Our marriage started as a scandal—professor and student, breaking all the rules. But two decades later, the only thing left was silence. Scheduled intimacy. Empty dinners. The spark had died.
Then I discovered the ultimate betrayal. My husband—a psychology professor and thriller novelist—was having an affair. Not just with anyone, but with our son’s girlfriend. Replacing me was one thing. Destroying our son was another.
I had to stop him. So, I struck a deal: she could have my husband, but she had to stay away from my son. It was the perfect plan. Until the bodies started piling up. Until the lies became truth. Until I started questioning everything.
He says I’m overreacting. He says nothing is as it seems. But I don’t believe him.
