Trading A King For A Pawn

Summary

My wife brought her male assistant home for a shower.

She even let him use her favorite plush bath towel.

I sat on the living room sofa, my hands buried in my lap, white-knuckled, forcing the bile back down. I told myself to stay calm, to wait for an explanation that wasn't an insult.

Then, she started looking for an ashtray.

Jordan walked out of our master bedroom, a lit cigarette dangling from his lip, wearing nothing but that towel—the one I’d bought Rachel for our first anniversary.