The Honeymoon Nightmare

My husband whisked me away to Thailand, a last-ditch effort to save our crumbling marriage.

We stumbled upon another young couple there—strangers, but vacation camaraderie came easy.

The four of us drank, laughed, and grilled seafood under the stars. After a wild, sun-soaked day, I was exhausted. I melted into my husband's arms, my mind hazy with wine and the salty ocean air.

My hand drifted lazily down his stomach. His hands began to roam, too—skilled, knowing, zeroing in on all the spots that made me shiver.

And then a full-body shudder ran through me. Something felt… off. I twisted around.

And realized the man holding me wasn't my husband at all.

My name is Vivian Anderson. For the past year, I've been a ghost in my own marriage. Ever since my husband's transfer to another city, the distance between us grew from miles to canyons.

I tried. God, I tried. I'd initiate video calls, hoping for a sliver of intimacy, a shared moment. He'd always decline, his voice tight with stress. "Not now, Viv. Work is insane."

Eventually, I gave up and found solace in a drawer full of adult toys. It was only when my texts and calls stopped completely that he finally sensed the danger. He came rushing back, full of apologies and promises.

Hence, the trip to Thailand. A desperate attempt to recapture the magic.

And that's how we met the other couple, also newlyweds, soaking up the honeymoon phase.

That first night, we were all lounged on our bed, half-watching a Thai drama and gossiping about celebrities, when we heard it. A low, throaty moan from next door. Then another.

The sounds were raw, primal, and so intensely private that my cheeks flushed crimson. I pressed myself against the headboard, listening to every gasp and creak of the bed.

Next to me, my husband shifted. A sly, restless energy came off him. His hand slid under my skirt, hooking into my panties.

It happened fast. My protests died in my throat, morphing into a soft moan.

"Let's show them how it's done," he whispered, a wicked chuckle in my ear. "Can't let them show us up."

The neighbors went dead silent.

I was equal parts horrified and electrified. A competitive, vengeful thrill shot through me, making every touch feel a hundred times more intense. I was trembling, completely at his mercy.

A beat later, the sounds from next door started again, louder and more intense than before.

Just like that, an unspoken competition began.

The next morning, I saw the man from next door—Vincent Lombardi. He caught my eye and shot me a grin that was all knowing mischief. We were adults. We understood the assignment.

My husband just laughed and gave him a thumbs-up. "You win, man."

I was mortified, my cheeks burning. I couldn't even look at him.

Smack!

His girlfriend, Chloe Laurent, promptly swatted his arm. "What are you grinning at, you idiot?" She rolled her eyes, then looped her arm through mine. "Men are such pigs. Come on, Vivian. I heard they're releasing sea turtles today. Let's go and leave these two to their ego contest."

The sound of their laughter followed us down the beach.

Honestly, I didn't think much of it. We were just ships passing in the night—strangers in a foreign land sharing a bizarre, slightly embarrassing story. I was sure it would never affect my real life.

I couldn't have been more wrong.

It was the moment I took the first step into an abyss there was no climbing out of.

Down at the beach, I slipped off my cover-up, feeling bold in my new bikini.

That feeling lasted about three seconds. That's when Chloe stepped out from behind a rock. I had to admit, the girl had nerve.

Her "swimsuit" was a few strategic strings and two tiny triangles of white fabric. The bottoms were a sheer thong that left absolutely nothing to the imagination.