Today, I met my husband in a sleek, form-fitting outfit, playing the role of a secretary. We decided to indulge in a little fantasy—boss and secretary. It started off playful, with teasing glances and flirtatious comments, just the way we’d always enjoyed. But as I sat on the edge of the desk, legs crossed, playing the part, a thought began to gnaw at me.

He has a real secretary.

She’s young, beautiful, and has this effortless grace about her. I’ve seen her around the office—polished, poised, and always smiling at him in that professional yet too-perfect way. As we played our game, I couldn’t help but wonder: Are they playing this game too?

Every word he spoke, every time he touched me, a part of me questioned whether it was all just a performance he’s practiced before. Does she laugh at his jokes the way I do? Has he leaned close to her, whispered instructions like he’s doing now? My mind started racing. What does she call him when no one else is around? Is this their secret too, or is it just mine?

I tried to push those thoughts aside, but they lingered, refusing to let go. His hands were on me, but my thoughts were on her. Every compliment felt tinged with doubt. Is this routine for him? My heart raced, not from excitement anymore, but from something darker—something I hated to admit.

I knew he loved me, but I also knew his insecurities—how he’d constantly compared himself to men from my past. Yet here I was, wondering if someone else had taken my place in his fantasies. The fun of the game was slipping away, replaced by uncertainty, making it feel like a script I wasn’t sure we were both in control of.

I should’ve been lost in the moment, but instead, I found myself wondering if this was really ours—or just something I had borrowed for the day.