My Husband Brought His Mistress Home

ANABEL’S POV

“Miles…”

The color drained from my husband’s face the moment he saw me.

“Fuck!”

The laptop slammed shut with a loud snap. His chair scraped against the floor as he shoved himself back, his chest rising with uneven breaths. Panic flashed across his face before hardening into irritation.

“Jesus, Anabel,” he snapped. “Why would you come in without knocking?”

I couldn’t answer. I couldn’t move. I just stood in the doorway, my fingers wrapped around the doorknob as my mind struggled to process what I’d just seen.

Five minutes ago, I’d been asleep beside him. I’d reached for him out of habit, only to find cold sheets. Then I heard strange sounds and rushed here, terrified that something had happened.

Instead…

I’d caught my husband masturbating.

“The door was open,” I finally managed to say.

He sighed and dragged a hand down his face, still refusing to meet my eyes. My gaze drifted to the closed laptop before returning to him.

“You were…” My throat tightened. “You were masturbating?”

I stared at him, waiting for him to laugh and tell me I’d misunderstood. He didn’t. Instead, his jaw clenched. “Can you not make such a big deal about it?”

A bitter laugh escaped me. “A big deal?” I repeated. “Seriously, Miles? I’m literally in the next room.”

“I know that.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “I didn’t want to wake you.”

I stared at him in disbelief. “You didn’t want to wake me… so you came in here to jerk yourself off?”

“Anabel…”

“No, seriously. I tried touching you tonight, and you said you weren’t in the mood. But apparently, you were.”

His expression hardened. “It’s not the same thing.”

The words echoed in my head.

Less than an hour ago, he’d rejected me. Now he stood in front of me, his trousers down, avoiding my eyes as if I were the one making this uncomfortable.

I blinked hard, forcing back the tears burning behind my eyes.

Things hadn’t always been like this. When we first got married, Miles couldn’t keep his hands off me. He’d kiss me while I cooked, wrap his arms around my waist for no reason, or pull me onto his lap whenever he worked from home. He used to look at me like I was the only woman in the world.

Back then, I never questioned whether my husband wanted me.

Now I felt invisible.

“We haven’t had sex in weeks,” I said quietly.

He pinched the bridge of his nose. “Can we not do this right now?”

“Then when?” My voice cracked. “Every time I try talking to you, you shut me out. Every time I touch you, you pull away.”

He didn't say anything. His gaze dropped to the desk instead of meeting mine. That hurt more than if he’d shouted.

My eyes followed his to the laptop between us. “What were you looking at?”

“Nothing.”

“That didn’t look like nothing.”

“For fuck’s sake, it’s private.” He finally looked at me. There was frustration in his eyes. No guilt. No regret. Just frustration.

“Private?” I asked quietly. “I’m your wife.”

“And I’m still allowed privacy, Anabel.” His voice was cold, as though I’d crossed a line instead of walking in on my husband choosing a screen over me.

I nodded slowly. “Okay.”

I don’t know why I did what I did next, maybe because I missed the man who used to reach for me, maybe because I couldn’t accept that I’d already lost him. Or maybe because some foolish part of me still believed this marriage could be saved.

I stepped toward him. Then another. His eyes followed me. They were cold. I almost stopped. Every ounce of pride told me to walk away.

Instead, I lowered myself onto my knees. My heart pounded painfully. I hated how desperate I must have looked.

I reached for him. “Let me help you.”

His hand shot out and caught my wrist before I could touch him. “Don’t. I said I’m not interested.”

The words landed like a punch.

Not interested.

I searched his face, hoping he’d take them back. He didn’t. He wasn’t interested in me. Yet somehow, whatever was on that screen had been enough to pull him out of our bed in the middle of the night.

I pulled my hand away. Heat rushed to my face, my stomach twisting so hard it made me feel sick.

“Miles…” I whispered. “Let me…”

“Go back to sleep, Anabel.” He cut me off without even looking at me. Dismissed.

I lingered by the door, hoping he’d call my name. Tell me to wait. Tell me this wasn’t what it looked like. He never did.

By the time I reached our bedroom, tears were already sliding down my face. I climbed into bed and stared at the ceiling. Every time I closed my eyes, all I saw was the glow of his laptop reflecting across his face.

Eventually, I stopped trying to sleep.

~~~

The silence in the house felt unsettling when I woke up the next morning.

“Mr. Wilson left early for work,” the housekeeper informed me when I came downstairs.

I nodded, unable to find the energy to respond.

I made coffee but barely touched it. My thoughts kept returning to last night. The glow of the laptop. The panic on his face. And one detail I couldn’t shake.

The light on his face never shifted. He hadn’t been watching a video. He’d been staring at something—a picture. 

I sat at the kitchen island, trying to convince myself to let it go. I couldn’t.

I’d always respected Miles’ boundaries. I’d never touched his phone, entered his study without permission, or checked his messages. Because I trusted him.

Now… I wasn’t so sure anymore.

My heart pounded as I walked upstairs and pushed open the study door. Everything looked exactly as he’d left it. The bookshelves. The desk.The chair. The laptop.

I walked over and lifted the screen. Password protected. Of course. Then I remembered. A few weeks ago, he’d unlocked it during a phone call. I’d never meant to memorize the password. But I had.

I entered it carefully. The screen unlocked. My fingers trembled as I checked the minimized apps. The last one he’d opened was Instagram. 

My heart sped up as I clicked it open. The last chat appeared immediately. The picture loaded almost instantly. 

My breath caught. I stared at it, praying I’d made a mistake. I hadn’t.

It was Cierra.

My hand flew to my mouth as Miles’ moans from the night before echoed in my head. 

Cierra smiled at the camera, posing in revealing lingerie. The thin fabric outlined her nipples, exposing far more than it should have.

My knees nearly gave out. I grabbed the edge of the desk to steady myself.

“Oh my God…” I whispered.

My husband had been masturbating to pictures of his brother’s wife.