The room had been filled with an oppressive tension from the moment we began. What should have been a shared experience of pleasure had turned into a desolate display. She was utterly expressionless, her gaze fixed on me yet vacant, as if her mind were miles away. There was no desire, no connection—just the sad image of someone who had given up any attempt to enjoy or even resist the situation. She was like a lifeless doll, and that sight stirred something inside me. A mixture of frustration and a lethal calm led me to make a decision.
I was done. I had tried to delve deeper into her personality, to uncover if there was anything behind the mask of vulnerability and regret she had worn throughout the evening. But now I knew there was no point. She wasn't what I was looking for; she never had been. All that remained was to end this the way I had planned from the start.
I took a controlled breath, ensuring my face remained neutral. I didn't want her to sense what was coming. Slowly, while keeping my eyes on her, I extended a hand toward the small cabinet beside the bed. With calculated movements, I opened the drawer and felt the cold steel of the kitchen knife I had placed there hours earlier. It was sharp, perfectly balanced, ideal for what I had in mind.
She didn't notice a thing. She was so lost in her own emptiness that she didn't realize my expression changed for the briefest moment—a flicker of decision crossing my face before I acted. With a swift, deliberate motion, before she had time to react, I raised the knife and plunged it deep into her abdomen, directly into the aortic artery.
The impact was immediate. Her body arched violently forward, her eyes widened in shock, and a strangled scream escaped her lips before she could comprehend what had just happened. Her expression shifted from passive detachment to overwhelming terror, a raw, primal fear that completely transformed her face.
"What... what are you doing?" she managed to say, her voice trembling and broken, fear and disbelief battling for dominance in her words.
I leaned in slightly, maintaining a cold, detached tone as I met her panicked gaze.
"Doing what I should have done from the start," I replied, my calm demeanor starkly contrasting her growing hysteria.
Blood began to pour from the wound in her abdomen, soaking the sheets and forming a dark, sticky pool that rapidly spread beneath us. The gravity of her situation seemed to hit her all at once. Her breathing quickened, becoming desperate gasps, and her hands futilely pressed against the wound, trying to stop the relentless flow.
Her screams filled the room, a piercing, guttural sound that would have woken an entire neighborhood—if there had been one nearby. But here, in the isolation of this house, there was no one to hear, no one to help.
"Help! Please, no!" she screamed, her voice cracking into a pleading wail that only fueled my sense of control.
With a swift movement, I clamped my hand over her mouth, silencing her. I leaned closer, my eyes locking onto hers, now glistening with tears.
"No one will hear you here," I whispered with calm malice, ensuring my words sank into her mind amid her panic.
She began thrashing violently, her body writhing beneath mine in a desperate attempt to escape. But I had anticipated this reaction. With firm movements, I positioned myself fully over her, pinning her to the bed with my weight.
"Don't be foolish," I said, pressing my hand slightly harder against her mouth to stifle her screams. When I felt her resistance diminish slightly, I continued, "If you keep struggling, you'll have less than five minutes to live."
Her wide, terrified eyes locked onto mine. The constant flow of blood from her abdomen was draining the color from her skin, and tears mixed with the cold sweat now covering her face.
"But..." I added, loosening my grip on her mouth just enough to let her speak. "If you behave, I might still help you. There's still time to save you."
Desperation mingled with a faint glimmer of hope in her gaze, though it was fragile and fleeting. Her movements became less frantic, and while her body still trembled, she stopped resisting.
"Really?" she whispered between gasping breaths, her voice weak and almost inaudible.
I nodded slowly, though I already knew the truth.
"That depends on you," I said, letting a chilling smile creep across my face. "Answer my questions, and don't try anything stupid."
She nodded weakly, closing her eyes briefly as if gathering the last reserves of her strength.
Fear had completely overtaken her, stripping away every layer of her personality, every mask she might have worn. This was the moment I had been waiting for—the instant when her true self would emerge, raw and unfiltered.
The room was heavy with the metallic scent of blood, and every passing second brought her closer to the end. But for me, these minutes were all I needed. I had reached the climax of my experiment—the moment when the mask would fall away entirely, revealing the person underneath.
I began with my questions, my voice calm yet laced with intent, cutting through the thick silence like a blade.
"Your ex-husband… did you love him?"
She lifted her pale face, her tear-filled eyes meeting mine. Her voice was barely a whisper as she answered:
"Yes."
Her response brought a cold smile to my lips. There was no point in playing games with words. If she truly loved him, how could she justify what she had done?
"Then why did you decide to betray him?" I asked, my tone direct, almost accusatory.
She seemed to sink further into the mattress, as if trying to disappear. Her lips trembled before she muttered:
"I don't know…"
My patience wore thin in an instant. My voice rose, striking her like a hammer.
"How can you not know?!" I shouted, leaning closer to her face. "Cheating doesn't just happen. It's a decision! A conscious choice. There must have been a reason, something that led you to do it."
Her face twisted in both physical and emotional pain. She seemed to be searching for an answer in her mind, but all she could stammer was:
"I don't know…"
I slammed my fist into the mattress, my frustration spilling over.
"That's impossible!" I snapped. "There has to be a reason. Were you lonely at home?"
She whimpered before nodding weakly.
"I suppose…"
My smile twisted into something darker. I decided to push harder, forcing her to confront the depths of her actions.
"Or maybe it wasn't loneliness," I said, my tone sharp as a blade. "Maybe you're just a woman with no principles, someone who destroyed her marriage for a fleeting moment of cheap pleasure."
Her eyes filled with fury, an unexpected spark of life in the midst of her despair.
"That's not true…" she sobbed, her body trembling under the weight of my accusations.
"Isn't it?" I replied, my voice dripping with sarcasm. "Because women like you don't always need reasons. Some men would even pay for your services."
That statement hit her like a slap. Her face, already pale from blood loss, contorted with pure hatred. Her lips parted, and her voice erupted in a desperate roar, mingled with tears:
"It's not true! I was lonely!"
I raised an eyebrow, feigning disbelief as my voice dropped to a colder tone.
"Lonely because your husband was sleeping with another woman every night?"
Her expression hardened, but the tears continued to fall.
"That's not true!" she screamed, her voice cracking.
"Oh, really?" I replied with open disdain. "He was out every night, wasn't he? Probably in some hotel with another woman while you sat at home."
"He would never do that!" she shouted with all her remaining strength, her eyes blazing with a mix of pain and conviction.
Her desperate defense made me laugh softly, a hollow, joyless sound.
"Then tell me… if he wasn't with someone else, what was he doing?"
She writhed slightly, her face a mask of agony. Her words came out with difficulty, choked by sobs.
"He… he was working!" she cried, her voice desperate and ragged. "Overtime! We needed the money!"
I paused for a moment, genuinely surprised by her answer.
"Working?" I repeated slowly, letting the word hang in the air. "And why so many hours? What could you have possibly needed that was worth destroying your marriage?"
Her tears flowed in torrents now, her breathing ragged and uneven from sobbing.
"He… he worked so hard for me. Every night, he came home exhausted, barely able to stand…"
I tilted my head, feigning interest as I crossed my arms.
"And what could have been so urgent to require all those hours?" I asked, as if her response made no sense at all. "You work at a high-end restaurant, don't you? How could you not have enough money?"
She closed her eyes tightly, as if trying to hold back the torrent of emotions overwhelming her.
"Between the expenses for the house… and then…" she paused, trembling before continuing, "when we found out I was pregnant… everything fell apart."
My thoughts came to a screeching halt.
"Pregnant?" I asked, letting the word resonate in the room.
She nodded weakly, her tears streaming even faster.
"We had to buy things for the baby… remodel the house for their needs… we had nothing… we were broke."
Suddenly, the narrative shifted into something I hadn't expected. The image I'd painted of her as a selfish, cold-hearted woman began to crumble, replaced by something far more complex. The desperation, the pressure of an uncertain future, the weight of responsibility—all of it was more than anyone could bear.
But even so, there was still a fracture in her character, a flaw that had led her to make the decision that destroyed everything. And that flaw was what truly interested me.
I leaned closer to her, my voice dropping to a lower, more calculated tone.
"Then tell me… why did you do it? Why, if he did all that for you, did you decide to betray him?"
Her silence was deafening, and as her labored breaths filled the room, I knew I was finally reaching the core of her being. This was the moment when the mask would fall away completely.