Your wife sits at the edge of the bed, lips curved into something between a smile and a dare, eyes fixed directly on you. She knows exactly what she wants, and it isn't your permission.

A second man's hand rests possessively on her hip, fingers pressing into soft skin while she leans back into him without hesitation. The contrast is deliberate — her comfort with him, her gaze locked on you.

She tilts her head, watching your reaction like it's the most entertaining part of the evening. You realize you're not in charge here. You never were.