Chapter 1: The Red Scrunchie Curse

Late at night, my husband pointed at his toothbrush, where a red scrunchie was wrapped around it, and said, "Emily Parks came by today, huh?" His voice wobbled, trying to sound offhand but not even close. He stood in the doorway, toothbrush dangling, shoulders tense. The fluorescent bathroom light buzzed and flickered, painting the red band with a weird, almost wet sheen. It made the whole scene feel off. I watched goosebumps prickle up on his forearms, the hair standing on end.

I said, "No way. She’s gone."

I grabbed my phone and scrolled to Emily’s profile, holding the screen up for him to see. His eyes caught the blue-white glow of the Facebook screen, blinking in the harsh light. The moment felt unreal, like we were actors in someone else’s play. I read the words out loud, my voice echoing in the bathroom’s hush, and for a second, it felt like time stopped.

I showed him her last Facebook post. It read:

Hi everyone, this is Emily’s older sister.

It breaks my heart to say this: Emily jumped from the ninth floor at 3 a.m. last night. She didn’t make it.

Thank you for caring about her all these years. This account won’t be used anymore.

His face went pale, color draining out, eyes wide and bloodshot, hands gripping the bathroom counter so hard his knuckles turned white.

He stared at the screen like it was haunted, knuckles pressed hard to the marble. The silence between us was thick, pressing in on all sides. I could practically feel his heartbeat thumping in the air. The toothbrush slipped from his fingers and clattered into the sink, but he didn’t even flinch.

I knew exactly what he was terrified of.

Nine was Mark’s lucky number—at least, that’s what he always said. We bought our condo on the ninth floor, his license plate had three nines, and even when he traveled for work, he’d only book hotel rooms on the ninth floor.

It started as a running joke—"Lucky number nine," he’d say with a cocky grin. But over time, it turned into a weird obsession, like his own personal superstition. The way some folks knock on wood, Mark clung to his nines. Now, the number felt like a curse hanging over both of us.

I patted his shoulder. "Maybe you brought it home and forgot. Don’t overthink it, babe. I’ll toss it."

He barely nodded, jaw tight, whole body wound up like a spring. I could feel the tension radiating off him. I picked up the scrunchie, the red fabric strangely warm in my hand, and dropped it into the bathroom trash. My mind flashed back to the last time I’d seen it—wrapped around Emily’s ponytail, bright as a warning flare.

I’d seen that red scrunchie on Emily’s head before.

The memory flickered back, sharp as broken glass. I froze for a beat, letting the image cut through me. It was one of those mornings when the world felt crisp and full of possibility—before everything soured.

The first time was a few months ago.

I was at brunch with some girlfriends when a long-haired girl in a miniskirt, wearing a red scrunchie, dropped a stack of photos onto the table.

The café buzzed, silverware clinking, the low hum of Sunday chatter filling the air. I remember the sunlight catching her hair, the red scrunchie practically glowing. She didn’t say a word. Just let the photos fan out, face down, like a dealer laying her cards.

There was my husband, Mark, stark naked, tangled up with another woman in every way you could imagine.

The pictures were graphic—no room for denial. Mark’s face was clear as day in every shot, his birthmark visible, his wedding ring glinting. My stomach dropped, a cold wave of nausea rising up. The world shrank to that glossy paper and the ugly truth it held.

Honestly, even as his wife, I was almost impressed by his flexibility.

I mean, really—who knew he could bend like that? It was the kind of thing that almost made you want to laugh and cry at the same time. My friends stared, wide-eyed, caught between horror and fascination.

It was obvious—the girl in the photos was sitting right there in front of me. The red scrunchie in her hair matched exactly.

She met my gaze, chin up, daring me to react. Her hands were steady, but I caught a flicker of uncertainty in her eyes, just for a second. The air between us crackled with something electric—anger, maybe, or the raw edge of humiliation. I felt it, sharp as a slap.

The photos scattered across the table. What a waste—I hadn’t even tasted the crab cakes, and my favorite pumpkin spice muffins were officially ruined.

I remember the smell of cinnamon and nutmeg, the way my coffee went cold as I stared at those images. The brunch crowd faded into background noise. For a second, I felt completely alone, like the world had tilted and I was sliding off the edge.

I gathered up the photos and managed a smile for my friends. "Sorry you had to see that. Next time, brunch is on me."

I tried to sound breezy, but my voice shook. My friends—all women who’d seen their share of scandal—nodded, understanding. One squeezed my hand under the table. I could feel their pity, but also a kind of respect for holding it together.

All my girlfriends were old money wives; they’d seen this sort of thing before. They grabbed their designer bags and made their exit.

There was an unspoken code—never linger when the drama turns real.

They offered tight-lipped smiles, whispered goodbyes, and vanished in a flurry of Chanel and Louboutins. I was left alone with the girl and the ruins of my brunch.

I looked at the girl across from me. "So, what do you want?"

I kept my tone steady, but inside, my hands were shaking. She looked me dead in the eye, lips pressed tight like she was bracing herself. The café’s music faded out, and for a moment it was just the two of us in a bubble of tension.

She sat down. "I want him to pay."

Her voice was steady, almost cold. She didn’t blink. But for a second, I saw past the tough front—a flash of pain, something raw and desperate. I recognized it; I’d felt it too, once upon a time.

Looking at her—fresh skin, thick hair, every breath full of youth—I almost got why Mark was drawn in. Even I felt a pull toward her energy.

She had that glow, all hope and hunger for life. I felt old beside her, brittle. I hated myself for envying her, even for a split second.

I laughed. "You’re too young."

The words tasted bitter. I wanted to believe I was above it all, but the truth was, I saw myself in her—a younger, less jaded version. Maybe that’s why I didn’t throw coffee in her face or storm out. Maybe that’s why I listened.

This was the first time since Mark started his company that his cheating was actually exposed.

Up until then, I’d convinced myself I was special—that I was the exception, not the rule. Now, all those late nights and mysterious absences made a sick kind of sense.

Maybe he’d always hidden it too well, or maybe I’d just chosen not to see.

Denial is a powerful drug. I’d let myself believe the lies because it was easier than facing the truth. Now, the truth was staring me in the face, daring me to do something about it.

Either way, until now, he’d been a decent husband to me.

He remembered anniversaries, brought me flowers, called me every night when he traveled. But all that felt hollow now, like a stage set that crumbled the second the spotlight shifted.

But now it was right there. I had to decide what to do.

There was no going back—not after this. My hands shook as I stacked the photos, my mind racing. I felt a strange sense of clarity, like the world had just snapped into focus for the first time in years.

Mark came home, chattering about the latest funding progress at work.

He breezed through the front door, tie loosened, phone glued to his ear. He didn’t notice the tension in the air, the way I sat at the kitchen island, waiting. His voice was upbeat, almost giddy—like nothing could touch him.

I slid the stack of photos in front of him.

He froze mid-sentence, eyes darting from the photos to my face. His jaw tightened, but he tried to play it cool, tossing his phone onto the counter with a forced laugh.

He tried to play it off. "Man, Photoshop and deepfakes these days, right?"

He tried to smile, but it came out as a twitch. Sweat gathered at his hairline. He reached for the photos, flipping through them like he didn’t care, but his hands trembled.

I said, "Yeah, real advanced—they even photoshopped the birthmark on your hip."

My voice was flat, but my hands were shaking. I watched his face, waiting for the mask to slip. For a moment, he looked at me—really looked—and I saw something like fear flicker in his eyes.

His face changed. "It’s just a setup from some supplier. They’ve tried to blackmail me before."

His tone was defensive now, words spilling out too fast. He was scrambling, desperate to take back control. I felt a cold satisfaction watching him squirm.

Yeah, sure. If it was a supplier, the photos would’ve landed on his desk, not on my brunch plate.

I rolled my eyes. What did he take me for—a complete idiot?

At the time, the company was in a crucial funding round.

The stakes were sky-high. He knew it, and so did I. The future of everything we’d built together hung in the balance.

If they wanted to threaten him, leaking to a couple of key investors would be way more effective than coming to me.

Investors don’t care about personal drama—unless it blows up in the press. He was lucky, in a way, that Emily came to me first.

I said, "So the supplier’s not too bright—gave the photos to me."

I raised an eyebrow, daring him to keep lying. He glared at me, then shoved the photos off the counter. They fluttered to the floor like dead leaves.

He flung the photos to the floor. "Morgan, you think I owe you? So what if I sleep around? This deal’s about to close, your net worth is about to go through the roof with me. If you’ve got the guts, divorce me."

His voice was sharp, almost triumphant, like he was daring me to call his bluff. The arrogance in his words made my blood boil. For a second, I wanted to scream, to throw something, to make him hurt the way he’d hurt me.

With tears in my eyes, I pulled out a medical report. "I’m pregnant."

I didn’t plan to cry, but the tears came anyway—hot and silent. I held the report out to him, my hands shaking. I’d rehearsed this moment in my head a hundred times, but nothing prepared me for the way it actually felt.

I thought, maybe for the sake of the child, he’d show me some mercy.

I wanted to believe he’d soften, that he’d remember the man I married. I was wrong.

But that report dragged me into a pit.

His eyes flicked from the paper to my face, calculating. I saw the shift—the way he sized me up, like I was just another problem to solve.

He glanced at it, his expression shifting from annoyed to sly.

His lips curled in a smirk. He leaned back, arms crossed, like he was about to deliver a business proposal instead of a verdict on our future. I felt a cold chill run down my spine.

He gave me two choices:

1. End the pregnancy.

2. Or, keep it—but only if I helped him deal with all the women causing trouble.

His words hit me like a slap. I stared at him, numb, barely able to process what he was saying. The room felt cold, the walls closing in.

I was silent for a long time.

I counted the seconds in my head, trying to steady my breathing. I wanted to scream, to run, to disappear. Instead, I clenched my fists and forced myself to stay.

I knew what kind of animal Mark was. If he didn’t want the child, no one could bring it into this world.

He’d made that clear—crystal clear. I felt trapped, cornered, like a deer caught in headlights. I swallowed hard, searching for a way out.

Even before we married, I’d always wanted kids. He knew how much I loved children.

We’d talked about it in the early days, dreaming about names and nursery colors. He’d always promised, "Someday, Morgan, I swear."

My fingernails dug into my palm. "Explain. I’ll help you."

I forced the words out, each syllable tasting like ash. He relaxed, relief flooding his face. I hated him for it.

Mark pulled me into his arms. "That’s my girl, Morgan."

He kissed my hair, murmuring sweet nothings. I let him, my body stiff, my mind racing. I was already planning my next move.

Once he was sure I wouldn’t turn on him for the child’s sake, Mark told me everything.

He sat me down, poured us both a glass of wine, and laid out the sordid details like he was reciting quarterly earnings. I listened, taking mental notes.

The long-haired girl’s name was Emily Parks.

He described her with a casualness that made my skin crawl. "Met her at a job fair," he said, like it was the most normal thing in the world.

They’d met at a job fair. After a few lunches, Mark got her into bed.

He bragged about his "charm," glossing over the manipulation. I wondered how many other Emilys there had been.

He’d promised her a management position, but with the company in a make-or-break phase, every penny counted.

He made it sound like a business transaction—her body for a job, but the deal fell through. No remorse, just annoyance that she’d made things complicated.

So he never followed through.

He just slept with her—no job, nothing else. She got angry and brought the mess to me.

She’s way too young.

I kept my voice neutral, but inside I was seething. He grinned, mistaking my restraint for support.

Mark kissed my cheek. "Exactly. With a wife like you, what could a girl like her possibly stir up?"

His arrogance was staggering. He actually believed he was untouchable. I played along, biding my time.

That night, Mark kept praising me for being so understanding, saying marrying me was the best thing that ever happened to him.

He poured another glass of wine, toasted to "us," and promised the future would be brighter.

I smiled, thinking of all the ways I could ruin him.

After I took care of things, Emily never bothered us again—never came to me, never hassled Mark.

I handled it quietly, making sure she stayed away—or so he thought. Mark slept soundly, convinced the crisis had passed.

When the real wife steps in, dealing with a clueless side piece is child’s play.

That’s what he believed, anyway. I let him.

Mark was pleased. He even bought me a six-figure Hermès bag.

The box was huge, the ribbon perfect. He watched my face as I opened it, searching for gratitude. I gave him a tight smile and put the bag in the closet, untouched.

But at the same time, he started staying out more and more often.

He stopped making excuses. Late nights became the norm. I stopped asking where he’d been.

I knew—after coming clean, he didn’t need to hide anymore.

He flaunted his freedom, believing I was too invested to leave. In a way, he was right—at least for now.

That day, he told me I could have the baby, but only if I helped him deal with “those” women causing trouble.

He made it sound like a favor, as if I should be grateful. I nodded, already plotting my next move.

Now I finally understood how many “those” there were.

The list kept growing—names, faces, stories. Each one chipped away at my resolve, fueling my anger.

Whatever. As long as I could have my child, the company grew, and there was money for us, I didn’t care what he did as long as he didn’t bring home any diseases.

I drew boundaries in my mind—no love, no trust, just survival. I told myself I could live with it, for the sake of the child.

But people always push boundaries.

Give an inch, they take a mile. Mark was no exception.

Once you choose to look the other way, they’ll demand you help cover up their mess.

I became his fixer, his accomplice. Each time, I lost a little more of myself.

Not long after, a few more women came to me.

They showed up at my office, my gym, even the grocery store. Each one had a story, a plea, a demand.

What surprised me was that this time, Mark himself had given them my contact info.

He didn’t even try to hide it. He handed out my number like a business card, confident I’d handle whatever mess he made.

They said Mark had tricked them into sleeping with him, then told them to come to me to resolve things.

I listened, numb. The stories blurred together—lies, broken promises, tears.

I asked, "Do you know what my relationship with Mark is?"

Most of them looked confused, unsure why he’d sent them to me. I waited, arms folded, daring them to answer.

They said, "His assistant?"

The words stung, but I kept my face blank. I realized then how little Mark respected me—even in his affairs, I was just another tool.

I replied, "I’m his wife. Still need me to handle this?"

Usually, by that point, the girls would get scared and run off.

They’d backpedal, mutter apologies, and disappear. I almost felt sorry for them—almost.

Later, every time he hooked up with someone new, he’d give them my number.

It became routine. I stopped being surprised. I started keeping a spreadsheet—names, dates, details. Evidence.

He’d have me call and threaten them: "I’m Mark’s wife. I know all about what happened last night. Stay away from him."

The first time, my voice shook. By the tenth, I sounded like a pro. Each call chipped away at my soul.

That way, after sleeping with him once, the girls would disappear, and Mark could wash his hands clean.

He called it "efficient." I called it cowardice.

I was genuinely curious—where did Mark find all these women?

They didn’t fit the stereotype—no heavy makeup, no nightclub glitter. Most were quiet, polite, almost shy.

Not the club type, more like recent grads or young professionals—still a little green, maybe even hopeful.

It was almost worse, somehow—he preyed on innocence, not experience.

For a second, I wondered how he could live with himself.

I asked him several times. He always said he met them through work.

He’d shrug, change the subject, make a joke. I stopped asking, but I never stopped wondering.

After cleaning up mess after mess for Mark, he treated me better and better.

He bought me gifts, took me to fancy dinners, even booked a spa weekend in Napa. I let him believe it was working.

He even gave me a vice president title at the company, just to scare the girls off.

My name on the door, my face on the website. It was supposed to be a warning. Instead, it became leverage.

Spend enough time in the mud, and you get dirty.

Nobody stays clean forever. Sooner or later, the mess catches up to you.