If you haven't read the previous part, check it out here.
A few days passed.
Not better days. Just quieter ones.
The house returned to routine — morning alarms, coffee cups, work calls — but something underneath had changed temperature. We spoke less. When we did, it was practical. Polite. Like two people who knew not to touch a subject because touching it might make it real.
One evening, while we were eating dinner, she said it casually.
"We should go somewhere. Just relax."
I looked up, surprised by how normal her voice sounded.
"Where?" I asked.
"Goa," she said immediately, like she'd already thought it through. "Beach. Drinks. No stress. You've been tense."
Tense.
The word almost made me laugh.
But I didn't deny it. I nodded instead. After all, Goa meant escape. Sun. Noise. Distraction. A place where things blurred easily and questions felt less urgent.
"Yeah," I said. "Could be fun."
She smiled then. A real one. The kind I hadn't seen in weeks.
We picked dates. Booked flights. Reserved a hotel near the beach. She handled most of it, efficient and decisive, like she'd slipped into a role she was comfortable owning.
As the days counted down, she seemed lighter. More animated. Shopping online for clothes. Checking weather updates. Mentioning bars and cafés she wanted to try.
I told myself this was good.
A break would reset us. Distance would soften whatever had crept between us. Goa would be us again.
Still, late at night, when she slept with her phone face down beside her, I wondered if the trip was about relaxation at all.
Or if it was just another place where the rules could bend quietly.
Either way, the dates were locked.
And something told me that when we returned, things wouldn't be the same — no matter how much sun we soaked in.
Packages started arriving almost every day.
Small boxes at first. Then bigger ones. Brown cardboard with familiar logos, stacked near the door like quiet announcements. She'd pick them up herself, faster than usual, a little too alert about the delivery timing.
"Online sales," she said once, casually. "Goa stuff."
I watched from the couch as she tried things on.
Not for me. Not to ask my opinion. Just… to see herself.
Revealing tops that didn't belong to the version of her I lived with every day. Skirts that moved differently when she walked. Bikinis laid out on the bed like decisions already made. Lingerie that felt deliberate — not playful, not private. Strategic.
She looked damn good. That wasn't the problem.
The problem was the energy behind it.
She'd step out of the bedroom, catch her reflection, adjust a strap, smooth a fabric edge. Her excitement wasn't loud, but it was unmistakable. A quiet buzz under her skin. Anticipation.
"Too much?" she asked once, holding up a piece of lingerie between her fingers.
I swallowed. "No. It's… nice."
She smiled. Not reassured. Amused.
"Good," she said. "Goa is chill, but you still have to look right."
Look right for whom? I wondered.
But I didn't ask.
In the evenings, she'd sit scrolling through photos of beaches, bars, clubs. Her phone never far from her hand. Sometimes she'd laugh softly at something on the screen and not explain it.
I told myself she was just excited about the trip.
And maybe she was.
The night before we left, her suitcase lay open on the bed. I saw what made the cut. What didn't. Casual clothes pushed aside for things that announced confidence. Visibility. Intent.
She zipped it up with satisfaction.
"Tomorrow," she said, stretching like someone about to step into a better version of herself.
The day of our journey arrived quietly. Early morning. Cab waiting. Airport lights still dim with sleep. She wore one of the new outfits — effortless, flattering, unmistakably not for staying invisible.
As we sat on the plane, her hand resting lightly on the armrest between us, she looked relaxed. Excited. Almost glowing.
I leaned back, watching the runway blur past the window, and felt a strange mix of anticipation and unease settle into my chest.
Goa was supposed to be a break.
But something told me this trip wasn't about rest at all.
It was about release.
And I had no idea what that would cost me.
The next morning, she stepped out of the bathroom and I felt it immediately.
She was wearing red.
Not soft red. Not playful red. A deep, unapologetic red one-piece that clung to her like it had been chosen with intention. The neckline dipped low enough that it didn't ask for attention — it claimed it. Her hips were clearly outlined, the fabric doing nothing to hide the confidence in the way she stood.
She looked… powerful.
Not dressed for comfort. Not dressed for travel. Dressed to be noticed.
I hesitated before speaking, already knowing how it would go.
"Maybe wear something a little loose?" I said, trying to sound reasonable. "It's a flight. Long queues. Crowded."
She didn't even look at me at first.
"No," she replied flatly, checking herself in the mirror. "This is fine."
There was no discussion. No compromise. Just a decision already made.
At the airport, I understood why.
Eyes followed her everywhere. Security guards tried — and failed — to look professional. Their gazes lingered a second too long, hungry, unhidden. I could feel it. The awareness crawling over her skin, feeding something inside her.
She noticed too.
Her back straightened. Her walk slowed. She owned the attention like it was owed to her.
And then it happened.
Near the check-in counters, I saw him.
Andrew.
Her boss.
Older. Bald. Confident in that effortless way men get when power has insulated them from consequences. He spotted her instantly. His face lit up — not surprised, not awkward.
Relieved.
"Shanaya," he said, opening his arms.
She walked straight into them.
The hug lasted longer than necessary. Closer than professional. Her body pressed against his without hesitation, her face near his shoulder like it belonged there. Like they'd done this before. Like it was normal.
I stood there, holding our documents, invisible.
When they pulled apart, he barely acknowledged me. A quick glance. A nod that felt more like permission than greeting.
"So you're the husband," he said, not offering his hand.
Not asking my name.
Then he turned back to her.
"You look incredible," he added, openly. Comfortably. Like there was no need to lower his voice.
She smiled. Not embarrassed. Not flattered.
Validated.
They started talking immediately — about flights, hotels, meetings in Goa. I followed half a step behind, luggage in hand, listening to plans I hadn't been part of.
At one point, he gestured without looking at me.
"Can you grab coffee?" he said — to her — and she looked at me expectantly.
I did it without thinking.
Standing in line, I watched them from a distance. The way she leaned toward him. The way he spoke close to her ear. The way she laughed at things I couldn't hear anymore.
It was painfully clear.
In that space, under airport lights and wandering eyes, the hierarchy had already been decided.
She wasn't my wife there.
She was his woman.
And I was just the man carrying the bags, learning — far too late — where I stood.
To be continued…
To say thank you, I'm sharing something close to my heart — the ENM Starter Kit (Hotwife Edition). It's the exact guide my husband and I built together — filled with real conversations, rituals, and reflections.
If you've ever wanted to explore the lifestyle with love, consent, and safety — this is for you.
Download it here → ENM Starter Kit (Hotwife Edition)
From my heart to yours — thank you for being part of a judgment-free world.
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