The Unfaithful

By Aashish Wagh

We had been married for three years, and today we were waiting for the final ruling. The judge was taking longer than expected. My lawyer looked at me and gave a reassuring nod, as if to say everything would be alright.

Then came the moment everyone was waiting for. The judge announced that the divorce was finalised, and my husband would have to pay alimony to me. I looked at him. His head was lowered, his face heavy with frustration. I could not tell whether he was upset about losing me or losing half of his wealth.

I had loved him once, truly and deeply. All I had ever asked for was loyalty.

Before the fall:

I had finished work earlier than usual that day and decided to surprise him. I planned a dinner, a little wine, maybe even some dancing. I told him to leave his car at the office, as I would pick him up myself.

I waited for him near his office entrance. The door opened, and he came out with a girl. She was stunning, the kind of woman who could turn heads without even trying. Her shirt was a little too tight, one button left open, paired with a skirt that suited her perfectly. Even as a woman, I could admit she looked beautiful.

At first, I thought she was just a random acquaintance, but they were talking too comfortably. Before parting, she gave him a side hug. He looked hesitant, but he did not stop her.

For a moment, I felt a strange sting in my chest, something between jealousy and intuition. I was never the possessive kind, but that sight stayed with me longer than it should have.

When he got into the car, I looked at him coldly. He seemed confused, unaware of why I was upset. When I asked about her, he said she was a new colleague, someone who worked directly with him. I told him clearly that apart from work, he should stay away from her. He did not argue. He simply nodded.

The breaking point:

It had been an exhausting day at work. I wanted nothing more than to go home, eat something simple, and sleep early. I sent him a message asking if he wanted to order dinner together, but there was no reply.

When I reached home, the faint scent of perfume lingered near the door, a fragrance that was not mine. I noticed a pair of women’s shoes near the door. They were definitely not mine. My heart started to race. He had not mentioned that anyone was visiting. The lights were dim, the house too still. The living room was empty. I checked the kitchen, but no one was there either. Then I heard a faint sound from our bedroom.

My hands started trembling. I pushed the door open.

What I saw shattered me completely. That same colleague was lying on our bed, and my husband was on top of her. For a few seconds, I could not move. My mind went blank, my body stiff. Then the reality struck, and pain tore through me.

I screamed his name. My legs gave up, and I fell to my knees, crying uncontrollably and pounding my fists against the floor. My husband jumped off the bed, panicked, half-dressed, stammering apologies. He kept saying that he was sorry and that she had mixed something into his drink. I could smell the alcohol even from where I stood. He was swaying, unable to stand properly.

She got up quietly, fixing her clothes, trying to leave. That was when something inside me snapped. I ran after her and pushed her to the floor. My hands moved on their own, striking her again and again. She tried to resist, but rage had given me strength I did not know I possessed.

After a few blows, I stopped and ran to the kitchen. I grabbed a knife from the counter. I was no longer myself. The weight of betrayal, humiliation, and disbelief had taken control of me. I was not thinking anymore; I was only feeling.

When I returned to the living room, my husband had thrown water on his face, trying to regain control of himself. I rushed toward the girl with the knife. My husband saw me and tried to stop me. He was bulkier than me, but he was drunk, and I was consumed by fury. I swung the knife wildly, but he kept blocking me.

I pushed him aside and struck again. He came in between, and the knife found his arm instead of hers. The knife sliced deep into his wrist, tearing down to his elbow. He screamed in pain. The sight of his blood snapped me out of my madness. I dropped the knife, my chest heaving, tears streaming down my face.

The girl ran out of the house, terrified. I stood there crying, throwing things around, screaming at the emptiness. My husband lay on the floor, clutching his arm, blood spilling everywhere.

He called my name and begged me not to leave him. I stood there in silence for a moment, watching the life we built bleed out between us. Then I told him that I could never look at his face again, that whatever we had was over. I said I would call a doctor for him, but the next time we met, it would be in court.

And I walked out of the house.

After the verdict:

Life has changed since then. New city, new job, new home. My psychiatrist said I was healing, that I was doing much better than before. Maybe I was. But the truth was, some nights, the memories still returned. Sometimes I dreamed about that night and woke up drenched in sweat. Healing was not a straight path. It took time, and I was learning to live with that.

That evening, the doorbell rang. I was not expecting anyone. Hardly anyone knew where I lived now. I walked to the door, hesitating for a moment before opening it, and there she was. The same woman, my ex-husband’s colleague.

For a moment, we simply looked at each other. Then, almost unexpectedly, a smile spread across her face, and I felt one rise on mine too. We both began to laugh softly, the kind of laughter that carries secrets no one else would ever understand.

I thanked her from the bottom of my heart, and she responded with a warm smile as she mentioned how convincing my performance had been that night. I invited her inside and handed her a cheque, telling her it was her half.

By Aashish Wagh