AN AFFAIR WITH MY HUSBAND (ONE)

TRIGGER WARNING [MENTIONS OF DEATH]

—GIANNA—

I'm sick. I know that. Whatever disease I've got I have no clue, but being sick in the head would certainly explain why I’m putting on my makeup while my shitty boyfriend's corpse lies on top of his mistress's dead body.

The smell of blood filled my one-room apartment, their clothes scattered all over the bedroom, and my gun was neatly arranged in his hands, artfully staging the scene while I finished my makeup.

I never really liked Aaron. I got him last year as a plaything, probably because I was a sexually starved, traumatized woman—or maybe I just liked the idea of having a boyfriend as an accessory. Maybe it was both. Last I checked, he was supposed to stay loyal and not divert every single penny I worked so damn hard for into his personal account, take ownership of my house behind my back, and, worst of all, blow my money on the whore I caught him with.

I helped them meet the Lord with a bullet through each of their heads. Lovers dying together has always been a charming fantasy; I deserve some gratitude for helping them out. That’s the consequence of dating the bodyguard of a politician.

The only lesson I’ve learned is that if you're going to get one of those boyfriend things, get the rich one.

I applied a generous layer of crimson lipstick and puckered my lips before letting my long, burgundy hair cascade down my back. I arranged it with my fingers, slipped into my boots, and donned my coat after grabbing a cigarette from my vanity.

Lush Temptations, the strip club where I worked, was packed today. I tossed my third empty liquor bottle into the backseat of my car before hopping out and checking in with the security guards.

“Hey, Gia…” one of them started, but I flipped him off as I strolled into the building, which vibrated with music and pulsed with colorful lights. My heels clicked sharply against the floor as I entered the dressing room, where the girls chattered and prepped for the night, some adjusting their costumes as they headed out for the main show.

“He chased me out,” I overheard someone say. The moment I stepped in, silence descended, and a wave of glares fell upon me.

“Thanks for the warm welcome,” I smirked sarcastically as I settled down at my personal vanity.

“You're not that important anyway,” someone snapped. I recognized it as Stacy, the girl who’d first complained about being chased out.

“At least that’s what you tell yourself every night, pookie,” I said with a smile, watching as she simmered with rage. Ignoring her, I rifled through the drawers for my mask.

To conceal our identities at LT, we wore masks and adopted different names to avoid being recognized in real life. I wouldn’t want to brag, but I’m the reason most men flock to the club, often asking for Gee Fox. I was amazing—what can I say? Everyone in the room knew it.

“You're so pathetic, you cheating piece of shit.”

“Pathetic? That’s what you are, Gianna. You're a stripper,” he laughed. “Gee Fox? You're just a toy and always will be—”

“Gia?” A voice cut through my haze, and I turned to see Bobby, the manager of the club.

“Yes, Bobby?” I replied, peeling off my coat to reveal my micro mini skirt that showcased the black thong underneath, knee-high transparent black socks, heels, and a cropped corporate white shirt, complete with a tie to fit tonight's high school theme.

“Private room service. Tobias Whitlock,” he said briefly.

My head was pounding, and I wasn't in the mood for a private session. I had planned on pole dancing, not this. Private sessions were the worst, and I usually avoided them since I was the most requested dancer. Soon, Carl—my boss—had slapped an exclusive tag on me for high-paying clients only. Despite that, I still had to fend off eager men, with only the handsome ones wielding deep pockets often succeeding.

“Tobias Whitlock? He just chased me out of the room; he said he doesn’t want a stripper,” Stacy whined.

“He doesn’t want you. I had you stand in for Gia because she wasn't available. No customer should leave unsatisfied,” Bobby asserted firmly.

Stacy scoffed. “He’d probably toss her out before she even walks in.”

I loved a challenge. Even though I didn’t owe her anything, I needed the paycheck since my late boyfriend cleared my bank account.

“What’s the room number?” I asked, and Bobby handed me the key.

Ignoring the whispers and glares shot in my direction, I made my way outside.

“Have fun tasting my leftovers, bitch,” Stacy grunted as I left. It wasn’t my fault she ruined her shot at exclusivity. Initially, Stacy and I had been good friends; we both joined LT the same month and navigated the rookie stage together as nineteen-year-olds. But after a year in the job, I began to draw more attention, and she skillfully turned the other strippers against me. Deep down, I knew she wanted to be like me that would explain why she kept copying everything I did including my hairstyle, she swore on her uterus that she had no idea I dyed my hair burgundy I planned on changing it soon. Nice to see I'm setting trends but at least give me credit for it.

Three years in, and she was still stuck at the bottom because of her petty behavior.

Tobias's room was unlocked when I knocked, suggesting he might be waiting for me.

I opened the door quietly, momentarily stunned as my blue eyes met his piercing grey ones. He was breathtakingly gorgeous. I could have blamed it on the liquor, but he was a well-crafted specimen: neatly trimmed beard, dark curly hair, chiseled jawline, and long lashes fluttering at me as I quickly switched to work mode.

Slowly, I closed the door and loosened my tie. His eyes were riveted on me as I undid my buttons one by one, revealing my cleavage since I wasn’t wearing a bra.

My breasts danced rhythmically as I approached him. With his gaze still fixed on me, I sat in his lap, feeling his growing bulge against me as heat surged through my body when his hands rested on my waist. I could easily attribute my feelings to the alcohol, but the coldness in his eyes as he gently pushed me away told a different story.

“Get off.”