“Martin!”

He was immediately greeted with a tight embrace, and he returned it with a smile.

“I missed you, Sheila,” he said, gazing at her soft, inviting face before capturing her lips in a passionate kiss.

Sheila responded eagerly, deepening the kiss. Martin pulled back for a breath, looked into her eyes, and kissed her again, longer this time.

“Let’s continue this in your room,” he whispered against her lips.

He carried Sheila upstairs without hesitation. He didn’t care that a wife and child were waiting for him at home—his happiness, he believed, was here.

In the room, the cold bed quickly grew warm. Naked, Martin traced his hands over Sheila’s body, lingering on every curve. Her soft moans filled the air, urging him on. He hadn’t felt this kind of passion in so long. Work exhausted him, and at home, he felt nothing—especially not toward Sharlene.

Their marriage was a mistake born from an accident—an unplanned pregnancy. He never wanted to be a father, and worst of all, he had never been attracted to her.

As his body moved with Sheila’s, he whispered her name over and over. Minutes later, their pleasure peaked, and he collapsed beside her, heart pounding and breath ragged.

He kissed her softly again.

He could never kiss Sharlene like this. Every time he tried, disgust took over. He regretted not being more careful. Now, he was chained to her.

Lying naked beside Sheila, he exhaled deeply.

“I thought you went home?” Sheila asked, tracing a finger along his chest.

He sighed again. “There was a wake.”

“Who died?” she asked, puzzled.

“Sharlene’s grandmother,” he answered flatly.

“Oh… so that’s why you came?”

“Yeah,” he said, smiling faintly. “But really, I came because of you.”

Sheila smiled back, pleased.

“Does your wife know about us?”

“She knows,” he said, chuckling bitterly. “She just pretends not to. She doesn’t want to separate—for our daughter’s sake.”

“So she’s using the child to keep you?”

“Exactly.”

Sheila studied him carefully. “Do you even love your daughter?”

Do I? he wondered for a brief moment.

“No,” he answered coldly.

“You’re cruel, Martin. She’s still your blood,” Sheila said with a teasing smile.

“I’d rather die than acknowledge that child,” he muttered darkly.

Sheila laughed softly. “So if I got pregnant, would you accept our baby?”

“That’s different,” he said, gently brushing her cheek. “I want us to have a child.”

“You’re so sweet. That’s why I want you here,” she whispered, her voice dripping with temptation.

“You’re making me want to go again,” he murmured. “See? It’s already hard again, sweetheart.”

Sheila giggled. “You’re an animal in bed, hon.”

Just as he leaned down to kiss her again, Martin froze.

He felt it—a sharp, cold presence watching him.

His eyes darted around the room. There was no one. Just him and Sheila.

“What’s wrong?” Sheila asked.

“Nothing,” he lied. “Just my imagination.”

He tried to shake it off and kissed her again, positioning himself over her.

But before he could move, the sound of shattering glass echoed from downstairs.

Alarmed, they quickly grabbed their clothes and dressed.

“Is anyone else here, Sheila?” he asked.

She shook her head nervously. “No. My housekeeper’s off tonight.”

“Stay here,” he said firmly. “It could be a thief.”

Before she could stop him, he was already heading downstairs.

The house was silent—but then he saw her.

A woman in mourning sat on the couch, clutching a broken mirror.

Martin froze. A chill swept through his spine. He bolted toward the kitchen, grabbing a knife.

When he turned back, the woman stood up. He ducked behind a wall, trembling. Her face was hidden in shadow—the lights were all out.

Then he saw them: footprints on the floor, muddy and smeared with blood.

The woman began to laugh softly, muttering words he couldn’t understand. Then, slowly, she walked straight through the closed door.

Martin blinked, stunned.

He rushed to the window. The woman was outside, pacing in the yard, still clutching the glass, her laughter echoing—until she passed through the tall gate as if it wasn’t there.

His blood ran cold.

When he turned on the lights, the muddy, bloody footprints were gone.

“Martin?” Sheila called out from upstairs, her voice trembling.

He ran a hand through his hair, trying to steady himself. “It’s nothing,” he said, forcing calm into his voice.

He climbed back up, kissed her forehead, and murmured, “Let’s just sleep.”

Sheila nodded, curling into his arms.

Martin closed his eyes, pretending to rest—but he couldn’t. Not after what he had seen.

You need to sleep, Martin, he told himself.

But even as he tried, the image of the woman in mourning lingered—waiting in the dark corners of his mind.