Yesterday, a young woman strolled into my massage studio with an air of entitlement that immediately put me on edge. She flopped onto the massage table and sighed dramatically.
“Finally, I’m going to relax,” she said.
“Rough week?” I asked, trying to be polite.
“Too much stress!” she replied with a laugh. “My boyfriend’s divorcing his wife. Well, I’d leave her too. She just works all day, looks after their brats, cooks, cleans, and still can’t keep him happy.”
I froze, my hands hovering above her shoulders. Did she just say divorcing his wife?
She continued, oblivious to my shock. “Of course, he’s keeping the house—it’s his. I told him there’s no way I’m raising someone else’s kids. I mean, I’m not a nanny.”
My stomach churned, but I forced myself to stay composed. As she spoke, her phone buzzed loudly. She glanced at it, then set it face down on the table.
“Ugh, it’s him,” she muttered, waving her hand dismissively. “I’ll call him back later. I’m too relaxed right now.”
That’s when I caught a glimpse of her phone’s profile picture. My heart stopped.
It was a picture of her… and MY husband.
I clenched my teeth, my mind racing. This smug, self-satisfied woman was sitting here, boasting about how she’d stolen my husband.
I took a deep breath, plastered on a professional smile, and leaned closer. “Oh, no, don’t ignore him on my account,” I said sweetly. “You should take the call.”
She frowned, clearly annoyed at the interruption. “I said I’ll call him back later.”
I stepped back, crossing my arms. “No, really. Answer it. After all, it’s my husband calling.”
Her head whipped around so fast I thought she’d get whiplash. She stared at me, her face pale. “W-what?”
“You heard me,” I said, my voice icy. “That ‘boyfriend’ of yours? That’s my husband.”
Her jaw dropped, and she tried to sit up, but something was wrong. She let out a panicked scream. “I… I can’t move! What did you do to me?!”
I leaned down, my face inches from hers, and gave her a cold smile. “Relax, darling. It’s just a massage oil—specialized to help muscles completely relax. It’ll wear off in about thirty minutes.”
She stared at me in horror, unable to move a single limb.
I grabbed her phone, unlocked it with ease since she’d foolishly left the screen on. My husband’s contact info was right there, along with a string of nauseating messages. I took screenshots of everything, sent them to myself, and then calmly texted him from her phone.
“I know what you’ve been up to. We need to talk. Meet me at home.”
Then I looked down at her, still frozen on the table. “I hope this session was relaxing for you. Because your little affair? It’s over. And trust me, you’ll never step foot in this studio again.”
With that, I walked out, leaving her to stew in her humiliation.
As for my husband, let’s just say he found all his belongings neatly packed and waiting for him on the front lawn when he got home.