The scent of garlic and herbs fills the kitchen as I stir the simmering sauce. After everything that happened yesterday, the fight, the reconciliation, the painful honesty, I wanted tonight to be special. Just Lana and me reconnecting over a home-cooked meal.
I've gone all out with her one of her favorite dishes: creamy garlic parmesan pasta with grilled chicken. The recipe I found online promised 'restaurant quality', and I'm determined to deliver. The chicken sizzles in the cast iron pan, perfectly seasoned and nearly done. I've even picked up a bottle of her favorite white wine and prepared the 'fancy' plates, the ones we never use because they're too nice.
My phone buzzes on the counter. I wipe my hands on a dish towel before checking it.
A text from Lana: Hey babe, is it okay if I bring a friend home for dinner tonight? I ran into her at the salon and we got to talking... I think you two should meet.
I frown at the screen. A friend? Tonight of all nights?
"Fuck me," I say out loud as disappointment fills me. I had wanted tonight to be just us, a chance to reconnect after the emotional rollercoaster we've been on. But I can't say no to Lana. Not after how hard she worked for us.
I text her back: Of course we can. Would love to meet your friend.
I stare at the chicken sizzling in the pan, mentally calculating. "I'm not sure I can adjust the recipe for three people," I mutter, running a hand through my hair. "I'll have to figure out something else."
My first instinct is to ask who's coming, but I stop myself. After our fight about trust, the last thing I want is to seem suspicious of her friends. Besides, it's probably just someone from work. A coworker who understands her life in ways I never fully can.
I toss the original recipe idea and start pulling different ingredients from the fridge. Maybe something like pasta primavera would stretch better for three people. I can dice the chicken smaller, add some frozen vegetables we have in the freezer, and there should be plenty.
As I'm chopping bell peppers, I notice Lana's iPad sitting on the kitchen counter, its screen lighting up with a notification. Probably just another email from her her agent. I ignore it at first, focusing on slicing the vegetables into even pieces.
Another notification pings, drawing my eyes back to the device. The subject line catches my attention immediately:
SCRIPT REVISION: Cheating Wife - Leo Rose / Lana Lust scene
My hands freeze mid-chop, knife suspended over the cutting board. The email is from someone named Victor Kline, Lana's producer. I recognize the name from her conversations.
I shouldn't look. I know I shouldn't. We've just had a massive fight about trust, about honesty. I've never violated her privacy before like this.
But my fingers are already moving, knife set down as I wipe my hands on a dish towel. I tap the notification before I can talk myself out of it.
The email opens to reveal a PDF attachment, already downloaded. The preview shows just enough text to make my stomach clench.
"We've incorporated changes we think will make the scene work much better."
I tap the PDF icon, my heart hammering against my ribs. The document opens, revealing a full script titled "Homecoming: The Ex Returns." My eyes scan the pages, absorbing the storyline with growing horror.
The premise is simple, cruel in its familiarity: Leo plays Lana's ex-boyfriend who shows up at her house while her husband is away. Dialogue about how she "never stopped thinking about him" and how her "marriage was a mistake" punctuates steamy sex scenes. There's even a moment where Lana takes off her wedding ring before they have sex on the marital bed.
The husband's character is literally named Adam.
My blood runs cold as I read a line where "Lana" tells "Leo" that her husband could never satisfy her the way he does. That she's been faking orgasms for months. That she regrets choosing the "safe option" over her true love.
It's not just porn. It's my life, twisted into something sordid. My deepest insecurities scripted out and made flesh.
I read the script twice, my hands trembling as I scroll through the pages. Lana is getting back with her Ex while her husband, Adam, in the script, is at home a fool. I feel my stomach sink.
I mark the email as unread and I put it down and go back to cooking, feeling a bit hollow. The vegetables I was chopping sit forgotten on the cutting board as I mechanically stir the pasta sauce. My mind races with questions I'm afraid to ask.
Did Leo request this specific storyline? Did Lana approve it? Does she know how closely it mirrors our situation?
The front door opens, and I hear Lana's laugh, light and musical, followed by another voice. Female, husky, familiar.
"Adam?" Lana calls. "We're home!"
I force my expression into something neutral, shoving the script revelation into a compartment in my mind to deal with later. "In the kitchen," I call back, my voice surprisingly steady.
Footsteps approach, and then Lana appears in the doorway, her blonde hair cascading over her shoulders, her smile radiant. "Something smells amazing," she says, crossing to me and pressing a kiss to my cheek.
Behind her stands Morgan, looking sophisticated in a simple black dress that somehow manages to be both modest and alluring. Her auburn hair is styled in loose waves, and she carries a bottle of expensive-looking wine.
"Surprise," Lana says, gesturing toward Morgan. "I ran into my friend Morgan at the salon, and I thought it would be nice for you two to properly meet."
My heart leaps into my throat as I stare at Morgan standing in my kitchen. The same woman who watched me fall apart at Pizza Hut, who bought me a drink after drink at Brattie's, who took me to her hotel when I was too drunk to drive. The woman who knows my darkest secrets.
But instead of acknowledging our previous meetings, Morgan extends her hand toward me, her expression perfectly neutral, as if we're strangers meeting for the first time.
"Adam, it's so nice to finally meet you," she says, her voice carrying that familiar husky quality that sends a chill down my spine. "I feel like I already know you so well. Lana talks about you constantly at work."
I hesitate for just a fraction of a second before taking her hand, playing along with this charade. Her skin is soft, her grip firm and confident. Our eyes lock, and I see the silent command there, Play along, or it will be bad for both of us.
"Nice to meet you too," I manage, my voice sounding unnaturally high to my own ears.
Morgan's lips curl into a knowing smile. "Lana told me about your stories. I must admit, I'm a fan of them myself."
I feel my throat constrict as the memory hits me, Morgan sitting in that Starbucks, my story open on her macbook. She'd been reading Trainer's Pet.
I keep my expression neutral, determined not to give us away.
Lana seems to sense the tension in the air, quickly stepping between us. "Sorry, honey, I talk about you a lot at work," she says with an apologetic smile, her hand resting gently on my forearm. "I just really love my boyfriend."
Morgan's eyes flicker with amusement as she sets the wine bottle on the counter. She inhales deeply, her chest rising in a way that draws attention to her perfect posture. "The food smells divine. You're quite the chef, aren't you?"
I clear my throat, desperate for some breathing room to collect my thoughts. "Why don't you two go sit down while I get dinner finished up?" I gesture vaguely toward the dining room. "I just need a few more minutes to pull everything together."
"Are you sure?" Lana asks, looking concerned. "I can help…"
"No, no, it's fine," I insist, perhaps too eagerly. "The table's already set. Go ahead and open that wine Morgan brought."
"Yes, please," Morgan says smoothly, taking Lana by the arm. "Let's give the chef some space to work his magic."
As the two women disappear into the dining room, I lean against the counter, trying to steady my breathing. My head is spinning with all the revelations, the script about Lana and Leo, and now Morgan showing up at my house pretending we've never met before.
I hear the pop of a cork from the dining room, followed by Lana and Morgan's voices, a melodic intertwining of feminine laughter that somehow sounds ominous to my paranoid ears.
With shaking hands, I plate the pasta. The fancy plates, the ones we got as a housewarming gift and never use, gleam under the kitchen lights.
Taking a deep breath, I carry the plates to the dining room, where Lana and Morgan sit chatting like old friends. They both look up as I enter, their conversation halting.
"Oh baby, did you bring out my favorite wine tonight?" Lana asks, her eyes lighting up as she notices the bottle of expensive Chardonnay sitting on the table.
My throat tightens. "Oh, nothing special," I mumble, setting down the plates carefully to avoid meeting either woman's eyes.
Lana's expression softens as she notices the elaborate place settings, the candles I'd arranged but not yet lit, the matching cloth napkins folded into perfect triangles. Understanding dawns on her face.
"You were planning a special dinner just for us, weren't you?" she asks, her voice tinged with guilt.
I shrug, trying to appear nonchalant while my insides twist with anxiety. "It's fine. The more the merrier, right?" I force a smile that feels brittle on my face.
"I can leave," Morgan offers, though there's not a hint of sincerity in her voice. Her eyes lock with mine, a silent challenge lurking in their green depths.
"No, no," I say quickly, heading back to the kitchen. "Let me just grab you a fork Morgan."
I bring Morgan the utensil and settle into my seat at the table, forcing my hand not to tremble as I reach for my wine glass.
Morgan twirls the pasta on her fork. "This is delicious," she purrs, maintaining perfect eye contact with me. "You're quite talented in the kitchen, Adam."
"Thanks," I mutter, stabbing at my own pasta with more force than necessary. My appetite has vanished completely, replaced by a churning anxiety that threatens to bring the food back up as soon as it goes down.
The script I discovered earlier keeps flashing through my mind, Lana and Leo, the husband named Adam, the dialogue about her regretting her choice. It's fictional, I tell myself. Just a stupid porn script. But the timing, the specifics... it feels deliberate, targeted.
Is Lana doing this on purpose? Is Leo fucking with me?
"Are you okay?" Lana asks, her hand coming to rest on mine. "You seem tense."
I pull my hand away under the pretense of reaching for my wine. "Just tired," I lie, taking a long sip. The expensive wine tastes like nothing on my tongue.
Morgan watches this exchange with undisguised interest, her green eyes missing nothing. "Relationships are such delicate things, aren't they?" she muses, dabbing at her lips with a napkin. "One wrong move, one miscommunication, and everything can fall apart."
Lana shifts uncomfortably beside me. "Morgan..."
"Actually," Morgan continues, setting down her fork, "Lana and I were discussing something today that we wanted to talk to you about, Adam."
I freeze mid-chew. "Oh?"
Lana reaches for my hand again, this time gripping it tightly when I try to pull away. "It's nothing bad," she says quickly, her eyes pleading. "Actually, it might be good for us."
Morgan leans forward, her elbows on the table, fingers steepled beneath her chin. "Adam, I'm retiring from the industry soon," she says, her voice taking on that commanding tone I remember from the bar. "And I've been looking for something... special for my final scene."
I swallow hard, suddenly understanding where this is going. "Okay..."
"It's going to be a femdom scene," Morgan continues, her eyes never leaving mine. "Nothing extreme, just simple dominance play. And I was thinking... wouldn't it be interesting if my co-star was an amateur? Someone real?"
"She wants you," Lana blurts out. "For her last scene."
I choke on my wine, nearly spitting it across the table as the memory surfaces. At the hotel, Morgan casually mentioned her final scene while I was still half-hungover, asking if I'd ever considered being in front of the camera.
"Oh, uh, no. I'm not sure," I manage to stammer, setting down my glass with a shaky hand.
"I think it could help me better understand your position, and maybe it'll help you understand my position more, too," she says softly. "What it's like to be on that side of the camera."
A hot wave of anger surges through me, making my hands tremble against the table.
"I don't think that's a good idea," I say, my voice tight with restrained fury. "I'm not an actor. I'm definitely not a porn actor."
Morgan twirls her wine glass between her elegant fingers. "You wouldn't have to do much," she says, her voice a silky purr. "I'd be doing all the work. You'd just need to react. I bet you'd be good at that."
"You'd be masked," Lana adds quickly. "No one would know it was you."
"Except everyone in this room," I snap, unable to contain my irritation any longer. "And whoever's behind the camera. And the editors. And…"
"Adam," Morgan interrupts, her tone shifting to something more commanding, "this isn't just about performing. This is about understanding."
She sets down her wine glass and leans forward, those green eyes capturing mine with an intensity that makes my breath catch.
"You've been struggling with Lana's career since day one," she continues, her voice softening. "You've been trying to process it all alone."
Morgan's expression shifts to something gentler, almost maternal. "This could be cathartic for you. A controlled environment where you face those feelings head-on, with people who care about you."
I look at Lana, who's watching me with such hope in her eyes that it makes my chest ache.
"It would mean so much to me," Lana whispers. "To know you understand what I go through, even a little bit."
I shake my head, a lump forming in my throat as I look at Lana's hopeful expression. The vulnerability in her eyes makes my chest constrict painfully.
"I don't think you'd want that," I say softly, reaching across to take her hand. "It hurts a lot, and I don't want to hurt you."
Lana's brow furrows in confusion. "What do you mean? How would it hurt me?"
"The feeling afterward," I explain, my voice barely above a whisper. "When you see someone you love come home exhausted after a scene, even if it's just acting... it changes something inside you." I squeeze her hand gently.
Morgan's eyes narrow slightly, the only indication that my response has thrown her off-guard.
"That's... surprisingly thoughtful," Morgan says, recovering quickly. "But Lana has already agreed to it. She understands what she's consenting to."
I look back at Lana, studying her face. There's determination there but also uncertainty flickering behind her eyes.
"Is that true?" I ask her directly. "You really want to watch me with another woman?"
Lana bites her lip, her eyes suddenly unable to meet mine. "I thought it might be... healing. For both of us."
Morgan sets her wine glass down with a delicate clink. "Lana doesn't have to be there, Adam. You don't watch her videos, right? Fair is fair."
My stomach drops. Morgan's words hang in the air between us, loaded with meaning only she and I understand. She knows my secret, the hours I've spent watching Lana's scenes.
"I actually would like to be present," Lana interjects, her voice stronger now. "Even if it's just to emotionally coach Adam through it. He might need support his for his first time on camera."
Morgan's lips curl into that predatory smile I've come to recognize. "Oh, I guess we could make it a cuck quean video, then." She takes another sip of wine, eyes gleaming over the rim of her glass. "That's quite progressive of you, Lana. Most women wouldn't want to watch their men with someone else."
Lana flushes, her fingers fidgeting with her napkin. "It's not like that. I just want to be supportive."
"Of course," Morgan purrs, turning those penetrating green eyes back to me. "What do you say, Adam? Are you willing to try something new? For Lana?"
I feel cornered, trapped between Morgan's knowing gaze and Lana's hopeful one. Is this just a way for Lana to justify her own actions by getting me to do the same?
"I'm not sure," I say finally, the words feeling inadequate. "This is a lot to process."
Morgan's eyes narrow as she leans forward, her voice dropping to that commanding tone that seems to bypass my brain and speak directly to some primal part of me.
"Just say yes, Adam. It's a once-in-a-lifetime chance," she states, her gaze unflinching and hypnotic.
Something in me crumbles under the weight of all this stress.
"Fine," I sigh, the word escaping me like surrender. "I'll do it."
Lana's face lights up with relief while Morgan's lips curl into a triumphant smile that sends an involuntary shiver down my spine.
"You won't regret this," Morgan purrs, raising her wine glass. "To new experiences."
I mechanically lift my glass, feeling like I've just signed away something precious, though I couldn't name exactly what. The wine tastes bitter as I swallow.
I really hope Lana doesn't regret this.