My Germaphobe Wife's Dirty Affair

The diamond earrings at the bottom of the trash can caught the overhead light.

My wife, Evelyn Shaw, had spent three months searching for that limited-edition pair. Now they lay buried beneath apple peels and crumpled tissues.

I stared at them for a long time.

The front door unlocked.

Evelyn was home.

The sharp smell of disinfectant immediately filled the villa, completely overpowering the faint lemon fragrance.

I got to my feet and walked over, reaching for her handbag. My fingers had barely touched the strap when Evelyn jerked away.

She stumbled backward, slamming into the entryway cabinet with a loud thud. Her gaze locked onto my hand. Her brows knit together, her lips curling in disgust.

"Go wash your hands," she said, her voice flat and cold.

My hand hung awkwardly in the air, my fingers trembling.

Beneath the strong smell of disinfectant, another scent lingered—a faint trace of cigarette smoke mixed with cheap cologne.

Evelyn never smoked, and she hated strong fragrance.

I pulled my hand back and gripped the hem of my shirt. "Today's our wedding anniversary," I said quietly.

Evelyn didn't even look at me. She tossed her bag onto the couch and made a beeline for the bathroom, as if she couldn't get away from me fast enough.

"Work's been hectic," she said. "Stop making such a big deal out of things like this."

Before shutting the bathroom door, she glanced around the living room.

"Did you turn on the air purifier? Why does it smell like someone's been cooking in here?"

I looked toward the kitchen. The stove was cold to the touch. I hadn't cooked anything.

Water began running behind the bathroom door.

Her showers always took 40 minutes. She'd go through half a bottle of body wash each time, scrubbing every inch of her skin until it was raw and red.

My gaze landed on the jacket she'd carelessly tossed over the arm of the couch.

There was a time I wasn't even allowed to touch her clothes. If I so much as brushed against one, she'd fly into a rage, insisting I'd gotten it dirty, then cut it to pieces and throw it away.

That faint cologne still clung to her suit jacket.

My stomach tightened as I walked over and slipped my hand into the pocket. My fingers brushed against a thin sheet of paper.

I pulled it out.

It was an ultrasound report.

"Name: Evelyn Shaw

Gestational Age: Six Weeks"

The report was dated this afternoon.

Six weeks.

Six weeks ago, I had a bad cold and couldn't stop coughing. Afraid I'd pass it to her, Evelyn made me sleep in the guest room for a month. She even had the master bedroom wiped down with alcohol every day. And even after that, we didn't share a bed for another month.

I clenched the paper until my knuckles turned white.

She was pregnant, and the baby wasn't mine.

The water turned off.

Evelyn came out in a bathrobe, meticulously wiping each finger with an alcohol wipe. She saw the report in my hand but didn't look the least bit flustered.

She dropped the used wipe in the trash and walked over. Pinching one corner of the report between two fingers, she pulled it from my hand, making sure not to touch my skin.

"Since you've already seen it," she said evenly, "that saves me the trouble of telling you."

She folded the report, set it on the coffee table, then took out another wipe to clean her fingers.

"Adrian Holt isn't like you. He's full of life."

I stared.

"Full of life?" I whispered.

I'd spent years catering to every one of her germaphobic obsessions—three showers a day, a house scrubbed spotless, every movement measured, and every breath restrained.

"Know your place, Ryan Brooks, and you'll remain my husband."

She gave me a slow once-over, the same way someone might appraise a porcelain vase.

"You're clean, presentable, and you look the part," Evelyn said matter-of-factly. "Adrian… isn't husband material. But he's exactly my type."

She turned and walked into the study.

The door closed, and the lock clicked into place.

I stood there, my blood running cold.

So all the effort I'd put into indulging her obsession was just part of the image she wanted the world to see.