Tonight, we kill our husbands

CHAPTER FIVE

Emily’s POV

The snag came on Tuesday morning.

Andrew is buttoning his shirt in front of the mirror. The cufflinks I bought him earlier in our marriage are winking in the soft light. “Business trip,” he says casually, as though the word “trip” doesn’t already have my stomach tightening.

“Where to?” I ask, keeping my tone down.

“Manchester,” he replies, adjusting his tie. “Couple of meetings with the engineering team.” He fastens the last cufflink, slips his watch on, and reaches for his cologne. Not the one he wore for work—this was the heavier, musky scent he wore for dinners and evenings out. My first clue.

“Strange,” I say. “You hate Manchester.”

He smirks at his reflection. “Hate’s a strong word.”

“Not when it’s yours.”

He turns to face me, I can see him already getting irritated. “Don’t start, Emily. It’s just a trip.”

I smile, not because I believe him, but because I know better than to push when his jaw tightens like that. He kisses my cheek, his lips feel cold on my cheek, and then leaves with his suitcase rolling behind him.

I stand there a moment, inhaling that musky cologne in the empty doorway. My gut tells me this is no business meeting. So I decided to see for myself. I call a friend in event management—someone who owes me a favor. “Hi, Elsa. How are you doing? It’s been a while,” I say. “I need a favor from you. You know you owe me one. You handle my husband’s hotel bookings, right? I’d like to know what hotel he is checking into.” She hesitates but then agrees. Within a few minutes, I get the address of the “hotel” where Andrew is supposedly staying. Not in Manchester. Not even close.

The name was high-end, sounded expensive, the sort of place couples go when they want privacy. My chest goes cold.

I don’t stop to process it. I grab my coat, my keys, and my pair of sunglasses. The city air feels sharp as I drive. My mind keeps circling the same question: Why am I doing this? The answer is simple. I need to see it with my own eyes. Words aren’t enough. Andrew was the kind of man who could twist any accusation back onto you until you were apologizing for daring to question him. But if I saw it—if I saw him—there’d be no twisting.

The hotel was discreet, tucked between two art galleries. I park down the street and put on my sunglasses. I can feel my heart racing. The lobby was warm, filled with the faint scent of jasmine and champagne. I stay near the entrance, scanning for the reception desk and trying not to be caught. The reception desk was to my right, and through the corner of my sunglasses, I scanned the guest list the clerk had left slightly turned. His name is right there, at the top of the list even. I wait.

Twenty minutes later, the elevator chimes and Andrew steps out—without his jacket. His shirt is open at the throat and his hair is slightly mussed in a way that has nothing to do with wind. And behind him, she emerged. “Darling, that was amazing. You really know how to get my motor running,” I hear Andrew say.

The woman is younger, though not by much. With long blonde hair spilling over her bare shoulders. Her red dress is so revealing, I wonder how she can wear that out. Her hand rests casually on his arm, acting like she owns him. They don’t notice me. They don’t even glance around. They walk toward the bar laughing aloud. I follow them closely.

“Is this the business trip Andrew talked about,” I mumble.

The bar is dimly lit. I sit at the far end, watching them in the mirrored wall behind the shelves of liquor. They lean close, talking in low voices, their heads almost touching. She laughs softly, tracing his wrist with her wrist.

They don’t stay long. After one drink, they head for the elevator again, and something inside me snaps into action. I wait a beat before slipping in after them.

The hallway on the fifth floor is quiet, carpet muffling my steps. I keep my distance, letting the sound of their laughter guide me. It stops in front of Room 512. The door closes behind them.

I stand there, staring at that number, my heart hammering. “You should leave, Emily. You already know what is happening here,” I tell myself. But I stay nevertheless.

I move to the wall beside the door, the way you would to avoid being seen by anyone passing inside. And then I heard it.

Not words— just sounds. I can hear her moaning deeply. The sound of the bed creaking and the cries of passion. “Dwina, you’re amazing. You make me feel so good. I haven’t done this in a while. My wife is just useless,” I hear Andrew say. “Do you want to do this, or do you want to think about your wife?” she responds. They both share a laugh and the creaking sound gets even louder.

“They left the door ajar,” I notice. “How clumsy!” I push it with one fingertip, and stick my head in.

Inside, the air is thick with perfume and sweat. Andrew is on the bed, shirtless, grinning like the man I married never did for me. Straddling him is the woman from the lobby— all legs and red lingerie. He doesn’t see me at first. But she does. Her eyes widen, and she freezes.

Andrew turns around. You can see the confusion on his face, wondering how I must have gotten there. “Emily. What the hell—”

I don’t wait for him to finish. I step into the room, fixing my gaze on him. “Clients in Manchester?” I say, my voice is calm, too calm. I want to sound more aggrieved.

He gently gets off the bed, grabbing his shirt. “It’s not what you think.” He has no remorse in his words.

“It’s exactly what I think,” I say.

The girl scrambles for her clothes, mumbling something about leaving. He looks at her, calling for her to stay. But she was already gone.

For a second, we just stare at each other. His face is angrier than I have ever seen, and I could see the flicker of the man who’d bruise me later for this. “What is wrong with you, Emily? Don’t you know your place? Oh..wait, do you think you’re still pleasurable to me,” he asks. That question breaks something in me. “I have been trying to get with Dwina for months now and you just ruined it. Oh…Emily. I am going to teach you a lesson you will never forget,” he says, as he storms out of the room.

Outside, the air slaps my face. I walk quickly, towards my car. My hands are shaking, but not from shock.

This wasn’t new. Andrew’s betrayals had always been there, I had always known there were other women. But now, I've seen it for myself. I heard it. And something inside me, something I’ve been feeding quietly for years, finally woke up.

By the time I reach my car, my decision is no longer forming—it is formed.

He isn’t going to stop hurting me. I have tried patience. I have tried silence. I have tried being the perfect wife.

Now, I will try something else.

Andrew Hart has just signed his own death warrant. He just doesn’t know it yet.