The man I had an affair with was the marriage counselor my husband paid a fortune to bring us together-3

Muffled Tears in the Night
His steady breaths confirmed sleep. I slipped into the bathroom, locking the door. The faucet roared to life, torrential water drowning the tiny room. Slumping onto the cold toilet lid, I pressed a towel hard against my face. The dam burst. Sobs wracked my body, shoulders shuddering uncontrollably. Loneliness, neglect, unseen pain—a deluge unleashed. I bit my lip raw, stifling every sound. He slept just beyond the door. My sorrow drowned in this artificial cascade. I cried until emptiness replaced tears. Standing before the mirror, I confronted a woman with swollen eyes and ghostly pallor. I pulled my lips into a semblance of a smile. The reflection stared back, its grimace more tragic than tears.

The Restaurant "Solution"
David booked an upscale French restaurant—uncharacteristic. Beneath crystal chandeliers, his crisp suit felt constricting. "What brought this on?" I asked, slicing steak, feigning lightness. He sipped his wine, then set the glass down, interlacing fingers like an executive announcing layoffs.

"Sophie," his gaze was earnest yet distant, "I believe we require… professional intervention. "My fork froze mid-air. "Meaning?" "Marriage counseling." The words tumbled out, rehearsed. "A renowned expert, discreet. He specializes in… stagnation like ours." "Stagnation?" The word slid like ice into my gut. So this was his diagnosis—a project needing repair. "We need outsiders to teach us how to be?" My voice tightened. "It's efficient." His reply was clinical. My knife screeched across the plate. The expensive meal suddenly felt absurd.