The Affair Revenge My Bestfriend's Husband Offered Me

My fifth wedding anniversary was the day I learned my husband had never stopped loving her.

The realization didn't come all at once. It came in pieces—a wrong number that wasn't wrong, a late night at the office that wasn't work, a name that slipped out when he thought I was asleep.

Jovi.

I'd spent five years pretending that name didn't live between us. Five years being the good wife. The understanding one. The one who waited while he mourned her, married me, and never quite arrived.

I'd spent seven years knowing her husband too. The one she left Zane for. Vance Blackwood. I stood beside her at their wedding, watched her marry a man who looked at her like she was a transaction, not a person. I thought she was lucky—rich, secure, settled.

I didn't know then that lucky could feel like drowning.

This morning, I'd passed him in the lobby of Astera Spire. New transfer to my department. New boss. He nodded once. I nodded back. Professional. Distant. Two people connected only by the woman we'd both married.

I didn't know then that by nightfall, everything would change.

The champagne was still cold in my hand. I'd bought it weeks ago, hidden it in the back of the fridge, imagined the look on his face when I brought it out. Five years, Zane. Can you believe it?

Instead, I walked through my own front door and heard our bedframe—that familiar, rhythmic creak I knew in my bones—but mixed with it, something else. A soft moan. A woman's voice.

Then his voice. Low. Desperate. Worshipful.

The sound he used to make in Jovi's car. In high school. When I was the one waiting outside.

I didn't scream. Didn't throw the champagne. Didn't do any of the things wives do in movies.

I walked to the bedroom door. It was open—just a crack. Enough.

His bare back. The freckle on his left shoulder blade moving in a rhythm that belonged to her. Her legs wrapped around him, red-polished toes curling into the sheets we'd chosen together. Blonde hair fanned across my pillow.

Then her eyes opened. Found mine.

"Shit—Nerissa!"

She scrambled for the sheet. He twisted. His face—sweaty, flushed, then pale with pure panic.

It was the same look he'd had seven years ago. When she told him she was marrying Vance Blackwood. When I held him while he fell apart.

That was the moment I should have screamed. Should have clawed. Should have made them feel one fraction of what I felt.

I didn't.

I turned around and walked away.

Their voices followed me down the hall. "Nerissa, wait—" "It's not what you think—" "Please, let me explain—"

Explain what? The last twenty years?

In the kitchen, I saw the other champagne bottle. The one he'd opened that morning, before her text arrived. She's in trouble. She's our best friend. You understand.

I understood perfectly.

I unscrewed the cap on my bottle and poured our anniversary down the sink. Watched it swirl and disappear. Dropped the bottle in the sink. It clanged but didn't break.

My keys were on the hook. I took them.

Closed the front door softly behind me.

The click was the loudest sound I'd ever heard.

I drove for an hour. Maybe two. The streetlights blurred past. A cold, sharp part of my mind—the part that solved complex problems for a living—clicked on.

Vance Blackwood had asked me, just hours ago, if I knew where his wife was. His grey eyes had been flat, just seeking information.

I pulled over. My hands shook, but my voice was steady when I called my company's main line. I got his secretary, Lydia.

"Lydia, it's Nerissa Sullivan from R&D. I have the final numbers for the Harrington project for Mr. Blackwood's board call. It's a secure file. I need his direct line to send it."

"The protocol is to send it to the shared drive, Ms. Sullivan," she said, hesitant.

"The protocol will cause a delay he specifically said he couldn't afford. Do you want to own that delay?" I kept my tone polite, firm. The tone of someone who knew the system.

A pause. A soft click. She gave me the number.

I stared at it on my screen. The nuclear option.

My finger hovered over the "call" button. But talking, hearing his voice—that felt too big, too real. I couldn't do it.

So I typed a text instead.

"Mr. Blackwood. Your wife is at my home with my husband. I thought you should know. - Sullivan."

My thumb hovered over send. This would burn everything down. Their marriages, their reputations. One tap, and I wouldn't be the only one sitting in the ashes.

But then I saw Zane at sixteen, sharing his lunch with the quiet, awkward girl everyone ignored. I saw Jovi at eighteen, squeezing my hand and telling me I could borrow any of her clothes, her friendship a gift I never felt I deserved.

They were betrayers. They were also pieces of my only history.

I deleted the message. I threw my phone onto the passenger seat, furious with myself. I had the perfect revenge in my hands, and I couldn't do it. I was still, after everything, the girl who loved them too much.

I drove for another hour. Ended up at a bar I'd never seen before, in a part of the city I didn't know.

Gin. Straight. The bartender didn't ask questions.

My phone lit up. Jovi: Neri please. It was a MISTAKE. A moment of weakness. We can talk.

Zane: Baby please. Where are you? I'm freaking out. Let me explain.

I flipped the phone face-down and ordered another drink.

That's when the hands found me.

"Hey, lonely girl. Come have fun with us."

Beer breath. Cheap cologne. A hand on my waist, pulling me off the stool.

"Go away."

"Feisty. I like it."

Another hand. Stronger. I pushed, but my body wasn't listening. The gin had done its work.

"Stop."

"She said stop."

The voice came from behind me. Quiet. Flat. Not loud, but it cut through the bar noise like a blade.

The hands vanished. I turned.

Vance.

He stood there in that expensive suit, grey eyes flat as winter. The same man who'd nodded at me this morning. The same man whose wife had just destroyed my marriage.

Something flickered in his gaze as he looked at me. Not recognition—he'd already recognized me this morning. Something else. A memory, maybe. Seven years ago, at his wedding, standing beside Jovi in an ugly bridesmaid dress, watching him marry my best friend. I'd caught him looking at me once that day. Just once. A glance. Then it was gone.

I'd forgotten until now.

"Can you stand?" he asked.

I tried. Failed. The room tilted.

He didn't sigh. Didn't roll his eyes. Just slid an arm around me and half-carried me out into the cold air.

I slumped against him. He was warm. Solid. Smelled like expensive wool and something sharp underneath.

He didn't ask my address. Didn't ask questions. Just took me to a hotel, got a room, dumped me on the bed.

He was turning to leave when I grabbed his jacket.

"Don't go."

I didn't know why I said it. Didn't care.

"Please. Just... don't leave me alone."

He stood there. Looking down at me. His face was unreadable, but something in his eyes shifted—that same flicker from seven years ago, maybe. There and gone.

"Let go."

"Why does everyone pick her?" The words spilled out, ugly and broken. "Why am I never enough? Why my bed? Wasn't taking him enough? You had to take my bed too?"

I pulled him down. Found his mouth with mine.

The kiss was a disaster. Tasted like gin and tears. Desperation and salt. I was trying to feel something—anything—other than the gaping hole where my marriage used to be.

For one second, he was stone.

Then he kissed me back.

Hard. Demanding. Like he was just as desperate as me. His hand cupped my face, his thumb pressed against my jaw, and for a few seconds, there was nothing else. Just heat. Just need. Just two people screaming without sound.

Then he shoved himself back. Breathing hard.

His eyes in the dim light were shattered. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. Quick. Brutal.

Then he straightened his jacket. Reassembled himself before my eyes. The mask slid back into place.

"Sleep," he said. Voice rough.

He left.

The door clicked shut.

I stared at the ceiling and didn't move for a long time.

Morning came like a hangover. Brutal and unforgiving.

The ceiling was unfamiliar. The bed too soft. I was still dressed. Weak sob of relief.

The shower was running.

The bathroom door opened. He stepped out in a white robe, hair wet, face already composed. Looked at me like I was a problem he'd left on his desk overnight.

"You reek of a bar floor," he said flatly. "Shower. You have a 9:30 meeting. Lydia said you have the final numbers for the Harrington project."

The sheer normalcy of it stunned me silent.

We left together. The hallway carpet was too thick. Our silence was a sick thing between us.

We turned the corner toward the elevators.

And there they were.

Zane and Jovi. By the ice machine. His arm around her. She leaned into him. They looked tired, worried... together.

They looked up.

Zane's eyes went from my wrinkled clothes to his damp hair to the space between us. His face crumpled—not with anger, but with sick comprehension.

Jovi's hand flew to her mouth. Her eyes darted from me to him and back. Shock, then outrage. Perfect, hypocritical outrage.

No one spoke.

Then Vance's voice. Low. Clean. Carrying a lifetime of ice.

"Jovienne."

Just her name.

He took one step forward.

"There you are."