Emily was bustling around the kitchen in their cozy Chicago suburb home, wiping down the counters after prepping dinner. The aroma of homemade burgers filled the air, reminding her of lazy weekends.

  • Jack, you want dinner? — she called out, hearing the front door slam shut. Her husband was back from his shift.
  • Yeah, I’m starving! — he replied from the hallway. Jack walked in and gave her a quick once-over. She was in her comfy robe, fuzzy slippers with worn-out heels, and a messy bun held up by a simple clip.

«Man, she’s no runway model anymore,» Jack thought to himself. «Back in the day, it was short dresses, lace, curls, and those flirty eyelashes. The guys at work are right—wives just let themselves go after marriage.»

Jack drove for a delivery service, hauling packages, letters, and urgent docs all over the Windy City in his beat-up SUV. Everywhere he went, he’d see these sharp-dressed women—office pros in heels, full makeup, perfect hair. Emily couldn’t hold a candle to them anymore. Well, except for her cooking. Her salmon patties were killer, always crispy on the outside and juicy inside.

Emily, on the other hand, worked as an office assistant downtown. She left for work after Jack and got home before him, so he never saw her in action. Being the face of the company meant dressing up—switching outfits daily, styling her hair every morning, and clicking around in high heels all day. But Jack missed all that glamour.

As soon as she got home, she’d wash off the makeup, tie up her hair, and slip into her robe and slippers. That’s the version of her he’d seen for the last few years, ever since the kids came along.

One evening, her friend Lisa dropped by with a bottle of semi-dry wine, plopping down on the couch like she owned the place.

  • Em, do you think all husbands cheat on their wives? — Lisa asked out of the blue, swirling her glass.
  • Why on earth would you say that? — Emily tensed up, her heart skipping a beat. After fifteen years of marriage and two kids, she’d never entertained the idea.
  • Saw some stats online. Like, 70% of guys step out on their wives! Crazy, right? Wonder if Jack’s doing the same? — Lisa giggled, but it landed flat.
  • Lisa, knock it off! — Emily snapped, feeling a flush of anger. — He comes straight home after work, never stays out late, sleeps here every night. Weekends with the boys. When would he even have time? And why? Our love life is fine, if you catch my drift!
  • Whoa, chill out! I didn’t mean anything by it. It’s just… he drives around all day, no office to tie him down. Total freedom, no boss watching. — Lisa shrugged, sipping her wine.
  • Lisa, we’re about to have a fight here! Why dump this on me now? — Emily fumed, wondering what her friend’s angle was. — Do you know something? Spill it!
  • Relax, I don’t know a thing. Just curious. So many of our friends’ marriages have blown up over cheating… Even the guys you’d least expect. You know, still waters run deep. — Lisa stared out the window, lost in thought.

After that chat, Emily couldn’t shake it. «Damn Lisa, what a snake! With friends like her, who needs enemies?»

She started watching Jack more closely, but nothing seemed off. Same old routine. Their intimate moments had dwindled, sure, but she blamed it on his exhaustion from dodging crazy Chicago rush-hour traffic.

  • You wouldn’t believe the idiots on the road out there! — Jack would gripe over dinner. — My hair stands on end sometimes. Whole day stressed out. Only relax when I get home, but then I’m wiped.

Emily felt for him, trying to help him unwind. She’d give him back rubs that knocked him out cold till morning, snoring like a chainsaw.

One rushed morning, Jack forgot his planner at home. He never brought work stuff inside, but this time it slipped in with some packages. Emily spotted it on the entry table and flipped through it, curiosity piqued. There was this weird schedule: same day every week for «delivery,» and twice weekly for «gas up.» Whenever she called him those days, his phone was always out of service. Doubts crept in. Could he really be cheating? After fifteen years? The kids?

She had to know before the suspicion ate her alive.

That night, once Jack was out like a light, she snuck his work phone—a basic flip model, no lock. No shady texts, nothing at all, not even from her. And she knew she’d messaged him plenty.

  • He’s deleting them! — she whispered to herself.

Scanning contacts, she found «Delivery» and «Gas Up.» She quickly texted the numbers to her own phone, then powered his off and put it back.

Her pulse raced; why these contacts? She wasn’t ready for betrayal, not after all this time.

Next morning, after sending Jack off and dropping the younger kid at school, she cornered her older son over breakfast.

  • Alex, if I have a phone number, can I find out who owns it? — she asked casually.
  • Sure, Mom, just call ’em! — he laughed, munching cereal.
  • Hilarious. But seriously, without talking? Just ID the person?
  • Why do you need that? — Alex eyed her suspiciously.
  • Just curious! — She didn’t want to drag him into it.
  • If they’re on WhatsApp, yeah. Start a new chat, punch in the number, and boom—profile pops up.
  • Thanks, bud! — Emily ruffled his hair and headed to work.

She couldn’t wait to check. Both numbers were on WhatsApp.

One profile showed a stern, middle-aged woman, all business—labeled as «Delivery.»

The other was a young, cute girl posing on a car hood at a gas station. Emily zoomed in: it was Jack’s SUV, with the «City Express Delivery» sticker on the side.

«Maybe ‘Delivery’ is legit work?» Emily wondered. «She looks loaded, high-class. What would she want with Jack? He’s just a driver, though he brings home decent pay—all for the family. But this young thing? She could totally be a side piece, lounging on his car like that.»

Her head throbbed from the whirlwind of thoughts, imagining Jack with the girl. Nausea hit.

«What now?» Emily paced her office break room. «I can’t live like this. Gotta expose him or I’ll lose it!»

Fate stepped in sooner than Emily expected. Jack came down with a nasty bug—nothing serious, but to him, a low-grade fever of 98.8 felt like the end times, and when it spiked to 100.4, he was basically checking his will. He groaned from the couch, eyes rolling back like he was in some dramatic movie scene, mumbling goodbyes to the boys and her. No way was he hitting the road for deliveries that day.

Emily called in sick to the office, figuring she’d play nurse and keep him from keeling over. She dosed him up with NyQuil, chicken soup from a can—because who has time for homemade when your world’s crumbling?—and hot tea with honey. «Sleep it off,» she told him firmly, tucking a blanket around his shivering frame. He conked out fast, rattling snores echoing through their two-story split-level.

He slept like the dead, missing his work phone buzzing on the coffee table. But Emily? She heard it clear as day. Caller ID: «Delivery.» It was right on schedule for her weekly slot. Hands shaking like leaves in a Midwest windstorm, Emily snatched it up and pressed it to her ear.

  • Hello? Jack? — The voice was sharp, no-nonsense, like a boss chewing out an underling. — Look, this is the first time in a year you’ve ghosted me without a heads-up, so I’ll let it slide. But don’t forget, I pay top dollar for your… reliability.

She paused, voice dripping ice.

  • Plenty of guys out there who could step in. Easy swap. My well-being comes first, always.

Click. Line dead. Emily sat frozen, phone still glued to her face, brain scrambling to catch up.

«What the hell does ‘well-being’ mean? And paying him? For what?» Her mind raced. «She could replace him with another guy… for services? Oh God.»

It hit her like a semi on I-90: Jack was moonlighting as some kind of paid companion for this fancy lady. Her stomach flipped; she clapped a hand over her mouth to stifle a gasp. Dizziness washed over her, the room spinning like after too many spins on a carnival ride. Deep breaths—that’s what they say in those self-help podcasts. In, out. Gotta get to the bottom of this. Confront him clean.

Grabbing his phone again, she fired off a text to «Delivery»: «Sorry, truck’s busted. Come over in an hour—I’m home alone for three days straight.» Then she attached their address, the quiet cul-de-sac in the suburbs where kids biked and neighbors mowed lawns on Saturdays.

Her fingers hovered. «And what about ‘Gas Up’? That girl owned that car hood like it was her throne. Is he… servicing her too?»

Panic clawed at her chest—another gut punch. She texted «Gas Up»: «Truck’s in the shop. I’m solo at home—we’ve got three whole days! Miss you. Swing by in an hour.»

Address attached. Boom.

These might flop, or backfire big time, but screw it. Living with this poison of doubt? No thanks. Was Lisa spot-on—do all guys stray?

  • We’ll handle whatever comes, one mess at a time, — she muttered to her reflection in the hallway mirror, adjusting her messy bun. — Apologies are free. But if she’s right…

Telling Jack she was dashing to the corner pharmacy for more meds, Emily slammed the front door for effect. Instead, she doubled back, sending the boys—who she’d shipped off to Grandma’s the night before to dodge Dad’s germs—into their room upstairs. She barricaded herself in there, heart hammering, peeking through the blinds like a scene from a bad spy flick. Waiting. Praying for truth, any truth.

An hour ticked by slow as molasses. Then—ding-dong. Long, insistent, like the ringer had a grudge.

«Delivery,» Emily guessed, pulse thundering. She stayed put. Downstairs, Jack stirred, groaning like a bear with a hangover. He shuffled to the door, wrapped in his comforter like a toga, sweat beading on his forehead.

  • You? — Jack’s voice cracked, pure shock. — What’re you doing here? Emily’s due back from the drugstore any second!
  • Hold up—you texted me! Said the truck broke down, you’re flying solo for three days. — The woman’s tone mixed fury and confusion, heels clicking on the welcome mat. — Why didn’t you pick up when I called earlier? Playing games?
  • When did you call? — Jack mumbled, brain fog from the fever making him sound half-asleep. Hell, he was.

Ding-dong again—sharper this time.

  • Crap, that’s her! Quick, say you’re the neighborhood doc—I called you out! — Jack hissed, panic cutting through his haze.

He cracked the door wider and froze, jaw dropping.

  • Hi there! I’m Dr. Harlan, your local house call physician, — the first woman blurted, stepping in like she owned the place, white coat slung over her designer pantsuit. — Your husband requested a home visit. No need to alert the wife.

Into the foyer strode the second visitor—a perky twenty-something in yoga pants and a cropped hoodie, ponytail swinging. Her face mirrored Jack’s bewilderment.

  • My husband? — she echoed, brows furrowing. Jack blinked at her like she’d grown horns. — Oh, right… hubby. Fine. So, what’s up with him? Hour ago, he was fine as pie, inviting me over for a three-day getaway.
  • Who invited who where? — Jack sputtered, swaying on his feet, the blanket slipping. Total lost puppy vibe.
  • And you are, miss? — Fake Dr. Harlan eyed the newcomer, arms crossed, sensing the weirdness brewing.
  • Riley. — The girl flipped her hair. — You?
  • Victoria. But cut the intros—what’s your deal with Jack?
  • Friend. With benefits, to spell it out, — Riley shrugged, casual as ordering takeout.
  • Wait—you’re messing around with her too? On top of me? — Victoria’s cheeks flushed red, steam practically rising. — And blowing my cash on this side hustle?
  • Side what? Your cash? — Riley whipped toward Jack, eyes narrowing to slits. He stood there, pale as a ghost, teetering like a sapling in a gale. — She pays you for… hookups? You’re a real piece of work!
  • Well, this fixed my stress levels alright, — Victoria drawled, sarcasm thick. — Now I’ll need a full check-up. Who knows what you’ve picked up from her.
  • Hey, I’m clean—question is, are you? — Riley shot back, hands on hips.
  • Why’d you summon us both? — Victoria demanded, the question hanging heavy, voicing what both wondered.
  • Summon? I didn’t! Am I nuts?! — Jack’s voice broke, near tears. Fever plus fear? Brutal combo. He just wanted his couch and oblivion.
  • Bingo—it’s the wife! — Riley snapped her fingers. — I’m out before she rolls up. And steer clear of our station, Jack. Or I swear, I lose it.
  • Yeah, and don’t you dare show at my door again, delivery or not—I’ll slam it in your face! — Victoria growled, storming out, heels echoing down the steps.

Jack eased the door shut, exhaling shaky. «Dodged that bullet—Emily’s clueless.» But turning, he locked eyes with her, planted in the doorway to the boys’ room. Her face? A storm cloud—disgust, pity, heartbreak all mashed up. He knew: game over.

Emily didn’t say a word as she yanked open dresser drawers, stuffing clothes into a duffel bag with mechanical precision. Tears stung her eyes, but she blinked them back— no time for breakdowns now. The house felt smaller, walls closing in with fifteen years of memories: family pizza nights, backyard barbecues under string lights, the boys’ first bikes wobbling down the driveway. All tainted. As it turned out later, her wonder hubby had been juggling three women for months, torn between them like a bad rom-com plot. Feelings for his actual wife? Faded to nothing. He’d gone full rogue.

Victoria, the powerhouse exec, was all about structure—calendars synced, deals closed, life on a spreadsheet. She saw Jack as her «wellness routine,» nothing more. They’d crossed paths a year back when he dropped off some legal docs at her high-rise condo downtown.

  • You the regular driver for this route? — she’d asked, sizing him up from head to toe like he was inventory. Jack nodded, wiping sweat from his brow after navigating Loop traffic.
  • Got a proposition for you: No strings, no drama. Business eats my life, but hey, biology doesn’t care. How about swinging by once a week? — She laid it out flat, no fluff, leaving Jack stunned in her marble-floored lobby. — I’ll compensate you fair and square. Mull it over till next drop-off. Take care.

Jack stumbled out, slid into his SUV, and stared at the steering wheel. «What world’s this? Used to be guys chasing dates, now ladies outsourcing… everything?»

Might’ve fizzled there, but next day, he pulled into his usual gas station on the edge of town— one of those 24/7 spots with bright neon and cheap coffee. Behind the counter: a fresh face, Riley.

  • Hey there! New around here? — Jack leaned on the counter, pumping his usual unleaded outside. He knew the regulars, from the night shift manager to the lottery addicts.

Riley nodded, flashing a grin that lit up her freckled face.

«Damn, she’s cute,» he clocked, noting her easy vibe amid the fluorescent hum.

  • Hitched? — he blurted, straight shooter as always.

Even married, Jack eyed options, but stuck to his code: no rings, no hitched gals—dodged drama that way. Singles? They got clingy fast, pushing for rings and picket fences. Then he’d fake some crisis—chronic illness, job transfer, family emergency—and bail clean. Emily? Always there, steady, none the wiser.

  • If I’m not, what’s the play? Coffee run? — Riley teased back, bold as brass.
  • Depends how you roll, — Jack smirked, hooked already. Chit-chat flowed; he scooped her up post-shift, drove her home through quiet streets lined with maple trees.
  • First date? Hands off, mister, — she laughed, dodging his lean-in at her apartment curb.
  • Second one? — His competitive streak fired up, pulse quickening like back in his high school football days.
  • Play your cards right, — Riley winked, slipping inside with a sway.
  • Little firecracker! — Jack chuckled to himself, gunning the engine homeward. He’d win this chase, no doubt.

But reality bit: «Where’s the cash for wining and dining?» He scratched his head, eyeing his wallet. Can’t show up empty-handed. Then Victoria’s offer clicked—like a lightbulb in a cartoon.

  • Screw it, I’m forty, still got game! — he hyped himself in the rearview. — Emily’s low-maintenance. One extra? Why not two? Hell, three’s a party.

Big miscalculation for a middle-aged player. Emily pieced it all together, world shattered.

  • Em, where you headed? I’ll bounce instead, — Jack pleaded from the doorway, voice weak, still fever-flushed.
  • Damn right you will! Grab your crap and go—blanket included if you want, — she fired back, shoving a garbage bag of his stuff at him—socks, tees, that faded Cubs hat he loved. Pointed at the door like ejecting a bad tenant.

Jack slunk out. Emily filed for divorce the next week, lawyer’s office smelling of stale coffee and regret. Papers served, assets split—house to her and the boys, his pension halved. Clean break, Illinois style: no-fault, but fault screamed loud.

Both side pieces ditched his «services» fast. Victoria ghosted after a curt email: «Contract terminated.» Riley? Blocked him mid-text rant. Jack crashed in a dingy rental apartment on the city’s outskirts—beige walls, leaky faucet, no yard for grilling. Evenings dragged, TV droning infomercials. He craved Emily’s homey robe vibe, her killer salmon patties sizzling in the pan, the boys’ laughter echoing during game nights. But the kids? Once they heard Dad’s double life—via a teary family sit-down—they iced him out. No calls, no visits. «Traitor,» the older one texted once, then radio silence.

Worse: work canned him. HR got wind—maybe a tip from Victoria’s circle, or Riley venting to coworkers. «Unprofessional conduct,» the memo read. Last days? Hell—colleagues ribbed him nonstop: «Gigolo Jack,» sticky notes on his locker, fake escort ads emailed around. Rep stuck like gum; no delivery gigs bit. Other firms? «Sorry, background check flagged.» Unemployment line it was—filing claims online, staring at screens, reminiscing the old routine: rush-hour dashes, steady paycheck, family waiting.

Nights alone, he’d scroll old photos on his phone—beach vacations, birthday cakes—wondering where it derailed. Overconfidence? Underestimating Emily’s smarts? Lesson learned too late: play with fire, get burned. And in the quiet suburbs, echoes of what was hit hardest.