Stolen Love

Chapter Three

Ashton

Back to the yacht party.

During the party on the yacht, I was chilling in the VIP section with the guys while Jarrod was on his second round. We were cheering as he downed another tequila. He was feeling triumphant, as if we had won a big game, posting one of his famous grins.

We had ropes cordoning off our area to keep unwanted guests at bay, and security personnel were there for extra protection. Girls were persistent when they were drunk, acting like relentless creatures craving their next meal, latching on until they got what they wanted.

One girl kept lingering around, watching us. It made me uncomfortable, so I signaled for security to escort her away. As she was being led off, she turned back and smirked at me, which repulsed me and made me uneasy.

As the drinks continued our way, I announced to the guys that I'd be the designated sober friend for the night. I wanted to have fun, but I also wanted to be responsible. It didn't work, though.

An hour later, I made the unfortunate decision of accepting a bottled water from someone I thought was a server instead of getting it myself. That's when I realized it was one of my most regrettable decisions to accept drinks from strangers on a party yacht.

It didn't take long for the effects of whatever was in that water to kick in. My vision was blurred, and I was slurring my words like I was just as drunk as the boys. Security was gone, there were no ropes, and I was being carried off the yacht and put in a cab to return to our hotel.

The next morning, I woke up with a pounding headache, so severe that I vomited into the nearby bin, unable to appreciate the luxury of the king-sized bed. My body ached, and I felt as if I had been hit by a truck.

As I heard the rustling of the blanket, I realized there was someone next to me. She smelled like my wife, wearing the same perfume and shampoo. Her long, black hair looked like my wife's, which initially brought a smile to my face until it turned into a frown.

Her tan was artificial, evident against the white Egyptian cotton sheets, and when I saw a small tattoo of a butterfly on the top of her shoulder, all the fears from the previous night flooded back tenfold. I jumped out of bed so fast that I stumbled and fell to the floor, realizing that I, too, was naked.

"Hey!" I shouted. When she rolled over and smiled at me, I vomited. "What the fuck have you done?!" I screamed.

It was the same girl from the party yacht, the one I had security escort away. I felt so violated and filthy that I began hyperventilating. "Get the fuck out!" I yelled at her, enraged and wanting to strangle her. She hastily dressed and practically sprinted out the door, but not before turning back and smirking, leaving me with a dreadful feeling.

I took off into the bathroom, throwing up in the toilet, then shower. I needed to get this off me.
I scrubbed my body as I cried, thinking of Mia. The guilt and fear of losing her consumed me. I needed to tell her the truth; I could never keep anything from her. That was the foundation of our marriage. Secrets had no place in our lives.

"Fuck!" I screamed, stepping out from the hot shower, my skin raw and red, unable to rid myself of the stench. It was the stench of an unfaithful cheater, and I despised myself.

Before I knew it, I found myself outside Jarrod's hotel room, draped in the hotel's complimentary bathrobe. I didn't want to put on last night's clothes, and I couldn't bear to spend another second in that room. I knocked on the door as if my life depended on it, because at that moment, it truly did.

As soon as he opened the door, his expression shifted from confusion to seriousness. "What have you done?" he asked warily.

My disheveled hair, bloodshot eyes, and distressed appearance revealed the turmoil inside me.

"I fucked up man," I uttered, brushing past him and collapsing onto the couch, burying my face in my hands, sobbing.

Jarrod loved Mia like a sister, and although I had once suspected he had a crush on her in high school, he treated her like a sibling. Nothing more.

I didn't even have time to react as I felt my best friend pressing me up against the wall, his eyes menacing, as if ready to strike me down if I confessed to cheating. I had never seen him like this, except for once, with his sisters boyfriend for the exact same thing - cheating.

I was indifferent. I craved his strong blows to deliver physical rather than emotional suffering that was tormenting me.

"I slept with, I-" I couldn't complete my confession as his fist made contact with my nose. His repeated blows provided a sense of comfort in the midst of my inner chaos.