I caught my husband sleeping with my best friend—so I slept with her husband too.

They say betrayal feels like a blade, but it’s never explained that it dulls slowly and then leaves a deep wound.

My name is Ananya, and I believed in loyalty, friendship, and the vows taken at the mandap—but this was when I came home early one Wednesday morning and found my husband’s boxers lying on the living room floor, next to a bra that wasn’t mine.

I didn’t need a detective. I didn’t need to call anyone. I already knew who was in my bedroom—Priya, my best friend from university, my chief bridesmaid, my future children’s aunt-in-law.

The same woman who cried as I walked down the aisle, promising to protect my heart. I should have screamed. I should have fought. But I didn’t.

I stood there quietly, breathing, until I heard him—his voice, calling her name, and then a giggle that shattered all my illusions. I left. Peacefully.

I left the house like a ghost and drove to an empty lane in Bandra, sat in the car, and cried for hours. Not just because of him—but because I had nothing left to give.

The next day, I didn’t argue with him. I made breakfast, packed his work files, kissed his cheek, and wished him a good day. He smiled, unaware that I had died the day before. Priya continued calling as if nothing had happened.

She even sent me a video on WhatsApp titled, “Bestie Vibes Forever.” I looked at it and smiled.

That was the moment I knew what I would do. I called her husband, Arjun. Tall, quiet, respectful Arjun.

A man I’d only spoken to at birthdays and weddings.

I told him I needed to talk. He hesitated, then agreed. We met at a cafe in Kala Ghoda. I didn’t cry. I didn’t scream. I just handed him the picture I’d taken—my husband and his wife, entangled under my sheets.

He stared at it for so long I felt like he’d stopped breathing. Finally, when he looked up, he whispered, “They’ve been doing this for months.” That was the final step. Not only had I been betrayed, but I’d also been foolish.

But I wasn’t going to stay broken.

Arjun and I started talking—first about my pain, then about everything else.

In that chaos, he became my peace.

His flat became my escape.

His silence became a balm that comforted me. One night, I broke down in his arms and sobbed uncontrollably.
He held me. No words. No judgment. And then it happened. A kiss. Gentle. Hesitant.

But it held everything we’d lost. I didn’t stop him. Neither did he.

That night, I didn’t sleep alone. And for the first time in a long time, I felt wanted—not used, not betrayed, but desired. The next morning, I stood in his bathroom, staring at myself in the mirror, wondering what I’d become.

But when I thought about how he’d betrayed us, I didn’t feel ashamed. I felt a sense of balance. I went home to my husband, Rohan, and smiled as if nothing had happened. And he… he still didn’t know. But now, the game had changed. I wasn’t just a woman scorned. I was a woman reborn—and…

Episode 2

The night I slept with Arjun, something changed inside me—not just my heart, but also my silence.

For weeks, I had pretended I didn’t know what was happening in my own home. I had smiled at my husband when he lied to my face. I had hugged him when Priya stabbed me in the back.

But now, I wasn’t pretending—I was planning. Arjun and I became cautious.
We didn’t meet often. Just enough to stay sane. Just enough to forget the people who destroyed us. And in those few nights we spent together, he saw the broken parts of me that I had never shown anyone.

I saw the anger in his eyes that he couldn’t express openly. But we didn’t have to say much.

The language of our pain was the same. Meanwhile, at home, I played the role of the perfect wife. I served breakfast with a smile, wore new lingerie that I knew he would admire, just so I could watch his guilt flicker and then disappear again.

But I started sowing hints—small seeds. One morning, I left Priya’s earrings on our bathroom sink.

He asked, “Whose is this?” I shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe yours?”

That evening, as soon as I left the room, he pounced on his phone. I knew who he was texting. I smiled. Priya was slipping away too.

He posted a photo of my perfume bottle in the background.

I reposted it with a caption: “Smells nice. I want to smell like that too someday.”

He deleted it within minutes. Arjun watched all this silently, but one day he said, “Do you want revenge… or peace?” I said, “I want both.”

And that’s when we hatched a plan.

Arjun’s 35th birthday was coming up, and he told Priya he wanted a quiet dinner—just the two of them. I told Rohan I was going to pray overnight at the temple at my mother’s house.

Neither of us suspected anything.

That night, I wore a simple black gown and went to the same restaurant where Arjun and Priya had already been—a glass-lined place near Carter Road. I didn’t go in. I waited outside.

Arjun had made sure they were clearly visible in the parking lot.

At exactly 8:47 p.m., he got up to “take a call”—came out and met me outside. We stood in front of it, near the glass wall.

Then he kissed me. Long. Deep. And gently.

I saw Priya drop her fork. Her face turned pale. She got up, walked out of the restaurant, and came straight to us.

“Ananya??” She screamed. “What is this?! What are you doing to my husband?!”

I didn’t even blink. “The same thing you’re doing to me.”

She slapped me. Arjun pulled her back. “Priya, don’t pretend. You’ve been cheating on me for six months. I’ve decided to cheat too—with someone who truly deserves better.”

She broke down right there, in the parking lot.

But that was just the beginning.

Rohan found out three days later—when I gave him the printed messages between them, including hotel receipts and photos he didn’t even know I had.

“You think I didn’t know?” I whispered. “You thought you were smart, Rohan? You thought I was stupid?”

He stammered. Apologized. Pleading. But I had already put my luggage away. And before he could respond again, I handed him another envelope—divorce papers.

“You wanted freedom? Now you have it.”

Priya tried to call. I blocked her. She sent a tearful voice note, “You ruined my life, Ananya.”

I replied once: “No. I gave you what you gave me.”

And as I packed my last box into Arjun’s car, I looked at the house I once called my own—and smiled. Because Episode 3 is where I move on.

Episode 3

They had no idea. Not the betrayal, not the conflict, not the ending I had chosen for myself.

When I left Rohan—my lying, cheating husband—I wasn’t broken. I walked away holding onto all the pieces he had tried to break, and I used those very pieces to rebuild myself.

The first few weeks after the divorce were difficult—not because I missed him, but because I was mourning the version of me that trusted blindly, that loved endlessly, and that didn’t believe that even the people you cherish could hurt you.

I stayed with my sister for a while. Every night as I cried, she would hug me, reminding me that heartbreak doesn’t kill—but silence does. Arjun kept his distance, not out of guilt, but out of respect. We had done something chaotic, something unexpected, but we both knew we needed space to heal—not just from our marriage, but from ourselves.

And this healing wasn’t easy. It came in quiet mornings, remembering my pain. In therapy sessions, I spoke things I never thought I’d be able to say openly. Walking alone at 6 a.m., when the streets of Worli Sea Face were shrouded in mist, I looked up at the sky and whispered, “God, help me feel again.”

Meanwhile, the chaos behind me continued to simmer. Priya’s marriage fell apart even faster than mine. Arjun wouldn’t take her back. Two weeks after our fight, she filed for divorce. Her family tried to intervene, but the damage was too deep. Priya tried to contact me again—this time through a mutual friend. She said, “I never intended to hurt you. It just happened.”

But betrayal doesn’t “just happen.” You don’t just fall into someone’s marital bed. You plan it. You nurture it. You lie to protect it. And when it finally explodes, you want an apology without any accountability.

I didn’t respond to his message. Some things just don’t deserve closure.

Rohan moved out of town. I heard he was trying to make a fresh start in Pune. I wished him peace. Not because he deserved it, but because I refused to carry bitterness like a burden. Now I had bigger dreams.

I got a promotion at work. I bought a new apartment in Powai in my own name, without any shared signatures. I painted the walls a pale lavender color and sang old Hindi ghazals while making masala tea and aloo parathas on Sunday mornings. And I smiled—a genuine smile.

For the first time in years, I wasn’t waiting for love. I was living it.

Speaking of Arjun, we didn’t rush into anything. Months passed. We didn’t talk often. But healing makes room for clarity. And one rainy evening—the kind of monsoon rain that drowns traffic and silences the city—there was a knock on my door.

It was him. Holding a yellow rose.

“I’m not here to complicate your life,” she said softly. “I’m just here to thank you… to remind me that love isn’t always lost, sometimes it’s just mismatched.”

We didn’t kiss. We didn’t make any promises.

We just sat quietly on the sofa, sipping tea.

Two people with wounds, sitting in peace.

And that was the real ending.

No revenge.

No chaos.

Not even romance.

Just peace.

The peace you find after going through hell.