I once believed marriage would grant me security, yet within its stability, I felt suffocated. I mistook an extramarital affair for true love, only to plunge into an abyss of passion. For 365 days, I navigated between my husband and my lover, shifting roles between wife and mistress. Looking back on this sordid chapter now, I realize I was already scarred in every inch of my being. This is not a love story; it is a raw chronicle of a woman's self-loss and remorse.

Marrying Without Love
For six years, I deeply loved a dazzling soul, only to extinguish that fire myself, consumed by exhaustion. With my heart hollowed out, I chose a "safe choice"—a reliable, dependable man. This marriage had nothing to do with love; it was merely a hurried nest I built upon emotional ruins. A whirlwind wedding, pregnancy before marriage—I leapt into matrimony as if completing a task. The mundane reality of married life quickly surfaced. Without an emotional foundation, I lacked tolerance for him; his quiet nature became dullness, and his occasional neglect stung me. In the dead of night, watching my sleeping husband, waves of resentment and regret would crash over me. But reality was this: my daughter had arrived, her innocent smile the sole oasis in my emotional desert. The stability my husband offered felt like a room without windows—secure yet suffocating. I could see decades of my future laid bare, a terrifying predictability that made my soul, craving turbulence, wail silently in a despairing calm. The more my daughter's laughter healed, the sharper the void within me became. I was like a moth trapped in amber, yearning for light but frozen within a transparent cage.

The Office Intrigue
He was my direct superior, a prominent figure within the company. Utterly unlike my steady husband, he was witty, mature, exuding confidence and charm with every gesture. My job required frequent travel, providing the perfect timing. Our direct professional relationship created endless opportunities—countless meetings, client visits, walking side-by-side in the office without raising an eyebrow. Every legitimate interaction became fertile ground for the illicit. I distinctly sensed a dangerous current of attraction flowing between us. Meetings held lingering gazes, fractions of a second longer than with others. When he leaned in to offer guidance, my pulse would inexplicably quicken. I knew this was playing with fire, yet the part of me starved for excitement craved those flames.

The First Betrayal
The turning point came during a business trip. The project succeeded, and the celebratory dinner was vibrant. I knew my limits with alcohol, yet that night, I chose to be "less capable." Glass after glass, it wasn't so much being pressured as willingly lowering my guard. That I could let go so completely told me this was no accident. It was tacit consent, a yielding to the yearning deep within. What followed felt inevitable. Waking the next morning beside his sleeping form, surveying the disheveled room, a complex tide of emotion engulfed me—shame, panic, but overwhelmingly, a long-lost thrill and sweetness. I fell, hopelessly, and began yearning for him daily. Only later did the cruel realization dawn: for him, that night was likely, at least initially, just an exhilarating fling. This knowledge lodged itself in my heart like a splinter.

The Days of Deception
After the first time came the second, the third... Like children stealing forbidden fruit, we greedily sought solace in each other's warmth within hidden corners. I must admit, the physical harmony we shared was crucial to the affair's persistence. He, too, found unprecedented satisfaction in this intense pleasure, becoming more attentive, valuing me more, even creating opportunities for us to be together. As a married woman, my conscience swung violently between guilt and gratification. On one hand, I relished the thrill of "conquering" a man I once admired from afar. On the other, the illicit thrill of betraying my vows fed my restless heart's craving for drama. I even felt a shameful addiction to the morbid sense of fulfillment this double life provided.

Living a Double Life
I lived like an actress, shuttling between two worlds, each role draining me completely. By his side, I was the passionate mistress, sharing the most intimate joys. When he complained about his wife, I would even play the "understanding" partner, urging him to be patient and spend more time at home with his child. Heaven knows the hypocrisy and bitterness churning within me as I spoke those words. Seeing photos of his adorable daughter, my maternal instincts would snap me back to reality, prompting me to plead he not deprive his child of a father's love. Returning to my own home, facing my husband and daughter, guilt would drown me like an incoming tide. My husband handing me a glass of water would make me avert my eyes; my daughter's innocent gaze would become unbearable. At night, lying beside my husband, I'd be tormented by thoughts: What if this all came crashing down? If my daughter grew up and learned of her mother's actions, would she hate me? This relentless mental torture pushed me to the brink of madness.

Believing the Charade Could Last
Thus we entangled ourselves for a full year in our hidden corners. Benefiting from work and our positions, we spent more time together than most lovers ever could. We traveled together, worked late together—professional partners by day, entwined lovers by night. We fancied ourselves master actors, deceiving everyone. Among colleagues, a knowing glance, an "accidental" brush of fingers, became dangerous games we played. We revelled in our self-deluded "perfect" deceit, even growing complacent. At the affair's peak, we seriously discussed our future. Like strategizing a project, we planned how to "release" our spouses, how to divorce with minimal damage, and finally be together "openly." In that moment, we truly believed we were warriors defying convention, star-crossed lovers bound by true love.

Discovery
But secrets eventually surface. Our excessive proximity drew sidelong glances from colleagues. Whispers began to circulate like underground currents. Finally, our boss confronted him, demanding an immediate end to the relationship. He denied everything then. For me, it was a bucket of cold water. As someone who prized her professional reputation, genuine fear gripped me for the first time—fear of losing my job, fear of years of effort unraveling. Tragically, fear didn't bring clarity. Instead, it fostered a sense of shared adversity, a vow to be even more cautious. The true crisis came from his home. After an argument, blinded by emotion, I went to his apartment building. I wanted to test my worth through this extreme gesture. Standing in the cold wind, I texted: "I'm downstairs." He came down. We argued in hushed tones on a deserted sports field. We parted badly. As I turned to leave, I collided head-on with his wife, who had come down looking for him. My presence, at that time, in that place, was accusation enough. Her gaze swept over me like a searchlight, and I fled in shame.

Messages Exposed
That night stretched into eternity. Home, I paced restlessly. No replies to my messages, no answer to my calls. Fear of abandonment and desperation fueled a frenzy of attempts to reach him. Later, I learned it was this frantic barrage of calls that drew his wife's attention to his constantly lit phone screen. Cornered, he surrendered his device. He told me he could never bear to delete our messages—they were proof of our love. How ironic! These "precious" records became the fatal weapon shattering his family's peace. A year's worth of sweet nothings, explicit flirtations, even compromising photos—all laid bare before his wife. Almost immediately, his wife sent a voice message using his account. It was the cold, furious sound of a broken heart. She said she would tell my husband everything. My mind went blank. Only boundless fear remained. I imagined my husband's anguish, my parents' disappointment... I collapsed to the floor, awake all night.

His Choice to Return
After the storm, he vanished. When contact resumed, he claimed he was traveling. Now I see it as a desperate attempt to "start over" with his wife. But reality's weight far exceeded love's pull. His mother was devastated, even threatening suicide. On one side, a collapsing family; on the other, me, the source of trouble. The choice was obvious. Three days after discovery, his attitude shifted drastically. Over text, he accused *me* of "making scenes" and escalating the situation. I understood instantly: this was his strategy to shift blame. The next day, his final message arrived. Brief, but sharp as a knife: "I need out." "We're done." "No more contact." A man's ruthlessness and self-preservation laid bare. My self-respect lay shattered.

Colleagues, Still
He kept his word. All communication ceased. This ludicrous affair, spanning 365 days, ended in disgrace. I knew this was the best outcome for both families. Yet my heart felt hollow. My feelings had been genuine; his, seemingly just an adventure. But men can be both greedy and hypocritical. Just as I resolved to move on, he messaged mutual friends, lamenting his "true feelings," his "helplessness," his "agony." He still visited our secret "couple space" online, kept the profile picture I'd chosen. This was no longer affection; it was selfish theatre. He wanted both: to reclaim his family and image, while crafting a tragic hero persona for me, ensuring I wouldn't forget him. This was more repulsive than his cold dismissal. And now, we remain colleagues, sharing the same office day after day. Today, we sat through another meeting together. Amidst the crowd, our eyes met—just for an instant—then snapped away. The meeting ended, colleagues dispersed. Only the two of us remained in the office. The air thickened, heavy with suffocating silence. We stand as the closest strangers, on opposite banks of the chasm we dug with our own hands. Between us lies the irreparable rift torn through two families, and the self I can never reclaim.