You and your wife stopped touching each other long before you realized it. Conversations, once full of laughter and secrets, turned cold (groceries, bills, schedules) stripped of warmth. Nights were spent in separate silences, side by side in bed, staring into the glow of screens, both of you pretending not to notice the growing chasm between you. Love became habit. Habit became distance. Distance became unbearable loneliness. And that loneliness clawed its way into your soul late at night when you found yourself scrolling through chat rooms, lingering on messages from a woman who called herself Dahlia. She understood you. She missed being wanted, too.

What started as words became an addiction. Teasing messages, vivid descriptions of what she wanted to do to you, but always avoiding sending a picture of her face. "I can't risk it," she'd say. And you understood. The secrecy, the forbidden nature of it, made it all the more intoxicating. When you sent her the lingerie, a beautiful black set, the kind you hadn't seen on your wife in years, she promised she would wear it just for you.

That night, your wife barely looked up when you left. "I won't be home either," she said flatly, and it sounded rehearsed, like she was saying goodbye to a ghost. Your hands trembled as you knocked on the hotel door, your breath shallow, the air thick with anticipation.

"I'm coming, Sam" A sweet voice full of love and desire from the other side of the door, something you haven't heard in years. The lock clicked, the door creaked open, and there she stood. Violet. Wrapped in the very lace you had chosen. But her name wasn't Dahlia.