The Clause

Victoria (Vick)

Christmas was only two weeks away. My husband Mark’s cousin, Linda Abbott, had arrived only an hour ago.

She had come every year since we got married four years ago, staying until the New Year.

She was family, so I never questioned it, especially after Mark told me she lost her parents when she was ten. That really got to me. I always tried to make her feel welcome.

My family was small. My dad died the year before we got married. It was sudden and sad.

Mark and I had just moved in together when I had to fly back to Pasadena to be with my mom for almost two months. Mark was supportive and told me to stay as long as I needed. He kept himself busy, and we talked on the phone almost every day.

I was lucky, right? But if I’m honest, we never really had that spark. Not the kind where you can’t wait to get home or your heart lifts when he walks in. Maybe I just read too many romance novels.

Mark yelled sometimes, and it rattled me. It came in waves—months of calm, then he’d get angry over a work contract or a colleague he thought was stupid.

That was just negative. I called him out once, and well, that didn’t go as I’d expected. Terrible, in fact.

The holiday music brought me back to my wrapping.

I finished decorating the tree while they caught up. I pictured the three of us later with mulled wine, looking at the twinkling lights and getting into the holiday spirit.

Next, I smoothed wrapping paper over the box, pressing the edges down carefully. The gift would look nice under the tree with the other ones.

Next year would be different. Better. We talked about it this year, and again just last week. Trying. A baby. A real future.

I could still hear Mark’s voice, casual like it was nothing, like it was easy. “We’re in a good place now, Vick.”

I believed him. I wanted to. New year. New beginnings. That’s what this was supposed to be.

Mark was promoted two months after we got married, moving from Director of Operations to Senior Vice President. He traveled more, but he made six figures, which let me work part-time at a craft store and serve on the community center committee.

The kids who went there were amazing. Lower income. Aged from pre-school to high school. Hearing them laugh. Watching them take their first plunge in the pool. Hearing someone from another country learning to read English and watching the glee in their faces when they did.

The holiday music made me smile. I liked the soft sound of ornaments clicking as I adjusted them to face outward. I loved it. Who didn’t love Christmas?

The routine of it all was something I looked forward to every year. Happy and safe, I thought.

The house was toasty warm. I had been wrapping gifts at the dining room table for nearly an hour, ribbons stretched out ready to be curled, my scissors misplaced under pieces of wrapping paper, and tape stuck to my fingers. I loved this kind of chaos.

After wrapping a few more presents for the community center party this weekend, I stretched and then realized I’d run out of ribbon. I checked that it hadn’t rolled off the table, then looked at the sideboard, and checked the floor again.

Nothing.

I sighed to myself and headed down the hall toward the linen closet, already making a mental note to buy more tomorrow.

It was strange to hear Mark and Linda's voices coming from the spare room when they had been in the family room at the back of the house earlier. We lived in a bungalow.

The guest room door was ajar, just enough to cut a thin line that allowed me to see inside if I moved two more steps forward. I slowed, more out of instinct than intention.

I stepped closer. Then I saw them. What?

We were trying for a baby.

He had her backed against the dresser, one hand beside her hip, the other under her sweater. They looked comfortable, familiar, and passionate.

His mouth was on hers, kissing her in a way he never kissed me. Head moving, moaning. Deep. Her fingers curled into the front of his shirt, pulling him closer.

I never had the urge to do that. Pull him by his shirt and thrash my tongue around his mouth.

It wasn’t frantic, which somehow made it worse. They looked happy and comfortable, but not in a boring way.

I didn’t gasp or yell. I didn’t even drop the ribbon still looped around my wrist. I stepped back before the floorboard could creak.

I went into the bathroom, closed and locked the door. I sat on the edge of the tub with my hands folded in my lap, as if waiting for instructions.

I didn’t confront them because in that moment, my mind went somewhere practical before it went anywhere emotional. How long had this been going on. Weeks. Months. Years. Long enough that they looked comfortable, and not guilty. Long enough that this wasn’t a mistake I could interrupt and end with one dramatic sentence. If I walked in then, all I’d get were lies layered on top of lies, apologies to shut me up, or explanations meant to keep me quiet until they figured out what to do with me.

And there was something else I didn’t want to admit but couldn’t ignore. Mark was the breadwinner. The one with the title, the salary, and the authority. I worked part-time. I volunteered. I made our life easier while he built his.

Confronting him meant detonating everything without knowing where I would end up, and I wasn’t willing to be homeless, humiliated, and heartbroken in the same breath. So I kept it all inside. Not because I was weak, but because I needed time. Time to see clearly. Time to protect myself. Time to decide what came next.

My heart started pounding, but my mind tried to stay clear. Tried to get me to focus. I was numb.

This wasn’t the first time he’d cheated. Two years ago, there was another woman, an apology, a long night of talking that ended with me believing him when he said it meant nothing. That it was a mistake.

The marriage counselor telling me working through problems made a relationship stronger.

Then the rabbit hole started. I remembered my dad once asking me in private if Mark was the one. A tear trickled down my cheek.

I forgave Mark because I believed in marriage, believed people could change, and thought love could be steadier than passion.

He hadn’t been afraid of losing me. He’d been afraid of losing what I gave him.

And I had called that love.

I stayed in the bathroom, my mind bouncing from one bad thought to another, heat rose inside me and sweat gathered at the back of my neck.

I got up and stood over the sink, letting the water run until it turned brutally cold. I splashed my face and ran a damp hand around the back of my neck.

When I came out, the guest room door was closed.

I went back to the dining room and picked up the scissors. I stared at them, held them up as if to stab, then dropped them on the table. The sound of metal on wood startled me.

I finished wrapping the gifts.

That was the moment I heard my name.

I froze at the end of the hall, unseen again, with the linen closet door still closed in front of me.

“I didn’t marry her for love,” he said.

I felt it then. A sharp, stabbing pain.

“She was right,” Linda said, all breathy after the kissing spree.

Kissing cousins? I almost laughed. She wasn’t his cousin.

Her whispered voice sounded unbothered. “She was perfect for what you needed.”

He laughed ever so softly. “Exactly. At the time, married men were the only ones getting promoted. They wanted stability. A certain image. Victoria fit. Fairly pretty. Dependable. No drama. Easy to control.”

I squeezed the ribbon in my hand until it was creased all over.

“And now?” she asked.

“Now it doesn’t matter,” he said. “I stayed long enough. She forgave me once. She’ll survive this, too. She wants a baby next year. If I wait, I’m trapped.”

“Silly woman. She doesn’t suspect anything,” Linda said. “I mean, I’ve been here every year since you were married. At least the business trips helped. I do love fucking you in swanky hotels, knowing Miss Good Girl is selling glue and beads, or working her ass off for free at the community center. At least I’m a professional like you.”

They both snickered.

“No, she’s clueless. It’ll make things easier.” Mark replied. “Easy to control, like I said. A simple girl. It’s what I needed back then. Only you make me come and moan the way you do. I can’t wait to get divorced so we can be together properly. Such a passionate woman.”

I don’t remember moving, but suddenly I was back in the dining room, the tree lights blinking in the corner, the last gift placed neatly on top of the pile. I stared at it for a long moment, at the thoughtful, neat edges and perfect bow, and wondered how long he’d been planning my exit while I was making his life easier. He was firing me.

I went to bed beside him that night.

He slept with one arm over my waist, as if it mattered. Maybe it was just another act, or maybe he imagined I was Linda.

My calmness surprised me. Inside, I felt cold and frozen. That awful cliche of the last one to know. My mind spun with all the other usual clichés about women who get cheated on.

I stared at the ceiling and counted my breaths until my body stopped shaking. I didn’t cry. Not then. Tears felt like something that belonged to a different version of me, someone who still thought this was salvageable.

In the morning, he handed me coffee like nothing had changed.

I wasn’t going to beg. I wasn’t going to have a hissy fit. I was going to wait for what I couldn’t control.

I expected a conversation. You know, “I’m sorry, sweetheart, but my cousin is just hotter than you.” Or, “It’s not you, it’s me.”

Two days later, the papers arrived. The doorbell rang, and someone said, “You’ve been served.”

Just like that, I was fooled again. No conversation, just legal documents.

I quickly read them, then read them again. I was hurt, but I wasn’t sad. Why? Would that come later like an avalanche?

I folded the papers and placed them back in the envelope.

I wasn’t going to argue, beg, or ask why. I already knew.

I packed a bag with only what I needed, left everything else where it was, and walked out of the house I’d made warm for four years without looking back.

It was snowing when I stepped outside. I stood there for a moment, breathing in the cold air, feeling the Christmas spirit slip away. A chill settled in my chest.

What awaited me now? I honestly didn’t know.

But I knew one thing.

I wasn’t going back.

*****

Please READ: Author’s Note

Welcome to The Clause 🖤

I'm really glad you're here reading my story. So here goes.

Yes… there is a locked door.

Yes… there is power, tension, and kinky desires.

But this story isn’t just about innocence falling into wealth and BDSM. Or what we all know is behind a locked door. So I'm calling this out now.

It’s about a woman walking out of a brutal divorce, holding a winning lottery ticket, and stepping into a dangerous game of control, choice, and consequences.

Vick isn’t naïve. She’s wounded, smart, and standing at the edge of reinvention.

And Wesley? He isn’t a fantasy savior. He’s something darker. Strategic. Intentional. Calculated.

If you’re here for tension, psychological pull, dominance dynamics, money power, obsession, and a morally gray erotic romance, then stick around.

💬 I want to hear what you think because reactions, theories, red flags you spot, moments that made your heart race will help me with this story.

❤️ Likes and comments help this story reach more readers and inspires me to continue to write here for free here on Inkitt despite being approached by other sites who offer to pay for my work.

⭐ If you’re enjoying the ride, a quick review means everything to me.

Inkitt has a great reader and author community. Let's do our part and keep building this community together.

With gratitude.

E.G. Patrick

*********

Copyright © E.G. Patrick

All rights reserved.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

No part of this publication may be reproduced in any form, or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or any information browsing, storage, or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the author or agent.

1. Fiction, Action, Erotica, Romance / Mature Scenes. 18+