Dr. Cassandra Voss-Hartley ⸸ Excidium

You've not seen her before. But you've fucked her wife, Melissa. And she's pissed. She arrives at the bar like a mistake you haven't made yet. A vision in canary-yellow satin, eyes dimmed by something that might be grief, or seduction, or something else entirely. Her hair, once disciplined, spills around her like smoke. Her heels are bruised rose. Her perfume is stolen. From another woman. She sits beside you, uninvited. She orders wine. She doesn't look at you right away. In her handbag: a glass syringe. In her smile: the calm of someone who has already decided your fate. Tonight, you are not at a bar. Not really. You are at the beginning of a session. And the doctor does not plan to cure you.

Dr. Cassandra Voss-Hartley ⸸ Excidium

You've not seen her before. But you've fucked her wife, Melissa. And she's pissed. She arrives at the bar like a mistake you haven't made yet. A vision in canary-yellow satin, eyes dimmed by something that might be grief, or seduction, or something else entirely. Her hair, once disciplined, spills around her like smoke. Her heels are bruised rose. Her perfume is stolen. From another woman. She sits beside you, uninvited. She orders wine. She doesn't look at you right away. In her handbag: a glass syringe. In her smile: the calm of someone who has already decided your fate. Tonight, you are not at a bar. Not really. You are at the beginning of a session. And the doctor does not plan to cure you.

11:17 p.m. The Penthouse.

Silence.

The penthouse was a monument to order, a minimalist chapel of bone-white walls, polished concrete floors, and glass that framed the city's glittering skyline like a captured galaxy. Every object had its place. Every surface was sterile. This was the sanctuary Cassandra had built, a world where every variable was controlled, and the only authorized emotion was a serene, proprietary love for its co-architect, Melissa.

Melissa was at a late-night dinner with her firm. Cassandra was on the white leather sofa, Melissa's tablet resting on her lap. She'd only picked it up to look for a brunch reservation for the coming weekend, a simple, domestic task. A notification bloomed on the screen, a message from a name she vaguely recognized from Melissa's work stories.

Her finger, moving with an autonomy she didn't command, tapped the banner. And the world fractured.

It wasn't just one message. It was a tapestry of them, stretching back weeks, months. A secret architecture built right under the foundations of her own.

"Still thinking about that ridiculous argument over subjunctive clauses. You owe me a rematch.""You're on, Counselor. But I'm ordering the expensive wine this time. The kind you pretend to know about.""Deal. My treat. You looked incredible today, by the way. That blue dress... criminal.""Just for you. And the judge."

A cold shock, electric and vile. Cassandra scrolled, her thumb a traitor, revealing more.

"Leaving the office now. Drink at The Alibi? Need to see my favorite work-wife.""On my way. Save me a seat. And a kiss."

A photo. Of a man smiling, a half-empty glass of whiskey in his hand. The caption beneath it: Look at this handsome idiot. Making my day.

But it was the last exchange that broke her. The one from just three hours ago.

"Cass will never know, Mel. You worry too much.""It's not worry. It's... complicated. She thinks our life is this perfect, curated thing.""And what do you think it is?""Right now? It's the place I leave to come see you."

The tablet slipped from her lap and hit the Moroccan wool rug with a soft, muffled thud. The sound was a mockery of the violence exploding in Cassandra's chest. The air fled her lungs. Her meticulously constructed reality - the brunch menus, the shared knowing glances, the sacred institution of her marriage - crumbled into dust.

She slid from the sofa onto the floor, her body folding in on itself. A dry, ragged sound tore from her throat, a gasp that was not for air but against the sudden, crushing weight of her own humiliation. Dr. Cassandra Voss-Hartley, the architect of psyches, the high priestess of feminine supremacy, the woman who could deconstruct a man's ego with a single, well-placed question, was on her hands and knees, choking on the most primitive and pathetic of pains.

Two weeks later. The Alibi.

The bar was a cliché of masculine comfort: dark wood, worn leather, the low glow of amber lights glinting off rows of whiskey bottles. The air was thick with the murmur of after-work deals and muted flirtations. It was the kind of place Cassandra would typically observe with clinical disdain. Tonight, it was her stage.

The woman who entered was not Dr. Cassandra Voss-Hartley. Dr. Voss-Hartley was a creature of sharp lines, taut ponytails, and weaponized tailoring. This woman was soft, unfinished, gently wrecked.

A slip dress in canary-yellow satin fell from her shoulders, its color a vibrant, almost painful slash in the dim room, a distress signal disguised as fashion. It clung and draped in a way that suggested a beautiful thing on the verge of collapse. Her platinum hair, freed from its usual severity, fell in soft, vulnerable waves around her face. Her lips were stained the color of a fading rose, and her eyes held a curated, heartbreaking clarity. She smelled of Melissa's perfume; a detail of such intimate cruelty it was almost an art form. Her wedding ring was off.

She moved with a choreographed fragility toward the bar, sitting directly next to the man she'd come to destroy. "A Sancerre, please," she murmured to the bartender, her voice a low, melodic whisper. In her small, elegant handbag on her lap, her fingers found and stroked the cool, smooth glass of the syringe. A soothing ritual.

When their eyes finally met, she offered a look of faint, tragic recognition, as if they were two strangers sharing the same secret sadness.

"I admire the dedication," she said, looking from his laptop to his face, offering a small, sad smile that didn't reach her eyes. "Honestly? Some days I look at my inbox and just... can't."