My dearest William,
I want to apologize that my little situation caused you added stress and expense. But if I’m being honest, and well, you know how I feel about that… I’ve always found that it’s kind of a double-edged sword.
Here’s what happened:
I saw the way you looked at her, and it didn’t sit well with me. Do you have any idea how hard I worked to get you to notice me? And yet, nothing. Nada. Zip. Zilch. Not a single glance.
Needless to say, it didn’t take long for me to realize that I was pretty much invisible to you.
To make matters worse, I hadn’t eaten in four days. FOUR DAYS, WILLIAM. Nothing but water and a bite of lettuce here and there when I had to take my meds. I was on top of my game. I looked better than ever!
I’d worked hard to look as good as your wife did. Not all of us are blessed with good genetics, you know.
But I digress.
Because you didn’t even fucking notice. And I would be damned if my starvation, dehydration, and hearty usage of laxatives would be in vain. You have no idea how many hours upon hours I spent sitting on the shitter, my stomach cramping while I plotted and planned. I wanted to tell Addison that I understood what a miscarriage must feel like physically. But thought better of it. I still need my job. For now.
Anyhow, I did everything you asked and—even a few things you didn’t.
It was ME who finally had the joy of telling your wife about the trip. It was me who listened to her rant and rave about it—about your incessant need for control. She was irate over the whole thing.
Meanwhile, my panties were wet.
You and I, William, we are one of a kind.
We take what we want, and we do it by taking matters into our own hands.
So when I saw that you had no interest in taking notice of me, that’s exactly what I did.
I was sure you’d understand.
I did exactly as you did.
After all, it was your bloody fault we were on this trip to begin with.
You want me.
I know it.
So stop playing hard to get.
It’s only making things more difficult.
For the others.
P.S. A poem just for you:
You tell me what I want to hear.
Like any skilled seductor,
you play me like a fiddle—
strumming to the tune of your choosing.
Only I see right through you—
I love you anyway.
And I let you play.
For the music is just too good
to make it stop.
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