Uncharted Waters

Chapter One

Thalassa Stevenson – or Thalassa Maddox now – had never claimed to have a perfect life. But she would never stop her neighbours, friends and family from stating so. 'Oh, such a beautiful house' they would claim. 'And married to such a handsome man' they would add. Shamefully, Thalassa would lap up the compliments; she would shyly peer at them from underneath her eyelashes and force her cheeks to blush ever-so-lightly. They would gush at her embarrassment and then tease her more so, with an increased eagerness to compliment her. It was perfect. Or, more accurately, it made her feel perfect. As if what they said was true.

Oh, what a significant difference the utilisation of tense achieved.

Because currently, Thalassa was homeless and soon-to-be divorced. She – and everyone who knew her, would more than likely agree that she was far from any meaning of the word perfect.

Now, with hindsight in her corner Thalassa was able to review her last few years and come to the realisation that her life had been pretty damn close to perfect.

It was amazing how a different perspective could change her whole life. A different perspective her husband had suddenly appeared to happen upon – resulting with his dick in a different vagina.

It was so disgustingly cliché; and that morning had started in such a cliché manner as well.

Much to her embarrassment, Thalassa had adopted a very mundane and very routine-oriented lifestyle at the mere age of twenty-six. Her schedule hardly strayed to the point even her mother had picked up on it – and that woman barely noticed anything past herself. That should have been her first sign.

It just happened that every morning – whether weekday or weekend – started the same, with a morning jog. She used to enjoy them, the frigid air, the streaks of sun that broke along the horizon as dawn broke. Thalassa would run until her legs ached and her lungs burned - usually this was at the forty-five-minute mark; and following this, she would relax for a coffee at her favourite café.

Although, favourite was a stretch.

Thalassa would never refer to herself as a snob, but when it came to coffee, she usually excused herself. After trialling numerous cafes in the vicinity over several months, she deemed this one to be the most promising.

And, if it were a Saturday morning – which it was – her oldest and only friend would join her.

Eryn Elwick was a twenty-seven-year-old mess; and she would be the first to admit it. She was an artist by trade but paid the bills waitressing at a surfs club in the outer regions of the city. In her spare time (when she was not painting) she was partying, hooking up with men and women and crashing Thalassa's house with booze in her fingers and gossip on her lips. A small part of her was envious of her friend's freedom – and longed for that feeling of independence she had long since abandoned.

However, fate would have it that ten minutes into her walk on this particular morning she would sprain her ankle. It was sharp and shooting, so muttering curses and massaging her poor foot, Thalassa had regrettably cancelled her plans – sending a short and quick text to her friend. Then, she had hobbled towards home. She had dismissed the offered assistance of acquaintances and assured neighbours that she was fine.

Huffing and wheezing she had awkwardly fisted her keys into the lock of the front door, her leg slightly raised as she leant against the wooden frame. With misplaced pressure it jerked open and the door flung forwards and sent her stumbling.

She had hissed through her teeth, and her ankle flared with pain.

It was then, when she was inside the house that she had heard the sounds. Grunts, pants, moans. Pride prickled in her chest, and because of this pride she refused to accept the obvious – the humiliating, degrading, and embarrassingly obvious truth.