Her Ex-husband Is A God Of War

“Fuck everything. Max out your credit card. Rent a downtown hotel. Hit every spot the big guns know. Ten million dollars on dinner. Go insane. She’s your wife!” the blog screamed at him.

Charles stared at the screen. Bloggers’ creativity on steroids. Some people were born to ruin birthdays. This one? Definitely a contender.

The time read 12:13 a.m. on the nightstand.

His wife hadn't shown up in their bedroom. Obviously, as you might tell from the fact that his wife wasn't in bed at this odd hour, they were no longer in the honeymoon stage of marriage.

Did they even have a honeymoon?

Charles padded to the sitting room, expecting to find Emmy curled up with a throw blanket, maybe scrolling through the social media.

But the couch was empty. Her wine glass sat abandoned—still half full. Waste of a good Malbec. Her phone lay face-down beside it.

"Emmy?" he called softly.

Silence.

He checked the back door. Locked. Kitchen. Empty. The lights upstairs were off—all except one. The guest room.

Probably fell asleep watching N*****x again, Charles thought as he made his way up.

Then he heard a sharp gasp.

"Faster!"

His heart stopped.

Well, that's definitely not N*****x. Unless they've really upgraded their sound design.

The voice was coming from the guest room. His breath caught as his legs moved on autopilot, each step bringing him closer to sounds that made his stomach churn. Moans. The rhythmic creak of furniture. Her breathless desperate voice.

The door was ajar.

He pushed it open slowly, like he was defusing a bomb instead of just... well, apparently defusing his marriage.

And there it was.

His wife. Naked. Riding a man he'd never seen before—all sculpted muscle and expensive watch. A Rolex caught the lamplight as the stranger gripped Emmy's hips like he owned them.

Emmy's eyes met his. She gasped mid-moan, freezing like a deer caught in very, very compromising headlights.

The man turned. "Shit."

Eloquent. Really. Shakespeare would be proud.

Charles didn't yell. Didn't cry. Didn't dramatically throw things or demand explanations. Instead, he lifted his phone with the steady hand of a man photographing evidence for insurance claims.

Click.

One photo.

Click. Click.

Two more for good measure.

Then, slowly, he lowered the phone. "Happy early birthday, Emmy," he said, voice eerily calm.

Just minutes ago he was googling 'what to get the woman who has everything.' Well, mystery solved. Apparently, she gets the neighbor. Or whoever this guy is.

Charles turned and walked out before they could untangle themselves, heading straight to their bedroom. He locked the door and leaned against it, finally allowing himself a moment to process.

Two years of marriage. Two years of 'working late' and 'girls' nights' and him being the understanding husband.

He opened his photo gallery. The images stared back at him—high-definition proof that his wife was more flexible than he'd given her credit for.

Heavy footsteps in the hallway. Then pounding on the door.

"Open this door, Charles! Stop being dramatic!"

Dramatic? Oh, Emmy. You haven't seen dramatic yet.

He opened the door slowly. "What?"

"You misunderstood—" she started, throwing on his dress shirt like modesty was something you could retroactively achieve.

"I misunderstood you riding another man in our guest room?" He tilted his head. "Help me understand the correct interpretation."

"You're overreacting. You always do this—"

"This? When have I ever caught you mid-adultery before? Is there a pattern I missed?"

Her face flushed, but she pressed on. "We can talk about this like adults—"

"Adults? Adults don't bring their affairs into the family home." He gestured toward the guest room. "I was downstairs googling birthday gift ideas like some devoted puppy while you were upstairs getting your birthday present early."

Emmy's jaw tightened. For a moment, he saw something flicker across her face—guilt, maybe, or regret. But it vanished as quickly as it came.

"I have pictures, Emmy."

She blinked, and there it was again—a flash of vulnerability before her mask slipped back into place.

"And what exactly do you plan to do with them?" Her voice gained strength. "Show my parents? They've never liked you anyway. Show your friends? What friends, Charles?"

Ouch. Direct hit to the social life he definitely doesn't have.

She stepped closer, and he caught a whiff of unfamiliar cologne mixed with her perfume.

"Look around, Charles. This house? My name on the deed. The car you drive? My car. The food you eat, the bed you sleep in—all mine. And you want to act betrayed?"

Well, when she puts it like that, he's basically a kept man who just caught his sugar mama cheating. How very modern of them, right?

"Ever since we got married, what exactly have you contributed?" she continued, gaining momentum. "Besides your wounded puppy routine every time I try to have a life?"

Charles straightened. "Loyalty."

She laughed—actually laughed. "Loyalty? That's your grand contribution? Charles, loyalty doesn't pay bills. Loyalty doesn't make you interesting. Loyalty is just... maintenance."

He turned and grabbed his duffel bag from the closet, moving with methodical precision. Clothes. Toiletries. The few things that were actually his.

"What are you doing?" Emmy's voice cracked slightly.

"Apparently, freeing you from maintenance duties."

"Don't be ridiculous. Where are you even going to go?"

"Babe, you okay?" The other man's voice drifted from the doorway—apparently he'd found pants.

'Babe.' How delightfully original.

"Did he delete the pictures?" the stranger asked, stepping into their bedroom like he belonged there.

Their bedroom was now apparently a boardroom for adultery planning sessions.

"No," Emmy said quietly.

The man looked Charles up and down—assessing, calculating. Expensive haircut, definitely spends more on skincare than Charles spends on groceries.

"Look, man—Charles, right? Let's handle this like civilized people. Delete the photos, and we can all move on with our lives."

Charles zipped his bag slowly. "Civilized people don't screw other people's wives in their homes."

"Fair enough." The man's tone shifted. "You don't really have a lot of options here."

"You think Emmy ended up with someone like you by accident?" The man stepped closer. "She needs... more. More than you can give her."

Charles shouldered his bag. "Apparently."

"So delete the pictures. Save everyone the embarrassment."

"Embarrassment?" Charles turned. "Whose embarrassment are we worried about exactly?"

The man's jaw tightened. "Look, I tried to be reasonable—"

His hand shot out toward Charles's throat, but Charles was already moving. He held his fist at the man's face.

The punch connected with surgical precision.

The man flew backward, crashing into Emmy's antique dresser with a sound like expensive wood learning about reality.

Charles adjusted his bag strap and walked toward the front door, leaving behind the sound of Emmy's sharp intake of breath and her boyfriend groaning on the floor.

"Charles!" Emmy's voice cracked as she followed him. "Don't you dare walk out that door!"