Single Mom, Billionaire's New Life

At ten o'clock that night, just as I was settling into bed, my phone rang. The number was unfamiliar but local.

On the other end of the line, a woman’s voice—clear and laced with a peculiar brightness—asked, “Are you Zaina Rogers?”

Caught off guard, I answered without a second thought. “Yes, that's me. Who’s this?”

The woman didn’t bother answering. Instead, she laughed—light, teasing, and deliberately slow—and said, “Your husband’s wild in bed.”

For a moment, I froze. The words didn’t even register at first, and when they did, their absurdity made me blink in confusion. Before I could gather my wits to demand who she was or how she’d even have grounds to say something like that, the line went dead, leaving only the relentless tone of a call ended.

I stared blankly at the screen for a moment, the surrealness of the situation tugging at both indignation and amusement. It had to be a prank. I set my phone down with a dismissive huff, determined not to indulge someone’s twisted idea of entertainment.

But no sooner had the phone met the nightstand than a new notification lit up the screen—a text. I picked it up again to see a video attachment from the same number, accompanied by a single, taunting line:

“Don’t believe me? Take a good look at the real Maverick Jones.”

Even the name was precise. Maverick, my husband of six years. Maverick, who was supposed to be away on a business trip in Notonia.

My heart thudded painfully once, then fell into a steady, foreboding rhythm. Against better judgment, I tapped on the video. Curiosity overrode the whispers of reason telling me not to look.

The moans hit first, a series of breathy cries that spilled into my quiet bedroom like an uninvited guest. The sound alone was intrusive, indecent, and I fumbled hastily to lower the volume, cheeks blazing even though no one but me could hear it.

With anxious breaths, I focused on the screen. The visual that followed made me recoil involuntarily—bodies tangled in the sterile anonymity of a hotel bed. Clothes strewn on the floor; skin upon skin, unashamed and unabashed. The scene was ugly in its grotesque intimacy—not simply raunchy but violent in what it implied. I could think of only two words: raw and repulsive.

A surge of anger boiled through me. Cruel, childish. Who was pathetic enough to spam adult videos to a heavily pregnant woman? Yet as my thumb hovered over the exit button, ready to purge the offending mess, a familiar voice from the video froze me cold.

“You little vixen, twice wasn’t enough for you?”

The chill was instant and paralytic. That voice—it was unmistakable. My eyes snapped back to the screen where the man finally turned his face to the camera, his laugh nonchalantly arrogant. He slapped the woman's backside with a kind of brazen delight and taunted, “What’s the deal, trying to drain me dry?”

I couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t move. My entire body had turned to ice, down to the furthest exhalation.

There it was—his face. Maverick’s face. My husband’s face.

The video offered no mercy as it captured him in graphic detail, every gesture alive with familiarity. The short clip oozed a horror so intimate it made me want to peel off my own skin just to escape it.

Slowly, numbly at first, I replayed it. Over. And over. Searching for salvation in some hidden pixelation, some imperfection, some glitch to deny its reality. But no. It was him.

In the corner of the screen, the timestamp glared like an accomplice, confirming it had been recorded less than an hour ago. Tonight. While I had lain here counting kicks inside my swollen belly, Maverick had been counting thrusts in some stranger’s bed.

He’d called me earlier, just a few hours before. Said he was with a difficult client, the kind who wouldn’t sign unless wined and dined to oblivion. “Baby,” he’d apologized, his tone full of staged remorse, “I’m sorry, but this deal is time-sensitive. I'll be on the first flight home as soon as I can. I can’t miss being there for the birth of our little one. That’s sacred.”

He’d sounded so genuine.

The exhaustion in his voice, the weary weight of business after an economic downturn that had hit every small entrepreneur hard… I’d forgiven so much. Waved him off with reassurances. Not to worry. Not overwork himself. I wasn’t due quite yet anyway...

How ironic. I’d believed in his sacrifices, his noble hardships. And now I couldn’t stop my mind from unraveling every late night, every missed flight, every hangover he’d stumbled home with. How many of them had had nothing to do with work?

Fueled by outrage and disbelief, I scrambled to dial him. Anger steadied my hands, but when the line rang twice, he rejected the call. A few seconds later, a voice message arrived on WhatsApp.

“Hey babe. Can’t talk now—client dinner. Miss you tons.” His tone was casual, warm, like I was some dim-witted cheerleader still charmed by his quarterback grin.

Dinner, huh? My stomach twisted in fury. Is that what he called screwing another woman?

I redialed, my simmering rage demanding answers. But before it could connect, a second video came through—fresh ammunition from the mystery number.

This one, somehow, was worse than the first.

And it would burn into my mind, into my soul, for as long as I lived.