It was 11 o’clock at night. As soon as I stepped out of the taxi in Quezon City, the smell of alcohol clung to every breath I took
What I Thought Was Desire Became the End of My Family
It was 11 o’clock at night. As soon as I stepped out of the taxi in Quezon City, the smell of alcohol clung to every breath I took. I had just finished a very successful dinner with clients, and my head felt light, proud, untouchable.
But beneath that pleasure was a dark desire I had hidden for a long time behind a respectable face.
That desire was Maya — our new kasambahay, barely twenty years old, from the province, whom my wife had hired just two months earlier.
Maya was young and fresh, like a flower that hadn’t yet seen its first storm. Even dressed in a simple house dress, the curves of her body were impossible to ignore. More than once, I had caught myself swallowing hard whenever she passed by.
My wife, Elena, was different now. After two pregnancies, her body had changed. Her skin had darkened under years of sleepless nights, and her entire world revolved around the kitchen, the children, and keeping the household together.
The boredom of married life — combined with temptation living under the same roof — had pushed me dangerously close to crossing the line more times than I wanted to admit.
When I entered the house, it was dark. Only the kitchen light was on.
I was about to head upstairs when I froze.
Near the minibar, under the dim yellow light, stood a figure with her back to me, pouring water.
She wasn’t wearing the usual loose house clothes.
She was wearing a red silk nightgown — the very same one I had bought for Elena on our wedding anniversary years ago, a dress she never wore because it was “too revealing.”
And those legs…
The short fabric revealed long, pale legs, straight and glowing softly under the light. Her long black hair was tied back neatly.
That posture. That youth.
It wasn’t Elena.
“Maya…” her name flashed through my mind.
In my drunken haze, a story formed instantly — maybe she had noticed my glances, my silence. Maybe she had waited until my wife was asleep, slipped into that dress, and sent a signal.
The alcohol burned through my veins, swallowing what little conscience I had left. I completely forgot about my wife upstairs.
I approached quietly.
She didn’t turn around — whether she didn’t notice or pretended not to, I didn’t care.
When I was close enough, I lost control and wrapped my arms around her slender waist from behind.
“Ah…” she let out a soft sound, her body trembling slightly — but she didn’t pull away.
It confirmed everything I had imagined.
I leaned down and whispered, my breath heavy with wine.
“You’re pretending, huh? Wearing this just to sleep? Trying to impress your boss? Don’t worry… I’ll take care of you tonight.”
She stayed silent, her body shaking. I thought it was fear or shyness.
Without waiting, I lifted her and carried her into the guest room on the first floor.
I laid her down on the soft bed. In the darkness, my confidence grew. I kissed her, felt the warmth of her body.
“You smell so familiar…” I murmured, my hands moving restlessly.
My hand slipped beneath the thin silk nightgown, moving upward.
I wanted to feel smooth, youthful skin.
But then —
I froze.
Under my palm was not firm, flawless skin, but a deep scar. Long. Familiar. Surrounded by soft flesh marked with stretch lines
