Under Surveillance: The Price of Betrayal

My wife got an expensive boob job out of nowhere, yet she treated her new body like a restricted area. Just brushing against her sparked a massive blowout.

That is, until her Instagram flashed with a disappearing photo and a DM. [Baby, see you at the old motel this weekend.

Can't wait to rip off your new lingerie.] Ice flooded my veins.

She took the money I worked myself to the bone for to pay for that expensive surgery, all just to please some trashy influencer who begged for views with thirst traps.

Chapter 1 Stepping out of the shower, I found Sloane lounging sideways on our bed, meticulously rubbing lotion into her skin.

The dim light caught the sheen on her pale skin, and a soft breeze stirred her hair. Her new curves were undeniable. My mouth went dry.

I walked over, my pulse picking up, and gently wrapped my arms around her neck. I leaned down. She shoved me back without a second of hesitation. "What are you doing?

I'm not done with my lotion!" "It's been a long time since you let me touch you." I wasn't ready to back off just yet, leaning in for a kiss.

Sloane scowled, her body stiffening. "I'm exhausted lately. I'm not in the mood." Her extreme resistance made the doubts in my head explode.

I took a cold step back, staring at her fake, dismissive posture. I dropped back onto the bed, killing the mood. "What's your problem? Work stressing you out?

Or is your leech of a mother begging for cash again?" "Ugh, just leave it alone," she snapped. She slammed the lotion bottle down onto the nightstand. "It's late.

Go to sleep." I flicked off the lamp and lay there in the dark, wide awake. The air between us had turned to ice.

She flinched at my touch and rolled her eyes every time I opened my mouth. I kept racking my brain, trying to figure out where we went off the rails.

Sloane and I had been married for almost five years. We weren't a fairy tale, but we were solid. Peaceful. How did it turn into this toxic mess overnight?

Staring blankly at the ceiling, I rewound the last few months. The timeline was clear. The massive shift in her personality started right around her breast augmentation.

My wife, Sloane, used to be conservative to the point of being a total prude. When we first met, she zipped her jackets all the way up to her chin.

So when she suddenly announced she wanted a boob job, it gave me whiplash.

I honestly thought she was joking. "You cry when you get a cavity filled, but you want major plastic surgery?

They literally slice you open and shove silicone in your chest." Sloane just kept scrolling through Kardashian posts on her phone, brushing me off. "Honey, it's an investment in my body.

Don't you want to look good walking around with a smoking hot wife?" No matter how hard I tried to talk her out of it, Sloane was dead set.

She booked the clinic immediately and completely shut me out, refusing to even let me drive her there. Chapter 2 Ever since Sloane's surgery, the ice between us only thickened.

Was it postop trauma? The question ate at me. Suddenly, her phone screen flared to life, casting a harsh glare across the pitchblack bedroom. I reached over to shut it off.

An Instagram notification flashed on the lock screen. [Baby, see you at the old motel this weekend. Can't wait to rip off your new lingerie.] The blood drained from my face.

A ringing started in my ears, drowning out everything else. The heavy device slipped from my numb fingers, slamming hard into my chest.

My hands shook violently as I punched in her passcode. I opened the app. The chat history scrolled on and on.

Filthy, graphic texts choked the screen, broken up by explicit photos Sloane had sent. Below a particularly revealing shot, she had typed. [Well?

Do you like what you see?] I clicked on the guy's profile. He was nothing but a trashy, lowlevel influencer.

He wore a cheap, fake gold chain around his neck and looked as painfully skinny as a junkie about to get high.

Even buried under ten layers of heavy filters, he couldn't hide that absolute guttertrash, gangbanger vibe. Bile rose in the back of my throat just looking at him.

But Sloane clearly felt differently. The chat logs were a masterclass in pathetic desperation.

She practically worshipped the scammer. [Babe, take me shopping tomorrow, please?] [I miss you so much. I only feel alive when I'm wrapped in your arms.] [Payday today, babe!

I'm going to drop it all on your stream tonight.] While she treated me like infected garbage, she was pouring all her heat into this loser. Then it hit me.

The "payday" she bragged about? Those were the exact dates I transferred her monthly allowance. She took my hardearned cash and threw it at this junkie's livestreams.

My wife was funding her own affair with my bank account. A sick, twisted part of my brain tried to rationalize it. Maybe it was just cybercheating.

Maybe they hadn't crossed the line in real life. It was a pathetic shred of hope, but I clung to it. I memorized the influencer's handle. I locked the screen.

I set the phone back on the nightstand and closed my eyes, playing dead.

The next morning, I threw a few shirts into a duffel bag and told Sloane a sudden work emergency required me to fly out of state. Her eyes instantly lit up.

A subtle, thrilled smirk tugged at the corners of her mouth. That look confirmed my worst fears. I pulled out of the driveway, but I didn't go to the airport.

I parked my car three blocks down, keeping a clear line of sight on our front door. My knuckles turned white against the steering wheel. The silence in the cabin was deafening.

It didn't take long. Sloane strutted out of the building. I trailed her Uber out of the suburbs, keeping a safe distance.

The car finally pulled up to the biggest luxury mall in the city. Sloane stepped out onto the pavement.

She held up her phone camera, obsessively reapplying her lip gloss, pacing back and forth with a flushed, eager glow on her face. Minutes later, Jace swaggered into view.

Right there, in broad daylight, surrounded by shoppers, they crashed into each other. They locked lips, grinding against each other with zero shame.

My fingernails dug so hard into my palms that the skin almost broke. I forced myself to stay glued to the driver's seat. Chapter 3 They walked through the glass doors hand in hand.

I killed the engine and followed them inside. They hit up one luxury boutique after another, emerging with arms full of heavy shopping bags.

Sloane swiped her card without a second thought. I squinted through the crowd. Every single bag carried men's clothing, hats, and designer shoes.

In all our years of marriage, she had only ever bought me a single discounted mug from a local flea market, boasting that it symbolized our pure, unmaterialistic love.

I used to brush it off. She grew up dirt poor, so I figured she was just frugal. I understood. But now the truth slapped me in the face. She wasn't saving pennies.

She just didn't want to spend a dime on me. But for this trashy influencer, she suddenly morphed into a highroller.

My phone vibrated endlessly in my pocket, flooded with transaction alerts. Sloane was just a parttime receptionist making minimum wage.

She was happily maxing out my platinum credit card. Providing for my wife was one thing. Funding my own cuckolding with my platinum card was a completely different story.

My first instinct was to storm over there and bust them right in the middle of the mall. But I stopped dead in my tracks. Exposing them now would be letting them off way too easy.

When Sloane and I first got together, everyone told me to run. Her dad was locked up in state prison for sexual assault.

Her mom was a crippling gambling addict who constantly begged her for cash. Her younger brother, Brady, was a high school dropout who spent his days getting into street fights.

Any sane guy would have sprinted in the opposite direction. But I held her hand. I was stupid enough to believe love could conquer her toxic upbringing.

Now, those memories felt like physical blows to the head. I had given her family everything, and this was my payback.

They shopped until noon, then hailed a cab straight to a cheap motel. I watched from the parking lot as his hand slid down to grip her waist.

The elevator doors slid shut behind them. A cold, heavy numbness swallowed me whole. There was no more running from reality.

I pulled out my phone and dialed my best friend, Asher. "You free tonight? Let's grab a drink.

I need a massive favor." I navigated the maze of downtown streets until I found the address Asher had texted me.

He had killed it in the business world lately, even bankrolling his own upscale lounge.

He had been trying to get me to drop by for months, but I always declined to keep Sloane from getting paranoid. I pushed open the heavy door to his private room.

He was already sitting in the VIP booth, sipping on an expensive glass of bourbon, waiting for me.

He raised his glass. "Look who finally decided to take a break from playing Husband of the Year." I grabbed the spare tumbler off the glass table and downed the liquor in one shot.

The dark burn clawed down my throat, grounding me. I slammed the empty glass down. "Sloane is screwing another guy." Chapter 4 "What? I told you she wasn't right for you.

I knew she'd pull something like this the second you married her." Asher slammed his hand against the table. "Tell me who this son of a bitch is.

I'll break his legs for touching my brother's wife." I stared at the gold band biting into my ring finger.

My chest tightened until it ached, the boiling rage locked down by sheer, grinding willpower. "Just tell me what you need," Asher said, leaning in. "I'll handle it." "Find out everything you can about this guy." I pulled up the influencer's profile and shoved my phone across the glass surface. "This is the scumbag?

He looks like absolute trash." I didn't answer, keeping my eyes locked on the screen. Asher moved fast.

By that night, he had sent over a comprehensive background check on the scammer.

Jace, twentyseven years old, high school dropout, with a criminal record that included a stint in prison for grand theft auto.

After getting out, he somehow blew up on TikTok by posting thirst trap ab videos and faking a deep, depressed persona.

He wasn't much to look at, but he knew exactly what to say to manipulate lonely women. He had quickly drawn in a harem of wealthy sugar mamas.

His entire lavish lifestyle was funded by their massive tips. And my wife, Sloane, was one of his prime cash cows. [Can you dig up the info on these other women?] [Consider it done.

I've already got my guys on it. You'll have the file by tomorrow at the latest.] I sat in the dark, tearing through every word of the document.

It was past eleven, and Sloane still wasn't home. I dialed her number. The call was instantly declined. My jaw clenched.

I hit redial three more times until the line finally connected. "What do you want? I was asleep." Sloane breathed heavily into the receiver, her tone dripping with irritation.

Through the speaker, I could clearly hear her ragged, uneven breathing. It was the middle of the night.

I didn't need a diagram to know exactly what was making her breathe like that. "Are you at home?" I asked, keeping my voice dead flat. "Duh.

It's the middle of the night, where else would I be?" I had to hand it to her—she was a masterclass sociopath.

She could lie through her teeth with absolute, unshakeable conviction.

If I wasn't currently standing in our bedroom, staring at the perfectly made, empty bed, I might have actually believed her bullshit. "Let's FaceTime.

I miss you." I forced the tremor out of my tone. "No.

I'm going to sleep." "You wouldn't happen to be somewhere else, would you?" Her pitch immediately spiked, defensive and sharp. "What the hell are you talking about? I am at home!

How could you not trust me? Whatever, I'm going to sleep!" The line went dead. She hung up in a pure, guilty panic. A cold smile stretched across my face. I had spooked her.

After tonight's little test, Sloane would definitely make a move tomorrow.

My company had recently developed a line of covert, smart home security cameras, and I had brought a stash of prototypes home a few weeks ago