I’m backing quietly out the door. Thankfully, I’d stifled an apology, and in the throes of their passion they’re unaware I was even there.
In the outer office I press cold hands to my burning cheeks.
My thoughts are for his wife and their beautiful children. Can it be that the idyll was nothing more than a charade, a carefully crafted illusion for public consumption?
It’s unthinkable he would risk losing his family, reputation, the lifestyle everyone strives for.
But if he would, I ponder, attempting to smother a gnawing, burrowing embryo of resentment…
why had he not chosen me?
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