The trip to Atlanta loomed over me like a storm cloud I couldn’t outrun. In just a few days, I’d be stuck in a hotel for three nights, leaving Denise home alone, three nights where anything could happen, and I wouldn’t be there to stop it. The thought gnawed at me relentlessly, every passing hour bringing me closer to the scenario my mind had already scripted: Tommy, slipping into my house, into my bed, into Denise. Although I couldn’t prevent it, I needed to know. I needed the truth, no matter how devastating it might be, or the uncertainty would drive me to the edge.
What was I going to do? How would I even know? We didn’t have an Alexa, a Ring doorbell, or any sort of security system quietly watching what happened when I wasn’t home. Had Denise manipulated that over time, slowly turning me against technology without me even realizing it, knowing it could one day expose her infidelity? I thought back to the little moments, her casually mentioning privacy concerns, sending me articles about hackers accessing smart home devices. Gradually, I had convinced myself that keeping our home tech-free was the smart, responsible choice.
Now, every tinfoil hat theory that crossed my mind instantly felt like reality. Had she carefully orchestrated this all along, creating the perfect environment for secrecy, a home free of watchful eyes? The more I thought about it, the harder it was to distinguish between suspicion and truth, leaving me trapped in a fog of uncertainty.
As my upcoming trip to Atlanta crept closer, I became more broken and anxious by the day. The looming thought of leaving Denise home alone, with my suspicions festering like an open wound, consumed me. I had gone from the one with the upper hand, the provider supporting her dream, to an insecure mess drowning in paranoia, guilty of wrongdoing in my own way. The dynamic had shifted completely, and the realization left me spiraling. I wasn’t just suspicious anymore; I was desperate, clinging to the hope that proof, one way or the other, could save me from this mental torment.
I had become unrecognizable, even to myself, as I found myself in my office scrolling through Amazon, not for random household items, but for the only thing that might give me answers. My fingers hovered over the products, surfing a category that was foreign to me. With each click, shame dug deeper, leaving me feeling dirty, intrusive, and disgusted with the person I’d become. But the need to know overpowered everything: morality, dignity, guilt. If Denise was hiding something, I had to find it to witness the truth firsthand. One way or another, I needed confirmation before the uncertainty devoured what little remained of me.
The day before my trip wasn’t spent tailing Denise to the driving range as it had been every morning over the past week. Each day, I had convinced myself that today would be the day I caught her, the day I finally uncovered the truth. But today was different. Instead of waiting for her first swing, I sat at my desk, pulling out the Amazon package I had hidden away in the drawer where Denise would never find it. Inside was the camera I had chosen with obsessive care, my paranoia guiding every decision. It was small, discreet, and cleverly designed as a power outlet, the kind of device you would never think twice about if you saw it. The fact that such a thing existed made my stomach turn. The fact that I was holding it, preparing to invade the privacy of the woman I had loved for over a decade, made me feel even worse.
Denise’s screams for Tommy had turned me into a man I had never intended to become, and there was no turning back until I had answers. What I was doing felt like a dangerous gamble. What if she spotted the camera? Was it worth the risk? And where would I even put it? The bedroom seemed like an obvious choice, but was that really where infidelity would take place? Were they truly capable of being that evil, of desecrating the bed where Denise and I had slept side by side for the past ten years? The thought twisted my stomach into knots, but I didn’t have the luxury of doubt. I had only one camera and thirty minutes until Denise would get home from practice.
With time ticking down, I played accountant turned electrician, swapping out an unused power outlet in the corner of our master bedroom. It was a discreet outlet that hadn’t been touched since we bought the house ten years ago, perfectly positioned to provide a clear view of the bed. Each turn of the screw into the cover plate felt like it was being driven by something outside myself, as if my need for answers had taken on a life of their own, pushing me past the point of hesitation or doubt. The camera was sophisticated, far more than I was comfortable with. This wasn’t a simple device I could plug in and quietly retrieve footage later. It required a live feed, connecting to our Wi-Fi, and syncing through an app that would allow me to watch everything in real-time, moment by moment.
Once installed, the outlet camera sat perfectly on the wall opposite our bed, blending in as if it didn’t even exist. Its lens was aimed straight ahead, ready to capture everything. Guilt overcame me, twisting in my gut like a knot I couldn’t untangle, but it was too late. The sound of the garage door opening vibrated through the house, signaling Denise’s return from practice. There was no turning back now; it would either confirm my worst fears or prove me wrong once and for all.
Before I knew it, Sunday evening had arrived, and I found myself sitting alone in my hotel room in Atlanta. I wouldn’t return home to Orlando until Thursday. Usually, I flew out on Monday morning, but this week’s schedule was different. My client expected me bright and early, so traveling the night before made sense, except that it meant leaving Denise alone for one extra night. One additional night for my mind to spiral, for the paranoia to fester. I wasn’t sure how I was supposed to focus on work this week with everything running through my head.
Although the hidden camera I had installed before leaving made me feel dirty, so much so that I hadn’t even tested it after configuring it on my phone, the temptation was impossible to ignore. Shame clung to me like a second skin, the weight of what I had done making me feel more like the villain than the betrayed. I settled into my hotel room around 9:00 PM and realized it wasn’t too late to turn back. I could delete the app right then and there, finish my trip, and swap the camera for the old outlet on Friday morning while Denise was at the range, barring the catastrophic possibility that she hadn’t found it first. I could pretend none of this had happened, return to my new normal where the suspicion of her and Tommy’s likely infidelity quietly ate me alive. But as I stared at my phone, the screen glowing softly in my hands, I knew there was no turning back.
Before I realized it, the app was open, its interface blanketing my phone like a forbidden gateway I couldn’t resist. The pull had been too strong, impossible to ignore. In the middle of the screen, the box where I expected a live view of the camera was black, briefly making me think the camera wasn’t working. But a small green indicator reassured me it was connected. After some quick research, I realized my mistake: the camera wasn’t continuously recording as I had assumed. It was motion-activated, only coming to life when something moved within its line of sight.
The app was intuitive, with a clean toggle switch at the top of the screen labeled to alert me whenever the camera detected motion. I left the notification feature enabled, the dark box on the screen waiting to fill with whatever the camera would see once movement was detected. I sat on the hotel bed, SportsCenter playing in the background, barely registering the highlights as my eyes occasionally flicked to my phone lying beside me. Every second stretched endlessly, my anxiety feeding off the quiet anticipation of that first notification. And then it happened. My phone chimed, emitting a tone unfamiliar to any of the apps I usually used. My heart skipped a beat as I grabbed it, my thumb hovering over the screen.
I hesitated, my eyes glued to the glowing notification icon in my phone’s header, its presence heavy, like a ticking bomb I wasn’t sure I wanted to defuse. Was I prepared to see what my phone was about to reveal? My pulse thundered in my ears, the weight of uncertainty tightening around my chest. What if it was nothing, just Denise passing by on her way to the bathroom, harmless and mundane? But what if it wasn’t? What if the camera showed something darker, like Tommy standing there in my bedroom, waiting to provide Denise with the real-life version of what she had experienced in the hidden dungeon within our VRBO a week ago? My stomach knotted. Was I ready to face that possibility?
Reluctantly and against my better judgment, I clicked the notification, launching the app. The box that had previously been black was now replaced by a wide-lensed shot of my bedroom, captured from the low perspective of the electrical outlet. The view spanned the entire room’s width, showing the bed, the dresser, and the lamp’s warm glow on the nightstand. My worst fear of Tommy appearing on camera hadn’t happened, slowing my heartbeat down. Instead, it was just Denise, lying on the bed, propped up and staring at the wall slightly behind the hidden camera, signaling she was watching TV.
I quickly realized the camera I’d bought didn’t have audio. All I had was the silent feed of Denise, completely unaware she was being watched. The whole thing felt strange, like I was tuned into a CCTV crime show catching someone in the act, except this time, it was my bedroom on screen. A knot of guilt twisted tighter in my stomach, but I couldn’t bring myself to look away. She played with her phone, glancing up at the TV every so often, her movements relaxed and unguarded.
Soon, my phone vibrated, a text from Denise blanketing the screen: “Did you make it to the hotel safely?” The oddness of watching her type on camera and then seeing her message arrive in real-time hit me like a wave. Reality and the voyeuristic broadcast blurred, merging into something I couldn’t tear myself away from, even if I wanted to.
I never anticipated this being so addictive. What started as a desperate attempt to catch her, to either find proof of infidelity or put my paranoia to rest, had turned into something entirely different. SportsCenter, playing in the background, was now just white noise. The PowerPoint presentation I had intended to finish for my morning meeting? Abandoned. My attention was glued to the live feed of Denise lying on the bed, completely unaware of my presence. It reminded me of The Truman Show, except this time, Denise was Truman Burbank, and I was the unseen audience watching her every move.
Even the most mundane mannerisms held my attention in a way they shouldn’t have. The lazy way she scrolled through her phone, stretched her legs or adjusted her pillow felt oddly captivating. At times, the screen would go black when the motion detector stopped picking up activity, only to flicker back to life when she triggered it again, checking her phone, shifting under the covers, or chugging her water bottle without the pressure of acting like a proper lady. Every small, unguarded moment felt like I was seeing a version of her that only existed when she believed she was truly alone. It wasn’t what I had expected, and yet, I couldn’t stop watching.
Denise suddenly got up, walking past the camera toward the bathroom behind it, her figure briefly filling the frame before disappearing. Soon after, the screen went black again due to a lack of motion. I assumed she had headed to the shower. I sat on the hotel bed, laptop in hand, half-heartedly working on my presentation while my phone lay beside me, waiting. My fingers typed mindlessly, but my focus stayed glued to the device beside me, anticipating the following notification that would bring her back into view.
Finally, the chime echoed through the room, and I opened the app without hesitation. There she was, filling the frame, her skin still glistening from the shower, clad only in beige granny panties, the same kind she had so effortlessly peeled off before settling into that worn gynecological chair just a week ago. The camera’s low angle captured the sharp tan lines tracing her thighs and arms, vivid contrasts carved into her skin after long hours under the Florida sun. Her short, damp hair, tousled and uneven, framed her face in soft, careless strands, the tomboy cut enhancing the unguarded intimacy of the moment. The warm glow of the bedside lamp highlighted the beads of moisture clinging to her collarbone and sliding lazily down the curve of her lower back as she moved toward the nightstand.
I was suddenly witnessing a nightly ritual I hadn’t been privy to, one usually hidden behind the locked door of our bedroom during her showers. She pressed the lotion pump, propped one leg up on the bed, and began smoothing it over her skin with slow, deliberate strokes. Her hands glided from ankle to thigh, pausing at the sharp borders of her tan lines, those vivid contrasts now seeming almost permanent. The lotion left a faint sheen in its wake, resembling the same glisten of sweat that had coated her body when she lay spread out in the gynecological chair. The towel hung loosely around her hips, shifting slightly with each motion, offering brief glimpses of bare skin. But Denise remained lost in the quiet rhythm of her routine, unaware of the eyes silently watching her from afar.
I knew it was wrong. I felt dirty and ashamed of what I had done, but I couldn’t look away. The intimacy of the moment had me trapped. This was Denise in her most unfiltered state, without the self-consciousness of knowing she was being watched. It felt surreal, like softcore porn blended with reality, but it was my wife, someone I had shared my life with for over a decade, and yet somehow, she felt like a stranger. The mix of guilt, desire, and dread that washed over me made it impossible to stop watching.
In a perfect world, or at least the ideal version I had imagined, Denise would eventually pull out a hulking twelve-inch dildo from some hidden spot I had overlooked, beginning a solo training session that would finally explain the ease with which her body had taken the monstrous device. Tommy would be erased from the equation, and my mind would finally be at ease. But that didn’t happen.
Instead, she disappeared briefly behind the camera and returned in the same oversized T-shirt she had worn to bed for years, its hem barely grazing the tops of her thighs. She tidied up the nightstand, checked her phone, and typed something as she slid under the covers. My phone chimed almost instantly. “Going to sleep, love you!” it read.
Then, without fanfare, the room shifted. The camera didn’t fade to black from inactivity but from the flick of the light switch as Denise turned off the bedroom lamp and settled in for the night, abruptly ending my first night as a voyeur of my own wife.