I don’t know how much courage it took, but with trembling fingers, I finally tapped on the second video.

Through the transparent glass of a hotel bathroom, I could see Maverick showering. Tossed carelessly on the floor lay two used condoms.

The mistress deliberately zoomed in on them. In the video, her voice rang light and teasing: “Maverick, you’re so bad. Lying to your wife again about having a work event out of town.”

“How else would I find time to be with you?” He chuckled lazily.

“But isn’t she about to give birth? Shouldn’t you be home with her?”

Maverick scoffed, unbothered. “What’s so special about a woman giving birth? Me being there won’t spare her any pain, will it?”

“Hmm, I see,” the mistress purred, her tone thick with innuendo. “It’s because she’s all pregnant and awkward now, isn’t it? That’s why you don’t want to touch her—why you’re so insatiable tonight. You nearly broke me with how rough you were.”

“She could never feel as good as you,” Maverick muttered dismissively. His voice sharp, unkind. “Even if she wasn’t pregnant, I wouldn’t want to touch her.”

“Liar,” the woman teased. “If you won’t even touch her, then how did she end up pregnant? Unless… unless her baby belongs to some other man?”

Maverick said nothing.

The silence lingered just long enough for her to press him further: “So, Maverick, when are you going to divorce her?”

In a conciliating tone, he replied, “Baby, don’t rush me. It’s not the right time yet. But I swear to you, I’ll keep my promise.”

The woman sounded impatient. “Then tell me—when will it be the right time?”

“When she…”

The video cut off abruptly.

I knew it was bait, an obvious trap she’d set just to provoke me. But even knowing that, I walked right into it.

I called the woman immediately, my voice shaking with fury. “Who the hell are you?!”

She must’ve been expecting my call; her response came smooth and unhurried. “Who I am doesn’t matter. What matters is that your husband just finished sleeping with me.”

Through the line, I could hear the faint sound of water trickling. Maverick was showering, which explained the mistress’s audacity. She knew he wouldn’t overhear.

My chest tightened, but I forced myself to suppress my tears. Through gritted teeth, I demanded, “Have you no shame?”

“No shame at all,” she said, laughing lightly. “That’s why I’m sleeping with your husband. Zaina, if you have any shame, why don’t you do the right thing and divorce him? Make room for me.”

“You…” My voice cracked as I tried to form words. But before I could hurl the insults building in my throat, I heard Maverick in the background: “Baby, who are you on the phone with?”

“Your wife,” she answered, her tone deceptively sweet.

Maverick laughed. “Baby, you’re so naughty.”

“I’m serious. Don’t believe me?”

“Oh, I believe you,” he said, his tone darkening into amusement. “In fact, why don’t you let her hear how well I take care of you?”

What followed was a parade of obscene, repugnant noises—flirtatious whispers, shameless moans. Grotesque. Cruel.

The woman must’ve hidden the phone so I could hear everything, deliberately amplifying their depravity. She wanted me to feel it, to choke on their vulgarities.

I couldn’t take it any longer. I hung up.

Even now, I can’t say when exactly the tears began to fall; they simply overwhelmed me, soaking my cheeks as my chest cracked open with pain.

Today, I saw the real Maverick—the side of him I’d never known existed. The man I’d loved for years. The man who’d played the role of the perfect, devoted husband so flawlessly, I never even glimpsed the cracks.

During the early months of my pregnancy, my progesterone levels had plummeted. The morning sickness was so severe, I couldn’t even keep water down. The doctor advised strict bed rest, and Maverick had insisted—no, demanded—that I quit my job to focus on the baby’s health.

So I’d been home. Resting. Waiting for him to return each day, imagining we were building a life together.

To pass the time, I’d spend hours scrolling through social media. Occasionally, I’d come across posts from other pregnant women—heartbreaking stories of betrayal. Accounts of husbands straying while their wives endured the grueling ten months of pregnancy alone.

Sometimes those posts shocked me so much, I’d share them with Maverick, half-joking as I asked, “Can you even imagine? How could a man betray his wife at a time like that?”

Maverick always played his part perfectly. He’d pull me into his arms, his words solemn but playful: “If I ever cheated on you, you’d grind me into paste and smear me over the walls, right? Or maybe toss me down the drain so I couldn’t even reincarnate?”

He’d laugh, then press a warm kiss to my temple. “Baby, stop reading nonsense. My love for you—it’s as clear as the sun and the moon, as steadfast as the heavens and the earth.”

And I had believed him. Completely.

I had believed my Maverick could never betray me. That he, of all men, would hold true—when all others might falter.

How foolish I’d been.