0004: A House Divided

As he stood by the doorway, his entire world came crashing down. The room, which had once been his sanctuary, now felt like a prison, suffocating him with betrayal. Veronica, startled, quickly pulled the blanket over her chest, her eyes darting around in panic. Alkins, pale with fear, scrambled to gather his clothes from the floor. The shame was palpable as he fumbled, covering his crotch with his crumpled shirt. The air was thick with tension, the kind that made the hairs on the back of your neck stand up.

For a moment, the room was frozen in time. No one moved, no one breathed. The only sound was the soft hum of the ceiling fan, a stark contrast to the storm raging inside Anthony’s chest. His eyes, once filled with love for Veronica, were now dark and hollow, brimming with a mixture of rage and despair.

Alkins, sensing the danger, tried to slink past Anthony, who was still standing like a statue in the doorway. He kept his head down, avoiding eye contact, and as he brushed past Anthony, the tension broke like a dam. Alkins bolted down the stairs, his footsteps echoing in the almost silent house. The front door slammed shut behind him, leaving the two of them alone.

Veronica adjusted the blanket around her, as if it could shield her from the storm that was about to break. She looked up, trying to meet Anthony’s gaze, but she couldn’t hold it for long. The weight of what she had done was suffocating, yet she forced herself to stay calm. Then, with a defiant tilt of her chin, she finally met his eyes.

"Won’t you say anything?" she asked, her voice cool, almost indifferent, as if she hadn’t just shattered everything they had built together.

Anthony’s chest heaved with every breath, his fists clenched so tightly his knuckles were white. He could feel the blood rushing to his head, his vision blurring with anger. "How could you?" he whispered, his voice barely audible. "My boss, Veronica? My fucking boss?"

Veronica didn’t flinch. If anything, her expression hardened, her eyes turning cold as ice. "How could I what?" she shot back, her tone dripping with contempt. "You’re not even half the man he is."

Her words cut through Anthony like a blade, each one sharper than the last. He staggered back a step, struggling to keep control. Every fiber of his being screamed at him to lash out, to destroy something, anything, but he fought it. He fought it for her, for the woman he had once loved.

"So that’s it?" he said, his voice trembling with suppressed fury. "That’s why you had the guts to bring another man into our home? To fuck him in our bed?"

Veronica shrugged, her indifference chilling. "So what if I did? What are you going to do about it? Huh?" She leaned forward, eyes gleaming with a twisted satisfaction. "Are you going to hit me? Is that it?"

Anthony’s world was spinning. He could barely see straight, the edges of his vision darkening with rage. "Don’t push me, V," he warned, his voice low and dangerous. "Don’t make me do something we’ll both regret."

But Veronica wasn’t done. She leaned back, her lips curling into a cruel smile. "You’re pathetic," she sneered. "You’re a weak-ass nigga, and you know it."

Something inside Anthony snapped. His vision blurred, and for a moment, he didn’t know where he was. The room spun, his heart pounded in his ears, and all he could see was her. But instead of lunging at her like she expected, he stepped back, his eyes hollow with pain.

"I’m done," he whispered, the words barely escaping his lips. He turned on his heel and walked out of the room, every step heavier than the last. When he reached the corridor, his legs gave out. He collapsed against the wall, burying his face in his hands.

And there, in the cold, empty hallway, Anthony wept. The tears came hard and fast, each one carrying the weight of his broken heart. He cried for the love that had once filled their home, for the life they had built together, and for the man he used to be. But most of all, he cried for the betrayal that had shattered everything.

Behind him, in the bedroom, Veronica sat in silence, the reality of what she had done sinking in. But she didn’t move. She didn’t apologize. She simply stared at the door, her face a mask of defiance as Anthony’s sobs echoed through the house.

And after what felt like an eternity of crying, Anthony finally wiped his eyes and pulled himself to his feet. His legs felt like lead as he made his way back to the bedroom. His movements were slow, methodical, almost as if he were in a trance. He then approached their sleek wooden closet, his hands working on autopilot as he removed his tie, undid the buttons of his shirt, and pulled down his pants. The clothes fell in a crumpled heap on the closet floor, but he barely noticed. Closing the closet door, he turned toward the bed, his sanctuary and now his battleground.

Anthony lounged on the bed, his body sinking into the mattress, yet he felt no comfort. His gaze fixed on the ceiling, but his mind was elsewhere, swirling with dark thoughts. He replayed the scene over and over, the image of Veronica and Alkins burned into his memory. Each time he replayed it, the rage inside him grew, fueling a fire he struggled to control. Revenge was the only thing on his mind now. How could he hurt her like she hurt him? What would it take to make her feel this same unbearable pain?

But just as he began to formulate a plan, Veronica’s voice sliced through his thoughts like a knife. "A little word of advice," she said coldly, her voice dripping with disdain. "It would be better for you to know how to behave in the office tomorrow. If you pull some crazy stunt and get yourself fired, don’t bother coming home to me. Because I’ll divorce your ass if you do that. Am I clear?"

Anthony chuckled, a hollow sound that lacked any trace of humor. The audacity, the sheer nerve of her, standing there, after everything she’d done, and threatening him. He marveled at her boldness. Turning his head slightly, he responded, his voice calm but laced with venom, "You won’t be the one to tell me what to do."

Veronica let out a mocking laugh, the sound grating against his nerves. "Fine, do what you want. See what happens," she sneered. "You were only fortunate to get that job in the first place because of me. After you got your ass fired from your last job, who do you think pulled strings for you?"

Her words hit deep yet again, each one landing like a punch to the gut. Anthony stared up at the ceiling, silent, his jaw clenched. Was that it? Was losing his job as an airline pilot the turning point? Was she only with him for the money, for the status? And now that he was no longer the man he used to be, was this his punishment?

He turned his back to her, the anger and hurt swirling inside him like a storm he couldn’t calm. He reached over and turned off the lamp beside his bed, plunging the room into darkness. Veronica’s presence beside him felt like a weight on his chest, suffocating him. He knew there would be no sleep for him that night, but he closed his eyes anyway, willing himself to find some kind of peace in the silence.

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'THREE HOURS LATER'

Unable to sleep and with his stomach growling, Anthony finally gave up on the idea of rest. His mind was too loud, filled with a chaotic mix of anger, pain, and confusion. The betrayal replayed in his head like a broken record. He couldn’t shake it, couldn’t find peace, and now, the hunger gnawed at him too. 

Carefully, he maneuvered through the dark room, not wanting to accidentally collide with anything that might wake Veronica. The last thing he needed was another confrontation. Quietly, he made his way downstairs, his bare feet cold against the tiled floor. The emptiness of the house pressed down on him, a stark contrast to the turmoil inside.

Once in the kitchen, he flicked on the dim light over the stove, casting a soft glow across the stylish marble countertops. He moved like a ghost, opening cabinets, pulling out a sachet of brown rice, placing it on the counter. The rhythmic clinking of kitchen utensils as he retrieved a stainless steel pot and a ceramic plate was oddly soothing, giving his mind a temporary break from the relentless storm. 

At the sink, he washed the pot and plate, his thoughts as murky as the dishwater swirling down the drain. The gas cooker hissed to life, and soon, the kitchen was filled with the comforting sound of bubbling water. As the rice began to cook, Anthony wandered into the living room, his footsteps silent on the floor. He collapsed onto one of the leather couches, staring blankly at the flower vase in the center of the room. 

His mind raced, sifting through the wreckage of his marriage, trying to find a path forward. Could he fix this? Did he even want to? How could he look at Veronica the same way again, knowing she had invited another man into their bed, into their home? Yet, despite everything, a small voice in the back of his mind whispered that he still loved her. That maybe, somehow, they could work through this.

Nearly half an hour later, the smell of steaming rice pulled him from his thoughts. His stomach growled louder now, a reminder of the gnawing hunger that had been ignored for too long. He rose from the couch and made his way back to the kitchen, the faint sound of his footsteps echoing in the quiet house. 

In the kitchen, he drained the hot water from the rice and poured himself a bowl, topping it with a generous helping of stew. The aroma filled the air, but Anthony barely noticed. His mind was elsewhere, lost in the maze of his emotions. He grabbed a glass of water and made his way to the dining area, settling down at the table.

As he ate, the food tasted like ash in his mouth. The only thing that mattered was figuring out what to do next. Each bite was mechanical, his mind still replaying the events of the night, trying to make sense of it all. When he finished, he pushed the empty plate aside and rested his head on the table, the cool surface a brief comfort.

And then sleep finally claimed him.