My Husband was Having An Affair

I sat at the edge of our bed, my fingers hovering over my phone screen. It was already past nine in the evening, and Blake still hadn't returned home. I wanted to text him, but something held me back. Four years of marriage had taught me that Blake Wright wasn't one to appreciate clingy behavior.

A soft knock interrupted my thoughts.

"Come in," I called out, setting my phone down.

Martha, one of our housekeepers, appeared with a hesitant expression. "Madam, Ms. Wright has been hospitalized. Mr. Wright asked me to inform you that you should retire early tonight. He said not to wait up for him."

I straightened immediately. "Claire is in the hospital? What happened? Is she hurt badly?"

Martha shifted uncomfortably, avoiding my gaze. "Mr. Wright didn't provide those details, ma'am. He only instructed me to tell you that you shouldn't come to the hospital tonight."

When the door closed, I fell back against the pillows. This wasn't the first time Blake had chosen Claire over me. His devotion to his stepsister had been a constant theme throughout our marriage.

Blake's father had married Caroline, Claire's mother, when Blake was fifteen and Claire was just eight. Blake had taken on the responsibility of being a good brother, becoming her protector and confidant. He had walked Claire to school every day, attended every ballet recital, and threatened any boy who dared approach her.

The way Claire always called him "Blakey" with that coquettish smile. How she'd wrap her slender arms around his neck. The way Blake's typically cold demeanor would soften only for her.

Claire was the picture of health, an excellent ballet dancer. She rarely fell ill.

What if there really was something inappropriate between them?

"Stop it," I whispered harshly to myself. "They're siblings. Step-siblings, but still."

Around midnight, I gave up on sleep. Wrapping myself in a silk robe, I made my way downstairs to the kitchen for some warm milk.

I heard the front door open. Blake was home.

I rushed to the foyer, where Blake was hanging his coat. Even at this late hour, he looked impeccable in his tailored suit.

"Blake!" I wrapped my arms around his waist. He stiffened slightly before returning the embrace mechanically. "How's Claire? What happened to her?"

Blake disentangled himself, his expression impassive. "Why are you still awake? It's nearly one in the morning."

"I couldn't sleep," I admitted. "I was worried. About both of you."

Blake's blue eyes softened almost imperceptibly. "There's no need to worry. Claire will be fine."

I moved closer and pressed my lips against his. For a moment, Blake remained unresponsive, but then, to my surprise, he kissed me back. It had been weeks since we'd been intimate.

"I thought we could go upstairs," I whispered. "To bed."

Blake's hands tightened briefly on my waist before he nodded.

In our dimly lit master suite, I felt a rush of confidence. As I unbuttoned his shirt, I kissed his neck, inhaling his familiar scent. Blake's hands moved over my body, slipping beneath my silk nightgown.

Just as Blake was lowering me onto the bed, his phone vibrated. I felt him freeze.

"Ignore it," I murmured, pulling him back down.

But Blake reached for his phone anyway. I watched as his typically stoic face transformed—the coldness melting away, replaced by a genuine smile. I knew who had texted him before I even glimpsed the name.

Claire.

The message was brief, but I caught enough of it: "Blakey, when are you coming back? I'm a little scared here alone. Miss you."

"Anna," he said, his voice suddenly weary. "I'm sorry, but I'm exhausted. I think I need to shower and get some sleep."

The warmth I'd felt moments ago vanished. "Of course," I said, forcing a smile. "I understand."

As Blake disappeared into our bathroom, I lay back on the bed. I wasn't enough. I never had been. Not when compared to perfect, precious Claire.

The sound of the shower running drew my attention. Blake usually took quick showers, but tonight, the water continued to run much longer. I slipped off the bed and approached the bathroom door.

I pushed it open just enough to peek inside. Through the fogged glass, I could clearly make out Blake's silhouette. He wasn't simply showering. His hand was moving rhythmically as he leaned against the marble wall, his head thrown back.

My face burned with humiliation and rage. He'd rather pleasure himself than be with me? After rejecting my advances? And immediately after receiving a text from Claire?

I closed the door silently, my mind racing. The pieces were fitting together in a pattern I couldn't ignore any longer. Blake's devotion to Claire. His reluctance to be intimate with me. His refusal to discuss what had landed Claire in the hospital.

There was something not right between those two. Something forbidden. And I was determined to find out exactly what it was.

When I snapped out of my thoughts, I found myself back on the bed in the master bedroom. The sound of running water from the bathroom had faded away, replaced by the loud bang of the door as Blake left.

Tomorrow, I decided. Tomorrow I would go to the hospital.

Morning arrived with harsh sunlight streaming through the windows. Blake's side of the bed was empty and cold.

After a quick shower and careful application of makeup, I dressed in a simple but elegant navy blue dress. If I was going to face whatever was waiting for me at the hospital, I would do so looking every inch the successful, confident Mrs. Wright.

I parked my car in the visitor's lot and made my way to the information desk. A quick smile and mention of my family name got me Claire's room number without any questions.

As I approached room 437, I slowed my pace. The door was slightly ajar, and I could hear voices from within—Blake's deep tone and Claire's lighter, musical one.

I positioned myself where I could see through the crack without being seen.

Claire was sitting up in the hospital bed, looking flawless as ever. She was clutching the sleeve of Blake's suit jacket, looking up at him with adoration.

A doctor entered my field of vision with a clipboard. "Ms. Wright, I have your discharge instructions ready. As I mentioned, you need to avoid strenuous activity, including sexual intercourse, for at least three weeks. A ruptured ovarian cyst, especially one that required surgical intervention, is not something to take lightly."

My breath caught. A ruptured ovarian cyst? That was Claire's medical emergency?

The doctor continued, "I know young couples can be eager to resume normal activities, but it's important to allow the body time to heal completely."

I felt as though the floor had dropped out from beneath me. The doctor thought Blake and Claire were a couple. And neither of them had corrected him.

"We understand, doctor," Blake replied, his hand still resting on Claire's head. "I'll make sure she follows all your instructions."

Claire's cheeks flushed pink, and she lowered her eyes in embarrassment. Blake's expression remained neutral.

I stumbled back from the door, my hand covering my mouth to stifle a gasp. It was true. All of it was true. Blake and Claire were involved. Sexually involved. The constant attention, the late nights, the coldness toward me—it all made horrible, sickening sense now.

My suspicions hadn't been paranoia. They'd been intuition.

Blake Wright, my husband of four years, was having an affair with his own stepsister.