My husband left each morning in his sleek black SUV, dressed in sharp suits, kissing me goodbye like clockwork. But one afternoon, I saw something that made my stomach drop—he pulled into a back lot, got out, and slid behind the wheel of a rusty old Mustang. Suspicion stirred, but I kept silent. That changed when Dr. Khan, my cosmetic doctor, casually mentioned she’d seen him daily—dressed down, shopping at a toy store. I didn’t want to believe it—until she showed me a photo. There he was:
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