The Lingerie Thief Next Door

For six years of marriage, I'd always believed my father-in-law was a quiet, respectable man.

Then I caught him red-handed—clutching my missing nightgown, his fingers digging into the fabric as he flashed me a grin that was equal parts lewd and panicked. A dark stain spread across the silk, unmistakable and grotesque.

Rough hands slid around my waist, creeping upward as I drifted in that hazy space between sleep and wakefulness.

I thought it was my husband. I turned into the touch, expecting his familiar warmth—only for those hands to grow bolder, greedier.

Something was wrong.

My husband always kissed me first.

The realization jolted me awake. My eyes flew open—and there he was. Leonard. My father-in-law's face hovered inches from mine, his breath hot, his smile twisted with something vile.

I screamed.

Gasping, I bolted upright, my heart hammering against my ribs.

A dream.

Just a nightmare.

I scanned the room—my childhood bedroom at my parents' house. Relief crashed over me, followed by a wave of disgust so thick I nearly gagged. How could my mind conjure something so repulsive?

This was all Leonard's fault.

The memory of earlier that evening surged back.

Exhausted after work, I'd dragged myself through the front door. The scent of a hot meal greeted me—Leonard's doing. Lately, the food had improved dramatically. He claimed he'd been learning new recipes online.

My son, Benny, sat glued to the TV, barely glancing up as I walked in.

A picture of domestic peace.

"Where's Grandpa?" I asked absently.

Benny pointed toward the balcony. "Washing clothes."

Nodding, I headed out to collect my laundry.

Leonard knelt over a large basin, scrubbing vigorously. At the sound of my footsteps, he turned—and my stomach dropped.

The nightgown in his hands was mine.

The one that had vanished days ago.

And now, not only was it clutched in his grip—it was stained.

A sickening thought slithered into my mind, fueled by recent office gossip about fathers-in-law preying on their daughters-in-law.

My vision blurred with rage. Blood roared in my ears.

Leonard offered me a greasy, nervous smile. "Mia! You're back. Dinner's ready—go eat. I'll finish up here."

When he noticed me staring at the nightgown, his grin faltered. "The washing machine doesn't handle delicate fabrics well, so I thought I'd—"

He dunked it into the soapy water with a hurried splash.

Humiliation burned through me, hot and suffocating. I wanted to scream. To rip the nightgown from his hands and demand answers. To call him out for the disgusting, perverted—

But I'd never raised my voice in my life. The words lodged in my throat, choking me.

After a suffocating silence, I turned on my heel—and slammed straight into my husband in the living room.

"What's the rush?" he grumbled.

Something inside me snapped.

"Don't you dare snap at me!"

We shouted, our voices clashing like knives. Leonard rushed in, playing peacemaker, but the sight of him only stoked my fury.

If I couldn't punish him, I'd take it out on his son.

My palm cracked across my husband's face.