PROLOGUE
A string of events has left me questioning everything, but what happened last night pushed me over the edge. That’s why I’m here now, chasing the truth, driven by a gut feeling I can’t ignore.
I close my eyes and replay the scene from just hours ago for the third time.
“Honey,” I said.
“What’s up?” he replied.
“If it weren’t for the fact that the cologne clinging to your clothes is a man’s scent, I’d swear you’ve been with another woman,” I whispered in his ear after welcoming him home.
“What are you talking about?” He furrowed his brow and started sniffing himself, his expression shifting entirely. “Oh, you’re right, I didn’t even notice. It must’ve been when Fernando hugged me out of excitement after getting the job, and…”
“They gave him the job?” I interrupted.
“Yeah, but don’t worry,” he said, kissing my forehead. “That job wasn’t for me. It wasn’t up to my standards. Anyway, I’m going to change.”
My eyes follow him as he walks away.
“Am I imagining things, or did he seem nervous?” I mutter to myself. “Go wash your hands, lunch is ready,” I call out under the piercing gaze of my mother. Neither of us says a word, and I think that’s for the best. I head toward our bedroom, but when I hear him talking on the phone, I stop. I know what I should do, but something deep inside compels me to stay and listen to his conversation.
“Oh, really? Well, I want the same thing. There’s a problem, though—I lost the key,” he says, scratching his forehead. “Alright, third floor. See you there.”
My eyes snap open as the driver announces we’ve arrived. I pay him and step out of the taxi. I stand frozen on the steps, suddenly unsure if I want to go inside.
Am I a terrible wife for even thinking that the love of my life, the father of my children, could betray me after everything we’ve been through together, after ten years of marriage? No, I must be overreacting, influenced by all the stories my coworkers have shared. Carlos isn’t like that. He loves me, and he’s always shown me that.
My legs tremble, my lips quiver, my throat feels parched, and I can sense a hollow pit forming in my stomach. I keep questioning why I’m even here. I bite my lip and look up at the towering building, my pulse racing as guilt takes center stage in my mind.
I should’ve confronted him about this. I should’ve voiced my doubts. I take three steps down, ready to leave, but I can’t. It’s as if an invisible force is pulling me toward the building’s entrance.
“Alright, enough, Luciana,” I say out loud, staring at the street. “I’m here now. I’m going to put this doubt that’s eating me alive to rest once and for all. I know my husband isn’t here, so I have nothing to lose. In fact, I’ll prove his loyalty to me, to our family.” I turn around and hurry inside, entering without any trouble. I pull out the piece of paper I found at home from my purse—the one with the number 54 scribbled on it and a key taped to it. I assume it’s an apartment number.
My nerves intensify. My entire body shakes, and by the time I reach the door of apartment 54, I can barely breathe. The key slips from my hands, my heart pounding at a rhythm I’ve never felt before. I’m not fooling myself—I know this feeling is a premonition.
I quickly pick up the key from the floor and slide it into the lock. The door creaks open. I step inside, not bothering to close it behind me. I stand in the hallway, squinting as my ears pick up sharp moans coming from what must be a bedroom somewhere in the apartment.
Now I’ve lost the little control I had over my body. I’m struggling to breathe, and my legs refuse to cooperate. I force myself to move, guided by the unrelenting sounds of pleasure that only grow louder, making it clear someone is having a very good time.
I reach the bedroom. The door is wide open, and that’s when I feel a sharp stab right in the center of my chest. It’s not a fatal blow, but one that leaves me clinging to a thread of life, forcing me to witness with my own eyes an act that fills me with revulsion.
I’m frozen, unable to move. All I can feel is my eyes welling up, my nostrils flaring as I gasp for air, my gaze widening in shock as I see two men. One lies on his back at the edge of the bed, legs spread, while the other stands, thrusting into him with fervor.
“Oh God! You’re going to kill me. Keep going, don’t stop, please!”
“You like that? Want more? Beg for it, beg for it,” he growls between heavy breaths.
The scene disgusts me, not because I have anything against homosexuality, but because the man standing there, demanding to be begged for more, is my husband…