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"You're a martyr, Loraine. A martyr. Do you want me to spell it out for you?"

My friend Victoria paced back and forth in front of me, slapping me with her so-called comforting words while scolding me like a preacher. I sat in the middle of the long sofa like a kid who’d just committed a terrible crime.

"The signs were already right in front of you! I get that you have poor eyesight, but you're not blind yet!" she exclaimed, making air quotes.

"I'm not overthinking. He has his reasons," I said, shrugging. One of the straps of my spaghetti dress slipped off again, and I tugged it back up for what felt like the hundredth time.

"Oh yeah? Like working overtime constantly for five whole months? What is he, Batman now? 'Gotta save the world every single night' kind of job?"

"He's just caught up with work. Plus, his father keeps him under pressure. I understand that," I said, trying to sound convincing—even to myself.

She stared at me like I was an idiot. "If you believe every reason he gives you, then why are you thinking he's cheating on you?"

I paused.

That thought had only crossed my mind when my husband’s secretary mentioned that a Ms. De Loughrey was paying him constant visits at his office.

And that’s when the jitters began—especially after Victoria’s line: “De Loughrey, not. Le Mistress, yes.”

"It’s not a hunch, Loraine. It’s not a maybe. It’s a definitely. Unless you’re too naïve to get that, which, in fact, is always the case," she scoffed, finally plopping onto the couch beside me.

My lips pouted. "I just can’t blame him, Victoria. He’s a nice man. He only married me because of our parents."

"Which he agreed to, so sure—you really can’t blame him," she snorted sarcastically. "And mind you, he’s your husband. You’re his wife. Be the couple you promised to be in front of the altar. Until the grim reaper, or even the Winchester brothers, do you apart."

"I'm trying..." I mumbled, fidgeting with the hem of my shirt.

"Trying?" she repeated. "I can’t see that." She gestured at me like I have every reason to be embarrassed.

I honestly didn’t see anything wrong with me.

"Your husband is Jack Winehouse, baby girl. One of the hottest billionaires in the world. And you dress like a virgin grandma from the eighties." She moved to sit beside me, gripping my shoulders. "You have to do better."

"Better?" I echoed. "What, dress like a bimbo?"

"Sugar pie, honey bunch—you can be hot without showing skin," she uttered like a guru, then dragged two boxes from the table and set them in front of me. "Since you called me for help—and as your very reliable, overly frustrated friend—I now serve you my magic."

I blinked at the boxes, nearly drowning in curiosity. When she opened the first one, my jaw dropped. Inside was a red dress. Far from being grand, but not simple either. It was stunning, elegant, and dangerously eye-catching.

"Wow..." I breathed, pulling it out to see it fully.

"Yeah, I know. 'Wow,'" she giggled. "But that’s not the highlight of the outfit. You know how you have to unwrap candy before you eat it?" She opened the smaller box.

What I saw inside made me swallow hard.

Inside was a red lace set — the kind with a push-up bra that could raise the dead and panties that barely qualified as fabric. I was pretty sure it could make an angel blush.

"Victoria’s secret," she whispered dramatically, pressing a finger to her lips. "Two-piece red lacy lingerie. He’ll forget every other woman exists."

"Uh—"

"Don’t hesitate!" she barked, tossing the lingerie at me. "Take a shower, put these on, and surprise him at his office. Now."

"Like... right now?" I asked, pulling the underwear off my head and looking at her eyes wide.

"The best cure for a cheating husband and a stupid wife is sex. Do you even know what sex is? Or are you still a virgin?"

"I know I’m stupid, but not that stupid," I muttered.

"Good! Then I won’t have to demonstrate how to ride him," she said, hauling me up. "Get your ass ready and make him moan, scream your name, and forget his own damn mistress in plural form. Got it?"

"Can you at least say it decently?" I protested as she pushed me toward the stairs.

"Forget decency, Loraine. Be wild!"

Wild? I don’t do wild.

I don’t even know Kamasutra. My only “experience” came from awkward movie scenes and a few dull "encounters" back in senior year.

And my husband? We’ve never done it. Almost two years of marriage, and not once. He always said he respected me—that he’d wait until I was ready.

But was I ready?

"You look gorgeous!" Victoria squealed when I came back down.

The woman in the mirror didn’t look like me. I rarely wore makeup, yet somehow I looked sharper, sexier... what did Victoria call it? Explicit?

The red dress hugged every curve. I could barely breathe but I looked alive.

And underneath... it was too sinful for my vocabulary.

But what if he doesn't want me?

What if I embarrass myself?

"Now listen," Victoria snapped her fingers. "You’ll walk into his office, lock the door, strip off that dress, push him onto his seat, kiss him like there’s no tomorrow, and them kill him with pleasure."

"Kill him?" I blinked.

She shot me daggers. "It’s a hyperbole, sugar pie honey bunch."

"Oh..."

"Don’t chicken out. This is your only chance to save your marriage. Understand?"

"What if he’s not alone?"

"If he’s got another woman in there, then perfect. Show her who the wife is. Show him what he’s missing."

Could I really do that?

"Here’s my advice: stop entertaining the ‘what ifs.’ Just do it without think twice," she lectured. "Now let’s battle with traffic and let's get the party started."

The whole ride was filled with muffled honking, road rage, and Victoria’s nonstop pep talk that went straight out my other ear.

I’d texted Jack an hour ago like she told me. But still no reply. Not even a missed call.

"And here we are..." Victoria announced as we stopped at his building. "Follow everything I told you, and I swear on my mama’s grave, you’ll be in his head all night. Keep it going, and he’ll be madly in love with you before sunrise."

I think I heard the word die too many times from her today. Fitting, since that’s exactly how I felt—like I was about to die.

"Good afternoon, Mrs. Winehouse," Jack’s secretary greeted when I reached the thirty-second floor, palms sweating and heart racing.

"Hey, Finn. Is my husband in his office?"

"Ah..." He laughed nervously. "Yes, but uh... I think he and Ms. De Loughrey are... currently in a—uhm—meeting?" His eyes darted everywhere but mine.

That was all I needed to hear.

I nodded, walked straight to the door... and froze when I heard it.

A woman’s giggle.

And the unmistakable sound of nasty kissing.

Yes. He was definitely cheating.

And I am going to put a period on it.

But not in a harsh way.

In "my" way.

I lifted my fist and knocked twice.

It’s time to bring my husband home.