I’m Too Far Into My Husband’s Sex Tech Triangle to Get Out Now
But my shrink thinks I’m the crazy one.
My cheeks flashed a blazing crimson as urine soaked the rug before me, spraying pale yellow droplets onto the round-toed heels across from me. The heels didn’t flinch or budge as the moisture sank in. I dove towards my purse, rescuing the manila folder that promised to grant me my freedom — and the millions my husband had been subtly siphoning away — before urine mist could taint the evidence. Unashamed, Scrooge leapt up onto the couch beside me, burying his face in the soft leather, proud to leave a saliva souvenir for the betrayed spouses who’d swiftly take my place.
Skipping over pleasantries — or whatever time-wasting small talk usually occupies the initial ten minutes of a first-time therapy session — I opened the folder and started blanketing the table between us with critical photos. Each damning photo reignited my anxiety-ridden distrust, fueling a sense of panic that rose high in my throat. She could hear it, too.
The boobs on his phone. Brenda’s husband. The sketchy escort service and his business proposition to keep me quiet. The hundreds of thousands he’d been pouring into virtual hookers’ pockets. The bungalow brothel — and the many millions more he’d likely been stowing away in similarly unsavory endeavors.
