Mark's been gone for about twenty minutes, and I'm still sprawled on the couch, flipping through channels like a man possessed. The afternoon stretches before me, empty and quiet except for the TV's drone.
I can't stop thinking about yesterday.
Emily's workout. The way sweat glistened on her skin under the gym lights. The taste of her, salt and sweetness that I can't get out of my head. I've never experienced anything like that before. Or maybe I have, and I just can't remember it.
The memory of her thighs trembling against my face sends heat rushing through me. I shift uncomfortably on the couch, trying to focus on the cooking show playing on screen rather than the tightness in my jeans.
It's strange how quickly I've adapted to this life. A week ago, I woke up in a hospital bed with no memories, and now I'm lounging in a mansion thinking about how good my wife tastes while she's at work. There's something almost dreamlike about it all, the perfect house, the beautiful, intense woman who claims me as hers, the hazy edges where my memories should be.
Mark brought over another movie today, something with superheroes that I apparently loved before the accident. We ordered Chinese food and he kept pointing out my "favorite" dishes, watching my face for any flicker of recognition. I didn't have the heart to tell him it all tasted new to me.
I click off the TV, tossing the remote aside with a sigh. My eyes drift toward the hallway where Emily's office door stands like a silent challenge.
That damn door.
It's been nagging at me since she left this morning, a splinter in my mind I can't remove. What's behind it that's so important she had to lock it? Client files? Sure, but why lock them from your husband?
Before I realize what I'm doing, my feet are carrying me down the hallway. I stand in front of the door, staring at the simple brass knob like it holds the secrets of the universe. Maybe it does, my universe, at least.
"This is stupid," I mutter, running my fingers through my hair.
I should just walk away, respect her privacy, be a good husband. But that's the problem, isn't it? I don't know what kind of husband I am. Or was. I don't know anything.
I try the knob again, twisting it harder this time as if sheer determination might break the lock. It doesn't budge.
With a frustrated groan, I retreat to the living room and grab my new iPhone. My fingers hover over the screen for a moment before I type "how to pick a lock" into YouTube.
The search yields thousands of results. I click on the first video, some lawyer with a lockpicking set who promises I can "learn to pick any basic lock in under five minutes."
"Yeah, right," I scoff, but I keep watching.
Twenty minutes and six videos later, I'm feeling surprisingly confident. It's actually not that complicated.
I'm going to need a paperclip and some pliers. Luckily, I find both in the kitchen junk drawer, one of those universal household spots filled with random odds and ends. I grab what I need and return to my post outside Emily's office door.
The YouTube tutorials make this look easy enough. I bend the paperclip with the pliers, creating an awkward L-shape with a little hook at the end. It's nothing like the sleek tools the lockpicking lawyer used, but it might just work. "Oh yeah. This is perfect."
My heart pounds as I approach the door, my amateur lockpicking tool clutched between sweaty fingers. I insert the bent paperclip into the keyhole, trying to remember the techniques from the videos. Apply tension, feel for the pins, rake back and forth.
Nothing happens at first. I wiggle the paperclip, feeling ridiculous. What am I even doing? Breaking into my own wife's office like some kind of spy? But the curiosity is too strong to ignore.
I keep at it, adjusting my angle, applying different pressure. Minutes pass, and my fingers start to cramp. Just as I'm about to give up, I feel something give way. There's a subtle click, and the knob turns under my hand.
A smile spreads across my face, half disbelief, half triumph. "Holy shit, it worked."
I push the door open slowly, holding my breath as if expecting an alarm to sound. The office is dark, curtains drawn against the afternoon sun. I fumble for a light switch, finding it just inside the doorway.
Soft light floods the room, revealing a space that's both meticulously organized and surprisingly sparse. A large mahogany desk dominates the center, its surface nearly empty save for a sleek laptop and a single framed photo I can't make out from here. Filing cabinets line one wall, and an empty bookshelf.
I step inside, quietly closing the door behind me. The carpet muffles my footsteps as I approach the desk, drawn to that single framed photo like a moth to flame. It's the only personal item in the entire office.
I pick up the frame, and my breath catches in my throat. It's me, lying in a hospital bed with tubes running from my arms, eyes closed, face bruised and swollen. The photo was clearly taken right after my accident when I was still unconscious.
"That's odd," I whisper, studying the image closer.
It's weirdly intimate, invasive even. Emily standing over my broken body, capturing me at my most vulnerable moment. I should probably be creeped out, but there's something touching about it too. She wanted to preserve even this difficult moment, keeping it close to where she works.
I set the photo down carefully, exactly where I found it, and turn my attention to the rest of the office. The desk drawers are my first target. I slide open the top one, expecting to find something revealing, personal letters, a diary, anything that might fill the gaping holes in my memory.
Instead, there's just office supplies. Pens, paper clips, Post-it notes, all arranged with military precision. Not a single personal item.
I try the next drawer. More of the same. Legal pads, highlighters, a stapler.
"Come on, Emily," I mutter. "Give me something."
The filing cabinets yield equally disappointing results. They're mostly empty, with just a few manila folders containing what look like boilerplate legal documents. Nothing specific to any cases, nothing with the Lawnsanto name she mentioned.
I check the laptop, but it's password-protected, of course. I try a few obvious combinations, my birthday, which I only know because Emily told me, our supposed anniversary date, even her name. Nothing works.
Time slips away as I methodically search every corner of the office. My initial excitement fades with each empty drawer and barren shelf.
Two hours later, I'm sitting in Emily's desk chair, spinning slowly and staring at the ceiling. The afternoon sun has shifted, casting long shadows across the room. I've gone through everything, twice, and found nothing.
"What the fuck was even the point of this?" I groan, dropping my head into my hands.
The realization hits me like a sucker punch to the gut. What the hell am I doing? Breaking into my wife's private office, violating her trust, rummaging through her personal belongings like some paranoid detective. Shame washes over me in a suffocating wave.
"I'm such a piece of shit," I whisper to the empty room, the words hanging in the air like an indictment.
My stomach churns with self-loathing. Emily has been nothing but patient and loving since I woke up in that hospital bed. She's cooked for me, cared for me, shown me nothing but devotion, and this is how I repay her? By breaking into her office the moment she leaves for work?
I stand up abruptly, nearly knocking over the chair. "What kind of husband does this?"
The guilt is crushing now, pressing down on my chest until I can barely breathe. I carefully return everything to its exact position, desperate to erase any evidence of my betrayal. My hands shake as I straighten the photo frame on her desk, my own unconscious face staring back at me accusingly.
I slip out of the office, closing the door behind me with exaggerated care. The lock clicks back into place, but the sound offers no relief. The damage is done. I've crossed a line that can't be uncrossed.
Back in the living room, I collapse onto the couch, burying my face in my hands. The worst part is that I found nothing, absolutely nothing, to justify my suspicions. Just an ordinary office belonging to a hardworking lawyer who happens to be my wife.
"She deserves better than me," I mutter into my palms.
I grab my phone, thumb hovering over Emily's contact. Should I confess? Would honesty make this better or worse? I imagine her face crumpling with disappointment, those green eyes filling with hurt and betrayal.
I'm still staring at my phone when I hear the garage door open. The mechanical whirr freezes my blood instantly. My head snaps up, eyes darting to the clock on the wall.
5:00 PM.
She's home early. Way too early.
I didn't even hear her car pull in. I've been so lost in my spiral of guilt that I completely missed the sound of her arriving. My heart hammers against my ribs as I shove my phone into my pocket and stand up, frantically smoothing my hair and clothes.
The door from the garage swings open, and there she is. My wife. My beautiful, terrifying wife.
"Hey, Emily," I say, plastering on what I hope passes for a casual smile.
One look at her face turns my insides to ice. She's livid. Her jaw is clenched so tight I can see a muscle twitching beneath her perfect skin, her green eyes cold and hard as emeralds. Yesterday when our eyes met, her anger melted away instantly. Today, there's no softening, no transformation. Just pure, concentrated rage.
"Did you go into my office?"
You can read early chapters here.
https://subscribestar.adult/astrolust
And a link to my Discord
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