She Begged, Then Regretted

To satisfy the director's sick fantasy, my wife told me she'd been forced onto the casting couch.
Honey, you can't call the police, she'd sobbed, her body trembling. It would ruin me! You have to help me!
Her plan was for me to hide in a closet and gather evidence.
I looked at her tear-stained face, my heart a frozen stone in my chest. If I hadn't accidentally overheard that phone call three days ago, I would have been a puppet in her twisted little play.
She buried her face in my chest. "You're the only one who can save me, Cole. The only one who can save my career."
I stared down at her, my expression unreadable, until she looked up at me, a flicker of unease in her eyes. Only then did I speak, my voice flat.
"If its what my darling wife wants," I said softly, "then I'll play my part."
A tremor ran through her body. A complex, unreadable emotion flashed across her face.
If its a game you want, then Ill play along.
But well be playing by my rules.
1
Three in the morning. The digital lock on the front door beeped softly.
I sat in the dark living room, watching the figure stumble through the doorway.
She was barefoot, clutching a designer high-heel with a snapped stiletto. The collar of her couture gown was ripped halfway open, revealing a cluster of angry red marks just below her collarbone.
"Cole," she gasped the moment I flipped on the lights.
She launched herself at me. Her hair was a mess, her makeup smeared into a tragic mask. As she crashed into my arms, a foul cocktail of scents assaulted me. Her signature perfume was heavy, but underneath it, I could smell the acrid stench of tobacco.
And something else a coppery, intimate odor that made my stomach clench.
But I didn't push her away. I just forced myself to remain calm. "Stella? What happened?"
Stella lifted her head, her eyes brimming with tears. "It was Vance, the director. He's insane! At the wrap party tonight, he kept forcing drinks on me, and then he dragged me into a private lounge"
She choked on a sob, unable to continue.
I guided her to the sofa and went to get the first-aid kit. I used to be a medical examiner before I gave it all up to be her full-time husband. I have a professional's eye for injuries.
I knelt before her, tending to the scrapes on her knees. It was a dark, purplish bruise, swollen and raw from being rubbed repeatedly against a coarse carpet.
This wasn't from a fall.
It was pressure-induced purpura, the kind formed from kneeling on a hard surface for a prolonged period.
"He threatened me," she whimpered, her whole body shaking. "He said if I didn't do what he wanted, he'd blacklist me. Cole, I was so scared."
My hand, holding the cotton swab, froze just above her knee. I saw the marks on her wrists. They weren't the messy, uneven bruises of someone being dragged against their will. They were a pair of neat, symmetrical bands of red.
The kind left by restraints.
"He was like an animal," she continued, her tears splashing onto the back of my hand. "He ripped my dress in seconds."
"If I hadn't smashed a bottle over my own head and run for it, tonight I might have been..."
I glanced at her forehead. There was a slight red bump, but the skin wasn't even broken. It was the kind of minor injury you get from a bit of rough foreplay, not a desperate escape.
Does she really think I'm that blind? That stupid?
My fingers tightened, and the cotton swab snapped in two. I tossed it into the trash without a word and grabbed a new one.
"Cole, say something," Stella pleaded, cupping my face in her hands and forcing me to meet her gaze. "Are you disgusted with me?"
In the lamplight, her pupils were slightly dilated. I didn't see the relief of a survivor or the shame of a victim.
I saw a strange, unsettling excitement.
"No," I said, gently pulling her hands away. "I'm just thinking we should call the police."
The moment I said "police," her body went rigid.
"No!" she shrieked, then immediately softened her tone. "We can't. Vance has things he can use against me, and there were no cameras in that room. We'd never win, and my reputation would be destroyed."
"Then what do you want to do?"
Stella bit her lip, took a deep breath, and leaned in close, her expression one of grim determination. That nauseating mix of tobacco and sex filled my nostrils again.
"I want revenge, honey." Her voice dropped to a low, husky whisper. "A man like Vance... his biggest fear is having his reputation ruined. He told me he's coming to my hotel room again tomorrow night."
"This is my only chance."
2
She gripped my hand, her knuckles white.
"Tomorrow night, we'll set up hidden cameras in the room. But that's not enough. What if he tries something else? It could all go wrong."
"Cole, I need you to hide in the closet."
I lifted my eyes to meet hers. "You want me to hide in the closet?"
"Yes. You'll get there first with a key card and hide inside." She spoke faster now, a manic gleam in her eyes. "The hotel closets have louvered doors. You'll be able to breathe, and you'll see everything."
"You can record it all on your phone. It'll be ironclad proof. The second you have footage of him laying a hand on me, you burst out and we catch him in the act!"
"Please, Cole." She buried her face in my lap. "It's the only way to save me. Please!"
The air grew thick and still. I looked down at my wife, kneeling at my feet.
It was the perfect script. The victimized starlet, the monstrous director, and the husband forced to swallow his pride to protect his wife.
If it hadn't been for the phone call I'd overheard three days ago, the performance would have been flawless.
She had gone to "discuss the script" with Vance that day and came back reeking of smoke. I have a thing about cleanliness, so I went to her car to place some charcoal air fresheners. The moment I got in, the car's Bluetooth connected to her phone and automatically played her most recent call recording, a feature she'd set up to keep track of conversations with her agent.
"Vance, darling, this new script is so thrilling. But what if that stiff of a husband of mine won't play along?"
A man's greasy laugh. "Oh, he'll watch. A pathetic weakling like that? You just have to cry a little, and he'll do anything you say."
"Imagine him, stuck in the closet, watching us Tsk, the thought of it Tell me, my famous Stella, doesn't that excite you?"
"Stop it! Although it does sound kind of hot. Having him watch with his own two eyes"
The rest of her words were lost in a series of suggestive moans.
Her voice pulled me back from the memory. I looked at the woman at my feet, still giving the performance of her life. I wasn't angry anymore. It was almost laughable. I, a medical examiner with a promising career, had given it all up for her, only to be treated like this.
"Alright," I said slowly. "If this is what it takes to help you, I'll do it."
Stella's head shot up, a triumphant smile she couldn't suppress spreading across her lips. She threw her arms around me and planted a wet kiss on my cheek. The sickening smell washed over me again.
I forced myself to return the embrace, resting my chin on the top of her head. My eyes fell on the large floor-to-ceiling mirror across the room.
The man reflected in it was me, but his face was a blank, emotionless mask.
If you want to act, then I'll put on a real show for you.
But this play won't end according to your script.
"Go take a shower," I said, gently patting her back. "I've already run the water. Wash it all away."
Stella nodded meekly and headed to the bathroom. The moment the door clicked shut, the warmth vanished from my face. I walked to the entryway where she'd left her phone, screen-down. It was still on an active call. The screen read: "Vance."
I didn't hang up. I just placed it back down as if I'd seen nothing.
After her shower, Stella walked into the bedroom.
"Honey, Vance just called. He wants to have dinner with us tomorrow. Can you make it?" she said, feigning annoyance. "I have no idea what he's planning now, it's so frustrating"
But I could see the glint of anticipation deep in her eyes.
I nodded. "I'll go. Let's see what he has to say."
3
At the dinner, I was seated at the far end of the table, the lowest position.
"Alright, everyone, a toast!" Vance, at the head of the table, raised his glass. His fat face was flushed with alcohol, glistening with sweat and oil.
I raised my glass with the others. Vance's eyes slid right past me, landing on Stella, who was seated beside him.
She was dressed for the part tonight in a black slip dress, the material thin and sheer. It was only then I noticed she wasn't wearing her wedding ring. Her bare fingers were expertly peeling a crawfish.
"Waiter! Is the AC in here set to arctic?" Vance suddenly boomed, rubbing his hands together dramatically. He then held one hand out in front of Stella. "My hands are freezing."
The table fell silent. Every eye in the room turned to me.
Every eye except for Vance and Stella.
I watched as my wife casually tossed the crawfish shell aside, wiped her fingers meticulously with a wet nap, and turned to the director with a dazzling smile.
"Director Vance, you have to take care of yourself. We can't have you catching a chill."
As she spoke, she took his greasy paw in her hand. Then, in front of the entire cast and crew, in front of me, her husband, she pulled his hand into her dress, nestling it in the warmth of her cleavage.
"It's warmer in here," she purred.
As his hand started to move, her eyes fluttered shut like a contented cat. "You just warm up right there. Honey," she called to me, "can you go turn up the thermostat?"
A wave of nausea washed over me, but I fought it down. I slipped my hand under the table and pressed the side button on my phone. The recording began.
"Hahaha! You're one of a kind, Stella!" Vance roared with laughter, his wrist moving beneath the fabric of her dress.
The table erupted in sycophantic chatter.
"Hey, you," an assistant director said, kicking the leg of my chair. "Aren't you going to toast the director? Your wife is so accommodating. Don't you drop the ball."
I looked up and my eyes met Stella's. She gave me a subtle look, a silent plea to endure this for the sake of the 'bigger plan.'
"Cole." Vance didn't remove his hand. He simply used his other one to point at me with his wine glass. "Truth be told, there were a lot of actresses up for this role." He let out a boozy burp. "If Stella hadn't gotten on her knees and begged me the other day, you wouldn't even have the right to be in this room."
"Of course. Stella is lucky to have your guidance."
"Look at you, so flexible!" Vance sneered. He grabbed a copy of the script and slapped me across the face with it, sending pages scattering to the floor. "You think one sentence from you is enough? Who the hell do you think you are?"
I knelt to pick up the script pages. Under the table, I saw two pairs of legs tangled together. Vance's Gucci loafers were resting firmly on Stella's bare feet.
"Alright," Vance said, picking up the decanter, still half-full of red wine. "Since you're asking me for a favor, you'll drink this whole thing. Then I'll give Stella another chance."
I have a severe ulcer. Stella knew this. The doctor had warned me that one more drink of hard liquor could perforate my stomach.
I looked at her. She was nestled against Vance, her gaze floating over to me, cool and detached.
"What? Not showing me enough respect?" Vance's face darkened.
"Honey," Stella finally spoke. "So many people would kill for a chance to drink with Director Vance. Just do it for me. Drink up."
She stood, took the decanter from his hand. "Director Vance, your arm must be tired. Let me pour for you."
She walked over to me. "Drink it, Cole."

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