Chapter 5: A taste of your own medicine, dear husband

**Jayla's POV**

 I woke up feeling like a dump truck had reversed over my skull, backed up, and done it again for good measure. One hand flew to my forehead—ow—and I winced so hard my teeth hurt. Blinking through the haze, I realized I was sprawled on the Italian leather couch in the living room, one shoe missing, mascara probably doing abstract art on my cheeks.

 Classy, Jayla. Real classy.

 My phone buzzed on the coffee table like it was personally offended. 11:52 a.m. 

 A missed call from “Warren 🥃” (when did I add the emoji?!) and a text:

 Warren 🥃: hey, I was skeptical about you driving yourself home. Did u get back safely?

 I stared at the screen. We exchanged numbers? I don’t even remember standing up, let alone typing. My mouth tasted like a bar mop soaked in regret and cheap bourbon. Time for damage control. I shuffled upstairs, with my tattered dress praying the house was empty.

 Then I heard noises coming from the master's bedroom.

 “Harder, baby! Harder—uhhh yes… yessss, baby!”

 Kisha’s voice, loud enough to wake the neighbors and their goldfish.

 My brain screamed ABORT MISSION, but my feet—traitors—marched straight to the master bedroom. I shoved the door open like I was raiding a drug den.

 There they were: Kisha on top of Daniel, riding him like she was auditioning for the Kentucky Derby. Sheets everywhere, bodies glistening, the whole porno montage. 

 They froze mid-bounce. Kisha let out a horror-movie scream and dove for the duvet like it was a life raft. Daniel’s face cycled through shock, annoyance, and oh crap, the wife.

 “Jesus Christ, Jayla! Don’t you knock?” he barked, yanking a pillow over his lap like that fixed anything.

 I blinked. “My bad. Should I knock before entering my matrimonial bedroom? Is that in the new house rules?”

 And then—then—they both started laughing. Like full-on, belly-clutching, tears-in-eyes cackling. I stood there, mouth open, wondering if I’d stumbled into a sitcom.

 Kisha wiped her eyes, still giggling. “Oh, Jayla boo, your stuff’s in the guest room now. This one’s officially off-limits.” She pointed down the hall like she was directing traffic. “Ta-ta!”

 I swallowed the urge to yeet her out the window.

 “Cool. I’ll just… grab breakfast.” I headed for the door, stretching my hands for the door knob

 "wait". That was Kisha's voice

 I turned and stared at her.

 “Knock next time, babe!” Kisha called, sweet as arsenic. “You’re not daft.”

 "oh God help me, I want to shoot at something and it is definitely not the wall" I thought inwardly.

 I closed the door with the soft click of someone plotting murder. Keep it together, Jay. Do not go full Dateline.

 The guest room looked like a tornado had a personal vendetta against my wardrobe. Dresses on the floor, shoes in the lamp, one bra dangling from the ceiling fan like a surrender flag. I sighed, picked everything up, hung it neatly—because even in exile, I have standards—then showered until the hot water ran out and my skin pruned.

 Downstairs, the smell of bacon and redemption wafted from the kitchen. I walk straight to the kitchen.

 “Angela! Feed me before I eat the furniture.”

 Our chef spun around, spatula mid-air. “Morning, Mrs. C! How’d you sleep”

 “Like a baby in a blender,” I lied, flashing a grin that didn’t reach my eyes. “Dish me up, woman. I’m one hangry away from arson.”

 Angela’s face fell. “I’m so sorry, ma’am. The new Miss says nobody eats until she and Mr. C come down. Orders from the boss or I’m fired.”

 I stared. “So we’re all on the Royal Hunger Games schedule now?”

 “Yes, ma’am.” She looked like she wanted to hug me but feared the guillotine.

 I patted her arm. “It’s fine. I’ll starve dramatically at the table like a Victorian heroine.”

 I plopped into my usual chair—except now it felt like the kids’ table at Thanksgiving. Phone in hand, I finally replied to Warren.

 Me: Hii Warren, thanks for checking. I'm home safe (miraculously). Operation Fake BF soon. Stand by. 😈

 Send. Drop phone. I stare at the chandelier like it owes me money.

 Then I hear footsteps and giggling. The lovebirds descended the stairs in matching silk robes, holding hands like they were accepting an Oscar for Best Homewrecking Couple.

 “Gooood morning, Jay,” Daniel sang, sliding into the head seat—my seat—like he’d rehearsed it.

 “Hope our noise didn’t disturb you last night?”

 I flashed a smile sweet enough to rot teeth. “Not at all, hunny. Slept like a baby. A baby with earplugs and a vendetta.”

 He paused, fork hovering. Our eyes locked—his guilty, mine try me.

 Kisha, sensing the vibe shift, clapped like a toddler. “Angela! Food! The baby is starving!” She rubbed her belly like she was polishing a trophy.

 Angela scurried. I rolled my eyes so hard I saw my high school GPA.

 Daniel leaned forward. “Got something to say?”

 My phone buzzed—Warren’s reply lighting the lock screen like a neon sign.

 Warren 🥃: I’m at your service, my contract wife. Text me whenever you’re ready… lol

 I grinned like I’d won the lottery, the lawsuit, and custody of the dog we don’t have.

 “In fact, yes,” I said, leaning back and folding my arms like a boss. “I’ve been doing some deep thinking about your whole open-marriage manifesto. And you know what? You’re one hundred and ten percent right. Everyone deserves to explore their desires. So I’m in.”

 Daniel’s fork clattered. Kisha’s eyebrows shot into her hairline.

 “As a matter of fact,” I continued, savoring every syllable, “I’d love for you to meet my boyfriend. His name is Warren.”

 Daniel choked on air. “Boyfriend?”

 Kisha recovered first, all fake-supportive. “I’m so glad you’re exploring, Jayla! That’s healthy.” She grabbed her fork like a weapon.

 “Thanks, babes.” I sipped orange juice like it was mimosa o’clock. “Y’know, my boyfriend Wa

rren Christopher sends his regards.”

 Kisha’s fork froze halfway to her mouth. She lowered it slowly, eyes wide.

 “War… Warren Christopher? CEO of Whispering Oaks Estates Warren Christopher?”

 I examined my nails. 

 “Yes hun, that’s my boo.”