traced them with my fingertips in the dark. Three circular marks forming a perfect triangle, the bottom one slightly larger than the other two.

But seeing them here, in this video...

No.

My hands started shaking uncontrollably. It was the same. The exact same pattern I knew as intimately as my own heartbeat. Not similar. Identical.

"Coincidence, it has to be a coincidence." I heard my voice trembling.

On screen, the man pinned down the masked woman, their passion even more intense. His body shape, the width of his shoulders, even certain habitual movements...

No no no. So many people have had bone marrow transplants, it can't be him.

Twenty minutes passed, my eyes glued to the screen, frantically searching for any detail that could prove it wasn't Andrew.

Then, as the man turned sideways, a coffee-colored birthmark on his left shoulder appeared faintly in the dim light.

My phone slipped from my hand, hitting the floor with a crack.

That birthmark, shaped like a maple leaf, Andrew said it was God's mark on him.

I rushed to the bathroom, falling to my knees before the toilet, dry heaving. My stomach was doing backflips, tears streaming uncontrollably.

"It's not him, it's not him..." I repeated over and over, my voice so hoarse I couldn't recognize it as my own.

The next few hours were a blur of nightmare. I called Andrew seven times, each call disconnected after three rings. My messages showed as read, but no reply.

I wandered between the living room and bathroom, vomiting until only acid remained.

At 2 AM, I curled up on the living room sofa, wrapped in a blanket, eyes swollen like walnuts.

The sound of keys turning.

Andrew walked in, his navy suit still crisp, tie neat.

"Baby? You're still up?" He hurried over, his handsome face full of concern.

"I..." The words stuck in my throat, wouldn't come out.

He sat beside me, kissing my forehead. A strange perfume scent hit my nostrils—a woman's perfume, vanilla and musk mixed, sickeningly sweet enough to make my stomach cramp. Definitely not his cologne.

"Sorry for coming back so late, the Hartman merger was more complex than expected." His hand stroked my long hair, "Are you okay? You look terrible."

"Maybe it's just... pre-wedding jitters." I heard myself say.

Andrew pulled me into his arms, chin resting on my head: "Silly girl, what's there to be anxious about? In ten days, you'll be my wife. We'll be happy forever, I promise."

His body temperature, his heartbeat, everything was so familiar.

I closed my eyes, frantically chanting in the darkness:

Many people have had bone marrow transplant surgery...

The birthmark might just be similar...

That website is just a prank...

Andrew loves me, he even saved my life...

"Get some rest if you're tired." Andrew kissed the top of my head, "We have the dress fitting tomorrow."

"Mm." I managed to say.

Late that night, I lay beside Andrew, listening to his steady breathing. Each breath felt like a knife cutting into my heart.

Those three scars and the maple leaf birthmark alternated in my mind like a vicious curse, tearing at my sanity.

I must have seen wrong.

I must have.

But how many people in the world have an identical maple leaf-shaped birthmark on their left shoulder?

Shut up. It's a coincidence. It has to be a coincidence.

As the first ray of dawn filtered through the curtain gap, I still lay with dry, open eyes, repeatedly convincing myself.