Romeo moved his things back the same day of my party.
Right after he kicked everyone out and called his bi-weekly cleaning service to “bleach the entire house, walls and ceiling included.”
I spied from my bedroom window as an army of people on his payroll wheeled his suitcases back inside. I hugged my arms, thinking about what had happened between us just hours ago.
When Romeo came in my mouth, I’d saved some of his semen under my tongue. I read somewhere that sperm could still survive in the mouth, provided it remained in its gel-like form.
It did.
When I dashed into my room to spit it into a mouthwash cup, I figured I could try to get pregnant.
But leaning against my sink, observing the white thing swimming in the small cup, something prevented me from doing it.
My morals, maybe.
I still had them, though my husband had lost his somewhere along the way.
It was sperm-stealing.
It was wrong.
And I, unfortunately, had boundaries I refused to cross.
Sure, I had no obligation to take the ethical highway. Not after everything Romeo had put me through. He’d deceived me in so many ways, so it was only fair I deceived him back.
Still, my pride wouldn’t let me conceive this way.
With spat-out semen. In a bathroom. Like a thief.
No. Romeo’s downfall would be of his own making.
I intended to break him.
The cracks were already apparent, imprinted everywhere on his behavior.
He wanted me. I knew he did.
Even if it was the last thing he needed.
As I watched my beautiful, awful husband weave through the garden, stone-faced, his phone pressed to his ear, undoubtedly discussing something work-related, I wondered what bringing him to full submission would feel like.
I was certainly going to find out.
