Chapter 5: The Tell-Tale Stain**

Chapter 5: The Tell-Tale Stain

The drive home was a fugue state. Kris’s body was a foreign country, rediscovered. The sting on her thighs had subsided into a deep, pulsing warmth, a secret fire she could feel through the cotton of her dress. She was acutely aware of the steering wheel in her hands, the hum of the tires on the pavement, the vibrant green of the trees blurring past her window. The world, which had been a washed-out photograph for so long, was now saturated with color, almost painfully vivid.

She was a live wire, humming with the aftershocks of Clara’s discipline. The memory of the leather strap, of her own shattering release, of Clara’s quiet, vulnerable confession about her scar—it all swirled inside her, a potent cocktail of fear and empowerment. She felt powerful. She felt beautiful. She felt utterly, terrifyingly alive. The polite, invisible wife who had left the house that morning was gone, incinerated in the heat of the workshop. A new woman was driving home, marked and remade.

She pulled into the driveway, the sight of her own home a jarring splash of cold water. The neat lawn, the pristine siding, the cheerful yellow door—it was the perfect cage, and the bars suddenly felt much more real. She needed to get inside, to shed this skin before Mark came home.

The house was quiet. Leo was at a playdate. Thank God. The silence was her accomplice. She hurried up to her bedroom, her heart a frantic drum against her ribs. She had to erase the evidence, wash away the scent of cedar and sin, and put her mask back on.

In the sanctuary of her and Mark’s bedroom, with its soothing gray walls and neatly folded throw blanket, she stood before the full-length mirror. With trembling hands, she lifted the hem of her blue dress. There, stark against the pale skin of her upper thighs, were the marks. They weren’t angry or brutal, but a series of faint, rosy welts, like a secret script written in a language only she and Clara understood. Proof. Tangible proof that the afternoon had not been a fever dream.

A shudder ran through her. She traced the edge of one mark with her fingertip, the skin still tender and hot. I happen to believe that the most beautiful pieces of wood are the ones with the most character. Clara’s words echoed in her head. She wasn’t being planed down; she was being revealed. A wave of awe, dizzying and profound, washed over her.

High on this revelation, buzzing with adrenaline, she was careless. She pulled the dress over her head in a single, swift motion, eager to be rid of it. As the fabric passed her face, she caught the scent—pine, varnish, and Clara’s sweat—and for a second, she was back in the workshop, her hands braced on the workbench. The memory was so potent it made her knees weak.

She was about to toss the dress into the hamper when a detail in the mirror snagged her attention. On the hip of the blue cotton was a faint, pale smudge. Sawdust. A ghostly fingerprint from the workbench, where she must have brushed against it after Clara had let her dress.

Panic, cold and absolute, seized her. It was such a small thing, a stupid, careless mistake, but it felt like a blazing beacon. She quickly wadded the dress up and shoved it deep into the laundry hamper, burying it beneath a pile of towels and Mark’s gym clothes, as if she could hide the transgression itself under a layer of domesticity.

She pulled on her uniform of invisibility: soft gray sweatpants and a worn t-shirt. She scrubbed her face until it was red, trying to remove the flush of exhilaration. She was just finishing when she heard the familiar sound of Mark’s key in the lock downstairs. Her body went rigid.

He came into the bedroom a few minutes later, loosening his tie. He looked tired, his face etched with the familiar lines of a long day at the office. “Hey,” he said, leaning in for the customary kiss.

He pecked her cheek, then paused. He didn't pull away. He stayed close, his brow furrowing slightly. It was the first time in years he had ever paused.

“Are you okay?” he asked, his voice laced with genuine curiosity. “You look… I don’t know. Flushed. Your eyes are really bright.”

Kris’s heart hammered against her ribs. He was seeing her. He was actually seeing her. “Just—just rushing around,” she stammered, forcing a laugh that sounded brittle and fake. “Trying to get the house in order before Leo gets back.”

He seemed to accept it, his attention already shifting to taking off his work shoes. The moment passed. Kris felt a wave of relief so intense it left her lightheaded. She had gotten away with it.

Later that evening, after Leo was in bed and the dishwasher was humming its nightly tune, the illusion of safety shattered. Kris was in their small, sterile laundry room, the frantic need to wash that blue dress a burning imperative. She was sorting whites from colors when Mark walked in, holding an empty glass.

“Have you seen my blue striped shirt?” he asked, peering at the clean, folded piles on the counter. “Thought I’d wear it for the golf club dinner tomorrow.”

“Should be in the closet,” she said, not looking at him, her hands deep in the wicker hamper.

He ambled over, setting his glass down. “What’s all this? Feels like you just did laundry.” He reached into the hamper idly, helping her sort, a rare gesture of domestic partnership. His hand closed around a ball of familiar blue cotton. He pulled it out.

It was the dress.

Time seemed to slow down. Kris watched in horror as he unfurled it. The faint smudge of sawdust on the hip was perfectly visible under the harsh fluorescent light.

“What’s this?” he asked, his voice casual. He rubbed the pale dust between his thumb and forefinger, a thoughtful frown on his face. “Looks like… I don’t know. Sand?”

Kris’s mouth went dry. “I must have brushed up against something.” The lie was thin, pathetic.

He didn’t seem to hear her. He brought the fabric of the dress closer to his face, sniffing it with the same instinct a dog uses to investigate something new in its territory. His expression changed from mild curiosity to genuine confusion.

“That’s a weird smell,” he said, sniffing it again. “Like… like a Home Depot. Or wood polish or something.” He looked from the dress to her, and the pieces began to click into place behind his eyes—her flushed face earlier, her jittery energy, this dusty, strangely scented dress she’d worn for her big “client meeting.”

For the first time since their wedding day, Mark’s gaze was entirely, terrifyingly focused on her. He wasn’t looking at the wife he took for granted. He was looking at a stranger. The air in the small room grew thick and heavy, charged with the weight of his dawning perception. His complacency had been her shield, and it had just disintegrated.

He lowered the dress, his eyes locked on hers, filled not with anger, but with a simple, direct question that landed with the force of a physical blow, pinning her to the spot.

“Kris,” he said, his voice quiet, steady, and utterly devastating. “Where were you today?”

Characters

Clara Vance

Clara Vance

Kris Miller

Kris Miller

Mark Miller

Mark Miller