Gemotions

He leaned back in his leather chair, the leather cool against his back. The late afternoon sunlight painted the study in a warm glow. Across the room, the phone on the desk was silent. He’d heard the hushed whispers, the furtive glances. The way his wife, Eleanor, would suddenly excuse herself, phone glued to her ear.

He tapped a pen against the desk, a steady, rhythmic beat. He knew. He had the receipts, the phone logs, all meticulously gathered. He would let her stew in her own quiet discomfort until she was forced to admit the truth. This was how you did things.

The soft click of the door opening made him glance up. Eleanor stood there, her face a mask of false serenity. He merely raised an eyebrow.