I stared at the photo on my phone screen, my breath hitching in my throat. Every muscle in my body went rigid. In the grainy, candid shot, a man was buried against a woman’s chest. His face was obscured, but a tiny, distinct mole on his earlobe caught the light. It pierced my eyes like a needle. My husband, Xavier Cross, had that exact same mark. It had started with a viral thread I’d stumbled upon while scrolling through a popular campus gossip site. The title was blunt: “Rating My Boyfriend’s Skills: From Stiff Academic to Bedroom God.” In the comments, the original poster—let's call her "The Muse"—was boastfully sharing her "training" results. She claimed her boyfriend was a buttoned-up, prestigious university professor who had once been hopelessly repressed, but was now "the gold standard" in bed. She described how he’d summon her to his private office, pinning her against the mahogany desk the second she walked in, kissing her with a desperation that left her bruised. She bragged about his stamina, his "service-first" attitude, and how he’d make her cry for mercy before the hour was out. The internet was eating it up. Amidst the sea of envious comments, she revealed that he used to be "the most boring man alive" until she took him under her wing. Then came the photo that stopped my heart. “Deleting in five minutes,” she’d captioned it. “Or he won’t let me sleep tonight.” The man she was praising as her personal "Bedroom God" shared the exact physical signature of the man I shared a bed with every night. … My hands shook as I tried to save the image. Before I could, the screen refreshed: Photo deleted. [Alright, he caught me. He doesn’t want me posting him—he’s a tenured professor, after all. Reputation is everything.] [But here’s a hint: He’s a total heartthrob at Hudson University.] Six months ago, when the "Most Attractive Faculty" list was released at Hudson, Xavier had taken the top spot for the fifth year running. I remembered teasing him about it over breakfast. He’d just looked at me with that weary, indulgent smile of his. "The students are just being kids, June," he’d said, smoothing his tie. "Don't tell me you're joining in on the nonsense." In the comments section of the post, someone had already connected the dots. [Wait… is this Professor Xavier Cross?] [He’s famous for being a total ice king—strict, old-school, and terrifying. But that face? Every girl on campus has a crush on him.] The Muse didn't deny it. Instead, she quietly deleted the comments mentioning his name. Then, she replied: [Don’t use names. It’s risky if he sees.] [And the 'Ice King' thing? That’s just for show. You guys have no idea how gentle he can be when the door is locked.] She sounded like she was drowning in a sweet, secret memory. [Two weeks ago, during a public lecture, I pretended to ask a question at the podium. Under the desk, I was rubbing my leg against his. I saw the veins in his neck bulging. The second we got back to his office, he tackled me onto the leather sofa.] Two weeks ago was our fifth wedding anniversary. I had spent all day preparing a candlelit dinner. I’d bought a silk lace slip—a "gift" for him. I’d sat at the table, reheating the food again and again until the candles burned down to stubs. Xavier didn't get home until 2:00 AM, looking exhausted. When he saw the lace peeking out from under my robe, he gave me a flat, disinterested look. "Lace doesn't really suit a woman your age, June," he said coldly. "I’m tired. Don't start." The humiliation had burned through me like acid. Xavier had simply rolled over, his breathing evening out into sleep within minutes. [He’s a workaholic, but because I mentioned I missed the coast, he actually took a week of 'sabbatical' just to take me to the Hamptons.] The spring break. I had asked Xavier a month in advance to clear his schedule so we could visit my parents' graves for the anniversary of their passing. He’d promised he would. But the day before we were supposed to leave, he’d looked at me with practiced regret. "June, the department chair is breathing down my neck about the new research grant. I can’t leave right now." [I love photography, so he actually took a class to learn how to capture me properly. He’s filled three entire scrapbooks with my photos. Some of them are… well, let’s just say they’re private. Oh my god, I’m so embarrassed.] The comments were flooded with "Relationship goals" and "He’s a keeper." I felt a coldness settle into my marrow, deeper than any winter. In five years of marriage, Xavier and I had almost no photos together. Even our wedding album was tucked away in a box under a layer of dust. Every time I’d tried to take a selfie or a candid, he’d turn away, claiming he "hated being on camera." He didn't hate being on camera. He just hated being on camera with me. The tears came then—a silent, torrential rain. I don't know how I made it home. I pushed through the front door and practically collided with Xavier. He looked startled, his hands instinctively reaching out to steady me. "Lydia? Why are you crying? Did something happen?" Less than a year after we married, my parents died in a freak car accident. Xavier had been my rock. He’d stood between me and the vultures—the relatives who only showed up for the inheritance. Later, when I fell into a deep, paralyzing depression and lost our first baby at ten weeks, I had wanted to follow my parents into the dark. It was Xavier who had kicked down the bathroom door. He’d grabbed the blade from my hand, letting it slice deep into his own palm, his blood mixing with my tears. "Don't give up on yourself, June," he’d whispered, shaking. "Don't give up on us. I will always be your anchor." He’d turned down a prestigious fellowship abroad just to stay by my side, nursing me back to the world of the living. And now, looking at my red, swollen eyes, he opened his mouth to speak. But then his phone buzzed in his pocket. He checked it, and his expression shifted instantly to one of urgent distraction. "There’s a crisis at the lab," he said, already heading for the door. "Eat dinner. Don't wait up." As he brushed past me, my own phone buzzed. The Muse had updated. [Just slipped into my new 'battle outfit' and hid in the back of his car. Guess how long it’ll take for him to find me!] There was a photo attached: fishnet stockings against black leather. My brain short-circuited. On pure, jagged instinct, I ran after him. I reached the underground garage just as he was getting into his black Mercedes. He didn't see me. The car didn't pull out. Instead, a few moments later, it began to rock with a rhythmic, sickening intensity. I moved like a marionette—stiff, jerky, hollowed out. Xavier was a man of meticulous detail, a man who prided himself on control. But he had forgotten to tint his windows dark enough. Through the glass, I saw the silhouette of the woman pinned beneath him. It was his star graduate student, Lexie Valentine. Xavier was a germaphobe. He used to get annoyed if I even ate a cracker in the passenger seat, terrified of crumbs on the upholstery. But now, Lexie’s lipstick was smeared across the steering wheel. Her nails were digging into the expensive leather of the headrest. Xavier was cradling her head, his movements careful, making sure she didn't hit it against the window. The dam broke. I threw myself at the car, yanked the door open, and swung. My palm connected with her face with a crack that echoed in the concrete garage. Lexie screamed. Xavier reacted instantly, grabbing a coat to shield her body. "What the hell are you doing?!" He spun around, eyes blazing with fury—until he saw me. He froze. "June? What are you doing here?" The way he instinctively stayed in front of Lexie, protecting her from my sight, felt like a bucket of ice water over my head. "Where should I be, Xavier? Home? Playing the blind wife while you screw your student in the car you bought with my father’s money?" My voice was a raw, ugly scream. Xavier grabbed my wrists, dragging me away from the open door with a strength that bordered on violent. "Shut up! Lexie is a student. Do you have any idea what a scandal like this would do to her?" Even now, his first thought was her reputation. I bit my lip so hard I tasted copper, trying to choke back the sobs. "A scandal? Is that what you call this? Is the truth a scandal now?" Seeing my hysterics, Xavier suddenly went cold. He regained that "Professor" composure—the one he used when a student failed an exam. He frowned, looking at me with a mix of pity and annoyance. "Don't let your emotions dictate your logic, June." "Yes, I’m with Lexie. She’s young, she’s spontaneous, and she doesn't have a malicious bone in her body. There’s no need for this… toxicity." "I’m a man, June. I have needs. I’m not saying I don’t care about you, but lately… you’ve just been so boring." In the beginning, we’d had passion. But barely a year into the marriage, Xavier had cooled. He’d recoil from my touch, stay late at the office, eventually move into the guest room. I’d asked him why. He’d said the stress of the tenure track had drained him. He said he had nothing left to give at the end of the day. I’d blamed myself. I’d tried everything to please him, dragging my dignity through the dirt to get a spark of interest out of him. And all it earned me was the word boring. The tears were bitter as they hit my lips. Lexie stepped out of the car, pulling her clothes together. The red marks on her neck were like brandings. "Don't be mad at Professor Cross," she said, her voice trembling with a fake, fragile sweetness. "I’m the one who seduced him. Please, hate me if you want, just don't let this ruin your marriage!" She started to cry—perfect, cinematic tears. Xavier immediately pulled her into his arms. "It’s not your fault," he murmured. "I couldn't help myself." He looked up at me, his face a mask of rational cruelty. "Lexie is vibrant. She’s full of life. She makes me feel young again. You… you’ve become stagnant, June. I can’t give you what you want, and you can’t give me the fire I need." "I don't want to hurt you. If you want a divorce, fine. You haven't worked in years, so I’ll split the assets fairly to compensate you." Compensate me? I let out a jagged, hysterical laugh. Every step Xavier had climbed in his career was paved by my father. My father had been the titan of the medical research field; Xavier had been his favorite protege. I’d met him in my father’s office, a chance encounter that felt like destiny. When my parents died, Xavier had held me and promised to be my world. And now, he looked at me and sighed. "June, human emotions are finite. You can't stop me from moving toward something better." He led Lexie away, and my legs finally gave out. I collapsed onto the cold concrete. My palms were scraped raw, but I felt nothing but a hollow numbness. Deep love, it seemed, really could end in utter loathing. If this is what they wanted, I would give it to them. Now that the truth was out, Xavier didn't even bother to come home that night. Lexie’s thread updated again: [He did something big today. The way he stood up for me was so alpha!] [I’ve decided to reward him tonight. I told him he can have whatever he wants—I’m not saying 'no' to anything!] The nausea hit me in waves. I stood up, determined to throw every piece of Xavier’s clothing out onto the lawn. But as I reached for the door, the world tilted. Darkness rushed in from the edges of my vision, and I hit the floor. When I woke up, I was in a hospital bed. "You're a month pregnant," the nurse said, her voice stern. "You need to be more careful. Stress like this is dangerous for the baby." The words hit me like a physical blow. After my first miscarriage, it had taken years to find the light again. I knew Xavier wanted a family, so I’d been quietly trying to get healthy, hoping to surprise him. I touched my stomach, laughing and crying all at once. Why now? Why was this beautiful thing happening in the middle of a nightmare? The nurse, seeing my distress, turned on the wall-mounted TV to distract me. The local news was playing. “Hudson University Prodigy Publishes Groundbreaking Research as Lead Author.” Lexie Valentine was on the screen, looking modest and glowing. "I have to thank my mentor, Professor Xavier Cross…" As she began to describe the paper’s findings, my hands began to shake uncontrollably. It couldn't be. That was my father’s research. A project he’d spent years on before his death—a breakthrough so sensitive he hadn't even shown me the final data. How was it under Lexie’s name? I ripped the IV from my hand and stumbled out of the hospital. I searched every corner of our house—the cloud drives, the hard drives, my father’s old laptop. Everything was wiped. Finally, tucked away in the back of a drawer filled with my parents’ old belongings—things Xavier had "put away" so I wouldn't be "triggered"—I found a tattered, yellowing manuscript. On the back of the last page, in my father’s neat handwriting, were the words: “For my daughter, Lydia. May you live a life of peace, free from all pain.” The research was a revolutionary treatment for chronic, debilitating menstrual pain. My father had spent his life trying to solve it because he’d seen me suffer from it since I was a teenager. This wasn't just a paper. It was his final gift to me. A sharp, stabbing pain blossomed in my lower abdomen, as if the baby could feel my agony. I clutched my chest, sobbing until my throat was raw. I didn't hesitate. I scanned the original manuscript and posted everything online with a clear timeline. “Academic Fraud: Student Plagiarizes Deceased Professor’s Life’s Work.” The post went viral instantly. The internet, which had once praised Lexie, now turned on her with a vengeance. The front door slammed open. Xavier walked in, Lexie trailing behind him, her face puffy from crying. "Lexie is about to go to Oxford on a fellowship," Xavier said, his voice flat and commanding. "She needed a significant publication to secure the spot. That’s why she used your father’s work." "I brought her here to apologize. You’re going to post a retraction immediately." I looked at him, a cold, dead smile on my lips. I should have known. Xavier was the only one with the keys to my father’s private files. He was the one who had handed his "star" student the stolen crown. Lexie sobbed, "I’m sorry, Lydia. I just… I wanted to be worthy of Xavier. I wanted to be someone he could be proud of." I wiped my face, my eyes like flint. "Is that it? An apology?" "I want her to publicly admit the theft. I want the paper retracted. I want her blacklisted from the academic community." Xavier’s face twisted into a mask of pure rage. "She’s young! Are you really going to destroy her entire life over some old notes?" When he saw that I wouldn't budge, his voice dropped to a low, chilling whisper. "Don't forget who handled your parents' funeral arrangements, June." "If you keep pushing this… I won’t hesitate to let you see their ashes scattered in the gutter." My father had once risked his entire career to save Xavier from a departmental scandal. He had been Xavier’s biggest advocate. I screamed at him, a sound of pure betrayal. Xavier just sighed. "I don't want to hurt you, but I won’t let you ruin Lexie. Actions have consequences, June." He forced me in front of a camera. He started a live stream. I sat there, numb, reading the script he’d written. "My name is Lydia Cross. I’m here to apologize to Lexie Valentine and Professor Xavier Cross…" "I fabricated the accusations… The research was Lexie’s own work…" The viewer count skyrocketed. The comments were a blur of "She’s crazy," "What a psycho wife," and "Get her off the air." The moment the stream ended, Lexie took the original manuscript from my hand. She shredded it into tiny pieces right in front of me and ground them into the floor with her heel. The rage finally exploded. I lunged at her and slapped her with every ounce of strength I had left. Xavier shoved me back, shielding her. Suddenly, three men in white lab coats appeared in the doorway. "My wife is having an episode," Xavier said calmly. "Take her to the psychiatric facility. She needs immediate intervention." I fought them like a wild animal. "Xavier! You can't do this!" He didn't look at me. "Get some rest, Lydia. I’ll come get you when you’re better." A searing, white-hot pain ripped through my stomach. I reached out, grabbing Xavier’s pant leg. "Don't send me there… please… I’m pregnant with your—" I felt the warmth before I saw it. Blood, bright and terrifying, began to soak through my skirt. My vision blurred. As my eyes slid shut, I had a sudden, sharp memory of my first pregnancy. Xavier had pressed his face to my stomach, whispering that he’d protect us forever. The man who promised to protect me was the one who had destroyed me. Xavier, you were the first to break the promise. When I woke up again, Xavier was sitting by my bed, his eyes bloodshot. He was holding my hand. "I’m so sorry, Lydia. I didn't know you were pregnant… We’ll have other children." "Lexie is leaving for her fellowship soon. We won’t divorce. Everything will go back to the way it was. You’re still my wife." I stayed silent. He sighed, then stepped out to take a call. The second he was gone, Lexie crept into the room. She leaned over and backhanded me across the face. "You bitch! Even in a psych ward, you can't just stay quiet!" "I should have killed you along with your parents!" "What did you say?" I whispered, my voice coming from a dark, hollow place. She sneered. "The only way Xavier could get that chair position was if your father was out of the picture." "You think that car crash was an accident? Xavier messed with the brakes. And your mother? I was the one who pulled the plug in the ICU while you were in the hallway crying. Xavier only loves me." The blood in my veins turned to ice, then boiled. I threw myself at her, my fingers locking around her throat. Lexie shrieked and grabbed a heavy ceramic jar from the bedside table, smashing it against my head. Warm blood ran down my forehead. I tried to scream, but she pinned me down, grabbing a handful of grey, gritty powder from the broken jar and forcing it into my mouth. The powder choked me. I coughed violently, the taste of ash and dust coating my throat. "How does it taste, Lydia? Your parents' ashes?" "I’m reuniting the family. You should be thanking me!" I let out a broken, animalistic wail. Lexie messed up her hair, tore her shirt, and ran out of the room sobbing. She ran straight into Xavier’s arms. "Professor! I tried to talk to her, but she just attacked me! She threw trash all over me!" Xavier saw the grey dust on the floor. He looked at me with pure disgust. "I didn't think you could sink this low, June." "When you’re ready to act like a human being again, I’ll come back for you." He picked Lexie up and slammed the door. I sat on the floor, surrounded by the ruins of my life. Everything I had left—my dignity, my parents, my babies—was gone. I crawled toward the broken jar, scooping up the remaining ashes, mixing them with the blood from my forehead. I pulled them to my chest, hugging them as if I were hugging my mother and father one last time. "Dad… Mom… I’m coming to find you." ... Across town, Xavier was driving when a sudden, sharp spike of anxiety hit his chest. A fleet of fire trucks, sirens blaring, raced past him toward the psychiatric hospital. He looked in the rearview mirror and saw a column of black smoke rising into the sky. He slammed on the brakes as he heard a bystander on the sidewalk whisper, "The hospital’s on fire. They say someone didn't make it out."
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