Total pages in book: 63
Estimated words: 58346 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 292(@200wpm)___ 233(@250wpm)___ 194(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 58346 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 292(@200wpm)___ 233(@250wpm)___ 194(@300wpm)
Cheating. Infidelity. Unfaithfulness.
If you look up the definition of these words, they all relatively hint at the same thing—the act or fact of having a romantic or sexual relationship with someone other than one's husband, wife, or partner.
But no other words with a finite definition actually mean something completely different to every single person on earth.
Some people feel cheated on if their partner watches pornography.
On the other end of the spectrum, there are some who don’t feel cheated on, even when their partner has intercourse with someone else. They don’t count that as infidelity… until maybe emotions get involved.
How about just kissing?
Or what if the “other man” turns out to be another woman instead? Is that less unfaithful?
What about flirting online with someone they’ll never meet in real life?
How does one truly feel about their significant other having a “work wife”?
*************FULL BOOK START HERE*************
CHAPTER ONE
SAVANNAH
From Doc’s Notes:
Not everything is as they seem.
“…and I kept hearing his phone vibrate as I was drying off. The light was still on in the bedroom when I came out of the shower, so I fully expected him to be waiting for me… naked and ready in bed. It was New Year’s, after all. We had gotten home from Club Alias’s celebration, not too long after midnight, because he said he was tired.” My heart pounds painfully in my chest as I think back to that night eight months ago. I squeeze the tissue in my hands, which had disintegrated several minutes ago full of tears, but I’d molded it in my palm, giving it new life as a stress ball.
“What did you find when you came into the bedroom, Savannah?” Doc asks gently, and I let out the breath overfilling my lungs.
I close my eyes to escape the image, but it only brings it into better focus. “Roman was asleep on his stomach, his phone continuing to vibrate in his hand. He was out cold after all the drinking and celebrating we did, snoring away.” I let out a humorless laugh. “When I took the phone out of his hand, I expected to find texts from our friends and family members wishing us a happy New Year.” More tears spill over my bottom lids, agony spearing through my very soul when I remember what I’d found instead. I lift my eyes to stare past Doc’s muscular shoulder that is unable to be hidden in his dark-blue button down, as I recall the exact words I’d found.
“The text thread was with someone named Pete. But right away, I could tell the contact was labeled falsely. After all, my husband, being the successful businessman he is, knows one of the first things they teach you is to use a person’s name while speaking to them. It makes things more personal, makes them feel like they really matter instead of being just another a-account,” I say, the last word interrupted by a hiccup.
My kind-eyed therapist makes notes on his pad of paper, then leans forward, speaking low in his deep voice. “How did you know it was labeled falsely?”
I stare into his laser-blue eyes, my voice flat as I force the words out. “Because the text read, God, Farrah. I keep looking out at the dance floor, wishing I’d spot your face in the crowd. And immediately, my heart absolutely dropped into my stomach.” My tone wavers then when I continue. “I… I had no clue who this person was, had no idea my hu-husband… could consider even talking to another woman. We… we were perfect, Doc. Like, you don’t understand. We. Were. Perfect. The couple everyone wished they were.”
“And still do,” he adds.
I flinch as if he smacked me. “What?”
“And still do,” he repeats but goes on to elaborate. “No one on the outside knows any of this. The two of you still come to the club, seeming as in love and affectionate as always. At least, until you disappear behind the curtain of a private playroom.” He watches closely for my reaction to his observation.
By day, Doc is an internationally renowned and awarded psychologist who specializes in couples counseling, sex therapy, and PTSD, particularly in sexual assault survivors. By night, he is one of the owners and a Dom—albeit only with his wife, Astrid—at Club Alias, the highly exclusive BDSM club my husband Roman and I are members of. With a five-figure membership fee and a slew of requirements before you even step through the door, only the most elite citizens gain entry.
“Behind the curtain though, it hasn’t been the same… has it, Savannah?” he prompts, his tone gentle but stern enough to coax a response.
I shake my head, looking away from his intense eyes. It doesn’t surprise me that he knows this about us. We signed contracts allowing surveillance videos to be recorded inside the main area of the club and in the private playrooms. Footage is kept in order to insure the safety of the guests.