My Husband's Secret Account

My husband has a torch for "the one that got away" that burns brighter than the sun. He treats his burner account like a digital diary for his heartbreak. One day, he posted: "Dying to reply to you.

But how can I if you don't start it?" I commented anonymously: "Ever heard of making the first move?" He shot back: "Too scared she'll leave me on read." I rolled my eyes and gave him a tip: "Send her something she's actually interested in.

Bait the hook." The result? That night, a notification popped up on my screen. From him. "I have an eightpack. Want to see?" Before I could even type a question mark, the image loaded. Abs. Hard. Glistening with water droplets. Me: "?"

Chapter 1 Lachlan and I are a merger, not a marriage. Six months in, and we treat each other with the polite indifference of two coworkers sharing a break room. I knew about his unrequited love before the ink dried on the license.

When our families first proposed the union, he fought it like a man on death row. Then, twentyfour hours later? He folded. He even moved the wedding up a week. I guess he did the math.

The benefits of merging our portfolios outweighed pining after a ghost who didn't want him. People are selfish. I’m no exception. So I don't care who occupies the rentfree space in his head. Life is… beige. My only source of serotonin?

Stalking Lachlan’s secret account. I found it by accident, recognized the writing style immediately. He’s still pining. Hard. Every day, like clockwork, he drops a few lines of cringey, heartbreak poetry. I read them with popcorn.

Sometimes, I troll him.

WaitingForHer: "Is it the wrong time, or am I just not worth it?" Me (Anonymous): "Why not both?" WaitingForHer: "I pretend I don't care, only to realize you actually don't." Me: "Clown." WaitingForHer: "Nights are for overthinking.

And it's always about you." Me: "Get a night shift job. You have too much free time." I'm not the only one.

The comments section is a roast. "Sad Boy Summer continues." "Deep Bro." "I come here for my daily dose of secondhand embarrassment." "Run out of captions? Just copy Sad Boy's feed." He ignores us all. Just keeps posting into the void.

Tonight, I opened his profile as usual. New post. Five minutes ago. Same toxic sadboy energy. WaitingForHer: "Dying to reply to you. But how can I if you don't start it?" I stared at the screen and rolled my eyes hard.

I typed back: "Can't you make the first move?" Does he think telepathy is real? Just because she doesn't text, does that mean you can't? No wonder his years of unrequited love have gone nowhere.

He’s sitting there manifesting a text instead of sending one. To my surprise, he replied. WaitingForHer: "Scared she won't reply." I scoffed. Coward. Doesn't he know fortune favors the bold? Or at least the loud?

Then again, Lachlan is about as spontaneous as a spreadsheet. If he initiated, it would probably be "Greetings." I sighed, typing out some charity advice.

Me: "Send her something she's actually interested in." You have to bait the hook if you want a bite. Interesting topics are what make people want to chat. A long pause. Then: WaitingForHer: "Okay. I get it. Thanks." Finally. Maybe he’s evolving.

Chapter 2Satisfied with my charity work, I swiped out of the app, shifted my weight on the plush cushions, and started watching videos.Suddenly, a notification banner slid down the top of my screen. Lachlan.I frowned. Why is he texting me? We live in the same house. I tapped it open. The air left my lungs in a sharp rush.

"I have an eightpack. Do you want to see? ( ˙ー˙ )"It wasn't a question. It was a warning shot. Because a second later, an image loaded.My eyes widened until they burned. My thumb, acting on some traitorous instinct, tapped the screen.Zoom.Enhance.In the photo, his bathrobe hung dangerously loose. The lighting caught the ridges of muscle, carving deep shadows into his torso. Pale, sunstarved skin. Taut.

And the water.A single, heavy bead of moisture clung to his lower rib, tracing a slow, glistening path down his oblique before disappearing into the dangerous waistband of his lowslung boxers. The texture of his skin looked cool to the touch, but I could almost feel the heat radiating off the pixels.

What the hell? Is this a test? Is he trying to shortcircuit my brain?My throat clicked dry. I swallowed, the sound loud in the silent room. A biological betrayal. My fingers hovered over the keyboard, shaking slightly.Me: "?"He replied instantly.Lachlan: "Are you interested?"I stared at the words, the haze of lust clearing just enough for logic to kick in.

Oh.The realization hit me like a bucket of ice water. He took my advice. He’s practicing. He’s trying to bait the hook for her.The guy actually has game. Or at least, he has the equipment. He just has terrible aim.Check the contact name before you hit send, you idiot. Sending a thirst trap to your wife meant for your secret crush? The awkwardness was suffocating.

I had to save him.Me: "You sent this to the wrong person, right?"I waited a beat, imagining him hyperventilating in the other room, so I added a mercy kill.Me: "Don't worry. Unsend it. I'll pretend I saw nothing."The 'typing' bubble appeared. Then disappeared. Then appeared again. He was spiraling.Finally, three words popped up.

Lachlan: "Can't unsend."I winced.Me: "It's fine. My memory has been wiped. Never happened."A long pause.Lachlan: "…

Oh."

The next day, WaitingForHer updated his status. WaitingForHer: "One moment of bravery. A lifetime of hiding." I blinked. Did the abs not work? Is this mystery woman made of stone? Is she immune to men? I scrolled down.

The comment section was a graveyard of his dignity. "LMAO. Moment of silence for our fallen brother." "You played the game, and the game played you." "Alexa, play 'Marvins Room'." He ignored the roasting. Instead, he posted again.

WaitingForHer: "Just give me a walkthrough. I want a happy ending with her." He’s still simping. It was painful to watch. I couldn't help myself. I typed out a comment. Me: "Why don't you just pin her against a wall?

Assert dominance." Clearly, he didn't have the guts. Someone else replied to him: "Stop wishing on the internet, kid. Go to a temple. Pray for a miracle." WaitingForHer: "We're already married. Thanks." ?

The comment section exploded. "???" "The clown is me." "Plot twist of the century." "I'm out. Unfollowing." "Your wife is sleeping next to you and you're posting sad poetry online?

Do you have a death wish?" "Wait… his handle is 'Waiting For Her Love'." "I get it now. He has her body, but not her heart." "Arranged marriage trope? I'm listening."

Chapter 3 I sat there, brain buffering. Fact: Lachlan’s wife is me. Conclusion: No way… I took a deep breath, fingers hovering over the keyboard. I needed to verify this data.

Me: "You like your wife?" WaitingForHer: "Duh." WaitingForHer: "That thing you said earlier. About asserting dominance. What does that actually entail?

Does it work?" I was still processing the seismic shift in my reality—that I was the mysterious 'Her'—when his question popped up. So, the abs photo wasn't a mistake. He was actually trying to cater to my interests.

Before I could even process that, a random commenter beat me to the reply. "It's about aggressive, unapologetic passion. You choke her a little. Kiss her until she suffocates. Rip off your tie, bind her struggling hands, and pin them above her head.

Make her feel the sheer weight of your obsession." My mouth twitched. Stop helping him! Do you want to get me killed? You don't know him—he takes instructions literally! Predictably, Lachlan replied.

WaitingForHer: "Does that actually work?" "Only if you're hot. If you're ugly, it's a crime." WaitingForHer: "I'm not ugly. But I'm scared." "Then enjoy posting sad poetry for the rest of your life." WaitingForHer: "Thanks.

I've decided to be brave one more time." Oh god. He’s activating Brave Mode again. Lachlan is going to try to… dominate me? The weirdest part? My stomach did a little flip. And it wasn't from fear.

7:00 PM. I walked downstairs to find Lachlan sitting in the living room. He looked like he’d been planted there for hours. He’s always home by seven. That’s when I eat. I used to think he was just a creature of habit.

Once, on a rainy day, he was late, and I’d already finished eating. Ever since then, he started coming home an hour early. Just sitting there. Waiting. Until I came down, he wouldn't move toward the dining room.

I used to think he was just rigid about his schedule. That he hated having his routine disrupted. Now I realize… he was just syncing his timeline to mine.

At the dinner table, silence reigned supreme. The only sound was the clinking of silverware against china. I studied him over the rim of my glass. He looked like a man walking to the gallows. Or maybe a man about to rob a bank.

Heavy thoughts were clearly weighing down that pretty head of his. Suddenly, he put down his chopsticks. "Martha, do we have any alcohol in the house?" My hand paused midair. Liquid courage?

Martha walked in from the kitchen, wiping her hands on her apron. "We do. Why the sudden interest, sir?" The tips of his ears turned a shade of pink that clashed with his stoic expression. He looked away. "Mm. Just thirsty." Martha didn't pry.

She just nodded and went to fetch a bottle. Thirsty. Right. And I'm the Queen of England.

Chapter 4 I had zero data on his alcohol tolerance. Was he a sleepy drunk? A crying drunk? Or a tableflipping drunk? A flicker of worry sparked in my chest. Then I saw the label. Fruit wine. Basically juice for adults. Crisis averted.

Lachlan hesitated for a fraction of a second before downing the glass like a shot of tequila. He slammed the glass down, his gaze darting toward me before snapping away. The flush on his neck deepened, spreading all the way to the tips of his ears.

I’d finished eating. Sensing the awkwardness radiating off him in waves, I decided to make a tactical retreat. I stood up silently and headed upstairs. By 10:00 PM, the house was silent. No footsteps. No knocking. No chaos.

I lay on my stomach, scrolling through my phone, a small laugh bubbling up in my throat. He chickened out. Of course he did. The weird knot of anxiety—and the strange, twisted anticipation I refused to name—slowly unraveled in my chest.

Thirsty, I went downstairs for a glass of water. I walked back up, turned the handle to my bedroom, and stepped inside. The world spun. Suddenly, I was pressed flat against the door. A wall of heat and solid muscle caged me in.

Lachlan’s breathing was heavy, ragged, filling the small space between us. He leaned down, pressing his forehead against mine. I looked up, locking eyes with him. Gone was the cold, distant CEO.

His dark pupils were blown wide, swirling with a heavy, suffocating possessiveness. His breath hitched. It smelled sweet. Intoxicating. Peaches. My brain stuttered. "Lachlan… you…" I didn't finish. His mouth crashed onto mine. There was no preamble.

No gentle testing of the waters. It was frantic. Desperate. Tasting of sugar and alcohol. The pressure was intense, bordering on suffocating. My body went rigid on instinct. I felt his large hand wrap around my throat. He didn't squeeze.

It was a ghost of a grip—a threat, a claim—thumb resting against my pulse point. The sensation sent a jolt of static down my spine. It tickled, in a terrifying way. I pushed against his shoulders, trying to buy an inch of space.

He misinterpreted the move. He thought I was fighting him. The kiss broke, his lips hovering millimetres from the corner of my mouth. Hot, wet breaths ghosted over my skin. Then, he moved.

With a sharp zip, he loosened his tie and ripped it from his collar. The top button of his shirt popped, revealing the sharp, pale line of his clavicle. Before I could process the visual, the black silk was winding around my wrists. Loop after loop.

Tight. Unyielding. He seized my bound hands and shoved them high above my head, pinning them against the wood of the door. My eyes nearly popped out of my head. Holy s—. He’s actually doing it. He’s following the tutorial. His mouth descended again.

But this time, the frenzy was gone. The kiss was slow. Deep. Ruinous. It went on until my lungs burned, until the edges of my vision blurred. Only then did he pull back, just enough to breathe.

His grip on my wrists loosened, letting my arms drape over his shoulders. He collapsed against me, burying his face in the crook of my neck. He rubbed his cheek against my skin, like a cat marking its territory.

The room was silent, save for the harsh, synchronized rhythm of our breathing. A long moment passed. Then, he spoke. His voice was wrecked.

Gravel and glass. "Don't be so distant with me…" He nuzzled deeper, his breath hot against my throat. "Please…" The tone whiplash was severe.

One second, he's pinning me to a door like a romance novel villain; the next, he sounds like a lost child begging to be found. I blinked, my heart hammering a frantic rhythm against my ribs. A dominant alpha who begs? Interesting