Rage surged through him like wildfire. The other man barely had time to react before he was yanked from the bed, thrown against the wall with a force that rattled the cheap motel paintings. Screams filled the room as his wife begged him to stop, but the betrayal burned too deep. Every punch, every curse, was fueled by months of lies—now exploding in a storm of violence.

By the time it was over, the room was wrecked, the other man unconscious, and his wife sobbing on the floor. But instead of remorse, he felt something colder: satisfaction. He wiped his bloody knuckles, looked down at the wreckage of his marriage, and walked out without a word. Some lines, once crossed, can never be uncrossed.

By the time it was over, the room was wrecked, the other man unconscious, and his wife sobbing on the floor. But instead of remorse, he felt something colder: satisfaction. He wiped his bloody knuckles, looked down at the wreckage of his marriage, and walked out without a word. Some lines, once crossed, can never be uncrossed.