The Revenge Affair My Bestfriend's Husband Offered Me

My fifth wedding anniversary was the day I learned my husband had never stopped loving her. But I should have known much earlier.

The first time I heard him whisper her name, I was standing in the kitchen with a glass of water, that was on the first month of our marriage. He was in our bedroom, packing for our honeymoon when I could hear the tremor in his voice. The soft, desperate way he said "Jovi" that made my stomach drop because I'd heard that exact tone before. When we were seventeen. When she was still his.

I stood there for a long time, telling myself I'd misheard. Telling myself I was paranoid. I kept telling myself since then that now we were married he would slowly move on and only look at me. I never heard he mentioned her name in front of me since then. I convinced my self he was healing.

He didn't. When he thought he was alone or I wasn't looking at him, I would still noticed his sadness. The sadness of a man who lose his whole universe and still standing straight pretending everything was okay.

I thought my love and presence would eventually help him to be whole again. I have been working hard at being the good wife. Someone who understand his need and the one he can called home. The one who waited while he mourned her. The wife he married but never truly love. I never good at cook but I kept learning Jovi's favorite recipes because they were also his favorites. Without realizing it, my wardrobe slowly filled with the same pale colors Jovi used to wear. Even she was gone, I was still here, still his.

Jovi and Zane had been in relationship since high school. They were a pair of sweetheart. While I was the bestfriend who silently wanting him in the shadow while watching them being happy together. But their happiness didn't last forever.

It was seven years ago, she married the billionare from Blackwood family. And it was the first time I met her husband. The one she left Zane for. Vance Blackwood. The heir to the Blackwood Empire.

The champagne was still cold in my hand. I'd bought it weeks ago, hidden it in the back of the fridge, imagined the look on his face when I brought it out.

Five years, Zane. Can you believe it?

Instead, I walked through my own front door and called out. "Zane? I'm home early."

Silence. Then a muffled sound. A gasp, maybe. Or a suppressed laugh.

The champagne bottle slipped from my hand. I caught it before it could shatter, but my heart was already crashing. I knew that silence. I knew that muffled sound. I'd heard it before, in high school, when I'd walk into the garage and find them tangled together in the back of his car.

I walked to the bedroom door, my knee trembled. It was open, just a crack. But it was enough to see everything.

I saw his back first. The familiar curve of his shoulders. The freckle on his left shoulder blade, the one I used to kiss when he was half-asleep, the one I traced with my finger in the dark. Now it was moving. A rhythm I recognized because it belonged to me. Or I'd thought it did.

Then I saw her legs wrapped around him, red-polished toes curling into the sheets we'd chosen together. Blonde hair fanned across my pillow. The pillowcase still smelled faintly of the lavender detergent I'd bought because Zane said it helped him sleep.

My brain refused to understand what my eyes were seeing.

That wasn't my bedroom.

That wasn't my husband.

Those weren't the sheets I'd spent an hour choosing because he liked soft cotton.

It couldn't be.

But it was.

She opened her eyes as if she felt my presence. And in her eyes, I saw it. The moment she realized she'd been caught. And underneath that, fear and panic. My hand twitched on my side. My fingers brushed the wedding band on my hand.

"Shit!" She scrambled for the sheet, her hands fumbling, her voice high and sharp. "Nerissa—"

He twisted. His face was sweaty, his hair plastered to his forehead. The flush on his cheeks was still warm from the heat of her. He looked at me, and I watched the color drain from his skin.

It was the same look he'd had seven years ago. When she told him she was marrying Vance Blackwood. When I held him while he fell apart. Cried for the woman who walked away from his life. That was the moment I should have screamed. I wanted to claw at their faces. I wanted to make them feel one fraction of what I felt. But I didn't. I couldn't.

My body refused to move.

My fingers dug so hard into the champagne bottle that my knuckles burned.

One more second.

If I stayed one more second, I would either collapse...

or kill them both.

Somehow my legs chose for me.

One step.

Then another.

I walked away because walking away was the only thing keeping me from shattering completely.

"Nerissa, wait!"

"It's not what you think!"

"Please, let me explain!"

For a moment, I thought about turning back. About screaming. About throwing something. About making them feel one fraction of the way I felt.

But every word died somewhere between my chest and my throat.

If I stayed...

They would explain.

They would apologize.

They would lie.

And I was terrified I'd be weak enough to believe them.

In the kitchen, I saw the other champagne bottle. The one he'd opened that morning, before her text arrived.

She's in trouble. She's our best friend. You understand.

I understood perfectly.

I unscrewed the cap on my bottle and poured our anniversary down the sink. Watched it swirl and disappear, like the five years of hope I held in my heart, gone in seconds. I dropped the bottle in the sink. It clanged but didn't break.

My keys were on the hook. I took them. My hand was shaking so badly I dropped them twice before I got a grip.

I walked to the front door. I didn't look back. I closed it softly behind me. When the door closed I couldn't hold my tears anymore. I leaned weakly against the door, gasping for air. But the moment I heard footsteps inside, I forced myself to push away. I stumbled toward my car. I needed somewhere to breathe. Somewhere far from the ruins of my life.

I drove for an hour. Maybe two. The streetlights blurred past.

And then the memories came.

Our wedding vows. The way his voice cracked when he said "forever."

His laugh on our honeymoon, when I tripped in the sand and he caught me.

Our first anniversary. He'd cooked a feast. Burned the chicken. Laughed it off and ordered takeout.

And after, in the dark, his breath warm against my neck—he whispered, "Thank you for waiting for me. I promise I will make you happy."

Now those words felt like a lie.

Every single one.

Had I ever been anything more than the woman who stayed after she'd left?

I turned on the radio.

A love song filled the car.

I switched stations.

Another one.

Every song seemed determined to remind me that someone, somewhere, still believed forever meant forever.

I laughed once.

Then I started crying again.

That when another memory hit me.

Earlier this day. Vance Blackwood, my new boss transfered from oversea had asked me, just hours ago, if I knew where his wife was. His grey eyes had been flat, just seeking information.

"Do you know where my wife is? She's not answering my calls."

At the time, I'd smiled politely. Told him I hadn't seen her. I'd even felt sorry for him. A husband looking for his wife.

Now...

I laughed. It sounded broken. He'd been searching for her. While she'd been in my bed.

With my husband.

I pulled over. My hands shook, but my voice was steady when I called my company's main line. I got his secretary, Lydia.

"Lydia, it's Nerissa Sullivan from R&D. I have the final numbers for the Harrington project for Mr. Blackwood's board call. It's a secure file. I need his direct line to send it."

"The protocol is to send it to the shared drive, Ms. Sullivan," she said, hesitant.

"The protocol will cause a delay he specifically said he couldn't afford. Do you want to own that delay?" I kept my tone polite, firm. The tone of someone who knew the system.

A pause. Then I heard a soft click. She gave me the number. I stared at it on my screen. The weapon I could use so I would not destroyed alone.

My finger hovered over the "call" button. But talking, hearing his voice, that felt too big, too real. I couldn't do it.

So I typed a text instead.

"Mr. Blackwood. Your wife is at my home with my husband. I thought you should know. - Sullivan."