My Little Secret

The night it all began, rain whispered against the window like it was trying to confess something. I sat there, in my silk robe, swirling a glass of red wine and staring at the clock. 10:47 p.m. He was late—again.

Martin always came home late these days. He thought I didn’t know about her, the blonde from his office. But I knew. I knew everything.

So, I made my plan. My little secret.

It started small—an anonymous letter to his boss, a photo left on his car windshield, a whisper in his ear about things only I could know. He began to unravel. I watched him twitch at every sound, every shadow. Revenge has a flavor—bitter, metallic, addictive.

Then came him. Daniel. A private investigator, hired by Martin to find out who was tormenting him. Daniel was sharp, with those eyes that see right through lies. He asked questions, smiled politely, took notes. And then, he called me fascinating.

I told myself I’d keep my distance. But curiosity has claws. One dinner led to another, and soon, his scent clung to my sheets. I told him pieces of my truth, wrapped in half-lies and silk. He thought he understood me. Poor man.

A month later, he disappeared.

The news said he’d been found near the docks, a gunshot wound, no witnesses. I didn’t pull the trigger. But I might as well have. He’d gotten too close to my secret.

The police came knocking. Detective Evans—stoic, methodical, the kind of man who didn’t blink. He said my name like it was a crime. “Mrs. Rowe, we believe you were the last person to see Daniel alive.”

I smiled. “That’s absurd.”

But he knew. I could see it in his eyes. The way they flicked to my trembling hands. The way he paused before leaving, letting silence fill the room like smoke.

Days turned into weeks. I stopped sleeping. Every sound made me jump. I saw Daniel’s eyes in the mirror, Martin’s shadow in the doorway. I started writing everything down—every lie, every detail—because if I didn’t, I’d lose track of what was real.

Then one morning, I woke up to the sound of knocking. Not the police this time—reporters. Cameras. Flashing lights. My face on every channel. “Wife Accused in Investigator’s Death.”

The trial was swift. The evidence damning—emails, threats, fingerprints, the gun registered in my name. My words turned into confessions I didn’t remember saying.

When the verdict came—guilty—I didn’t cry. I laughed. A hollow, broken laugh that echoed through the courtroom.

Because the truth, the one no one believed, was this: I never killed Daniel. I only imagined it.

But the mind doesn’t care about truth when it’s sick. It writes its own stories, paints its own blood.

Now I sit in a white room, wearing someone else’s clothes, whispering my secret to no one.

I still hear them—the voices, the rain, the knocking. They think I’m mad.

Maybe I am.

After all, what’s a woman without her little secret?

(Word count: ~546)