After my IVF stimulation failed, my affair was exposed in public by my doctor husband.
My marriage was my husband's revenge. He capped his plot by screening my affair video—the final blow from the man who preached about my purity.
(Boudoir Collection 1/14)
The anesthesia's effects ebbed away like a receding tide, slowly draining from my body. Struggling to lift my heavy eyelids, my vision blurred before finally focusing on David’s face. He stood rigidly by the bedside, unusually silent instead of bending close to inquire after me as he always did. His expression was a blend of ashen weariness I had never witnessed before. "Honey..." My throat burned, my voice rasping like sandpaper. "How many... did they retrieve?" He didn’t answer immediately. Those seconds of silence pressed upon my chest like a boulder. I watched his Adam's apple convulse before his frigid words struck: "None at all." I froze, my mind unable to grasp it. "...What?" "The doctor said all your follicles had released prematurely," he replied, his tone unnervingly flat. "Because you had intercourse before the procedure." "Intercourse?" The word pierced my foggy thoughts like a needle. My heart skipped a beat, then began to hammer wildly. "I didn’t!" I shrieked, my voice distorted with terror. David’s gaze was unfathomable, swirling with emotions I couldn’t decipher.
(Boudoir Collection 2/14)
A Night of Infidelity
The memory returned with cruel clarity. David was on night duty. Around nine, Michael called—his voice carrying a lazy magnetism through the line. He wanted to see me, just for a moment. Despite knowing better, I slipped downstairs and drove to the secluded townhouse area at the far end of our complex. He slid into the passenger seat, bringing with him the chill of the night air and a hint of cologne. At first, we merely talked. He kissed me, murmuring sympathy for the ordeal I faced tomorrow. His closeness eroded my resolve. "No, Michael, the surgery..." I protested weakly as he pressed further. "Just a moment, gently—I promise..." His whispers were hypnotic, his warm hands soothing my back. What followed? The car became an isolated island, morality and medical advice forgotten. Afterward, a sharp cramp in my lower abdomen unsettled me, but I dismissed it as side effects from the fertility injections and my own guilt. Now I knew: it had been my body’s sternest warning.(Boudoir Collection 3/14)
"The doctor noted significant damage and inflammation to your cervix," David’s voice cut through the air like an ice pick. "What kind of bathroom visit leaves marks like that?" My blood ran cold. He knew—he must have discovered something. "It... it was a toy," I murmured, avoiding his gaze. "I wasn’t thinking, maybe I pushed too hard..." The absurd excuse flushed my cheeks. "Don’t you trust me?" I shifted to offense, letting tears well in my eyes. "I’m filing a complaint against that doctor!" David studied me in silence, his eyes piercing. "If you truly doubt me, once I recover, we’ll divorce!" Predictably, the word "divorce" shook him. Just then, my mother entered with a thermos, shattering the suffocating tension. David excused himself, citing hospital duties. As he left, I collapsed onto the bed, drained. Relief gave way to dread. Had he believed it? That complex look in his eyes—what did it hide? The question pricked me deeply. I sensed this wasn’t over; David’s silence was more unnerving than accusations. Outside, sunlight warmed the world, yet I shivered with cold.
(Boudoir Collection 4/14)
The Silent Investigation
In the days after my discharge, David maintained an eerie calm. He returned home, brought my favorite desserts, yet withheld embraces. Each night, he slept turned away, an invisible barrier between us. Then, one Saturday afternoon, he called, his tone casual: "Your car got scraped." My heart plummeted. "Let my dad handle it," I insisted, my voice rising. "No need, I’m already at the scene," he replied gently but firmly. "I’ll take it to the dealership." "Really, don’t!" I nearly screamed. "I can manage!" "It’s settled—the other driver admitted fault," he paused. "Don’t worry." Hanging up, my palms slicked with sweat. The dashcam! I’d deleted local files, but what about the cloud? Had I logged out? Worse, that pink backup phone—was it still in the glove compartment? Panic coiled around my heart like vines, tightening relentlessly. I paced the living room, restless, praying it was all in my head.
(Boudoir Collection 5/14)
The Fatal Oversight
That evening, David returned late. He placed the car keys on the entryway shelf with a soft click that echoed like a hammer blow. He seemed normal, even kinder than before. He informed me the car was at the shop for a week. Then, as if on impulse, he said casually, "By the way, my laptop charger died, and I need to finish a grant proposal by Monday. Could I borrow yours tonight?" My heart sank. My computer! Though I’d erased direct chat histories, what about logged-in cloud apps? My mind raced for excuses, but his "open" expression and reasonable request silenced me. "The password is your name plus our anniversary," I forced my voice steady. Watching him take my laptop to the study and close the door, I felt hollow. I hovered outside, listening to faint keystrokes, too fearful to intervene. I reassured myself: I’d been careful; he’d find nothing... Entirely forgetting the dashcam’s cloud app.
(Boudoir Collection 6/14)
Another Chance at IVF
To my surprise, the storm seemed to pass. David even proposed, "Emily, let’s try again. Another round of IVF." I could scarcely believe it. "Really? You... you’re okay with what happened last time?" "I believe it was an accident," he said, a faint, gentle smile curling his lips as he patted my hand. "We both want a child, don’t we? We shouldn’t give up over one mishap." His smile appeared sincere, his words flawless. Yet, deep in his eyes, I glimpsed something icy—a flicker so brief I dismissed it as nerves. Perhaps he still loved me? The yearning for a family and the terror of losing my settled life drowned my unease. I chose to trust his "grace," embracing self-deception. Full of "hope," I began a new fertility cycle. Yet, under the sway of hormones and reckless resignation, I didn’t sever ties with Michael. That dangerous passion and the thrill of evasion proved addictive.
(Boudoir Collection 7/14)
The Sperm Swap Scheme
During treatment, I secretly shared every medical report with Michael, clinging to the hope a child might salvage our fragile bond. But he grew distant, complaining I was too clingy. Desperate, I unveiled a mad plan during a rendezvous: "Since we’re doing IVF anyway... could we use your sperm secretly?" He stared, astonished yet faintly intrigued. "Are you insane? David would never agree!" "He won’t know," I pressed on, possessed. "You’ve always wanted a son—this is our only chance..." After a long pause, he whispered with a thrill, "It’s insanely risky... but exhilarating. How would it work?" In that moment, twisted triumph washed over me. Unbeknownst to me, a pair of eyes watched through spyware as I typed those damning words.
(Boudoir Collection 8/14)
The Conspiracy Unveiled
The embryo transfer succeeded. I was pregnant. Elated, I called Michael first. "It worked! We did it!" I exclaimed. "Oh, great. Congratulations," he replied tonelessly, a flicker of irritation beneath. "Busy now—talk later." The line went dead, icy disappointment flooding me. Why so cold? Wasn’t this our shared dream? David, in contrast, played the perfect role—appropriately joyful, tenderly attentive. But his occasional glances held a profound calm that chilled me. Then came the bombshell: Michael had been publicly disgraced at an academic conference, suspended and facing criminal charges. Hearing the news, my blood froze. Too coincidental! A horrifying thought struck: David knew everything all along. Overwhelmed by dread, I instinctively shielded my belly, cold dread rising until I trembled uncontrollably.
(Boudoir Collection 9/14)
After Michael’s downfall, panic gripped me. I clung to the baby and my marriage like lifelines, lavishing attention on David. Once, I guided his hand to my womb, whispering, "Baby, say hi to Daddy." But he jerked away, his gaze glacial. Soon after, he proposed a grand celebration for our anniversary and the pregnancy. Alarms blared, yet I clung to hope he might forgive me for the child’s sake. That night, amidst guests, David raised a toast to our "cherished memories." The screen displayed wedding photos—I exhaled. Then it shifted: the dashcam footage of me and Michael entangled in the car, explicit and undeniable, broadcast for all. Silence crashed over the room, then erupted into chaos. I screamed, lunging to stop it, but David seized me. I raged at his treachery, only to be met with my father’s stinging slap. Bedlam ensued. Amidst shoves and jeers, a searing pain tore through my belly. A cake hit me, and darkness swallowed me as warmth gushed from below...
(Boudoir Collection 10/14)
The End of the Marriage
I awoke to the sterile sting of antiseptic. A nurse informed me in detached tones that the violent upheaval had cost the baby. I didn’t cry out, just stared at the stark ceiling light, feeling my soul slip away with that tiny life, leaving only desolation. Days later, David visited. He placed divorce papers on the nightstand—the chill paper whispered against the wood. "Sign them," he stated flatly. "No... I won’t!" I clawed for a lifeline, voice ragged. "The embryos! We have frozen ones! Legally, you’re still the father!" He looked down, impassive save for a faint, cutting smirk. "Embryos?" he echoed softly. The word struck like a hammer blow. "Emily, you seem to forget—they can test those for paternity. Are you certain you wish to proceed?" In that instant, every lie, every desperate hope, shattered. I opened my mouth, but despair and shame choked me mute. I had lost—utterly and irrevocably.
(Boudoir Collection 11/14)
(Boudoir Collection 12/14)
(Boudoir Collection 13/14)
(Boudoir Collection 14/14)