I recently bought myself a tailored little suit—sleek, form-fitting, and unapologetically provocative. The sharp cut of the blazer hugged my waist, while the skirt ended just high enough to turn heads. It was the kind of outfit that made a statement. I thought it was bold, daring even, but my husband had other opinions.

“It’s too much,” he said with a frown, eyes scanning me as if assessing a stranger. “It’s not appropriate for a married woman your age.” His words lingered in the air like an accusation, an invisible line drawn in the sand. I laughed it off at the time, but a part of me wondered if he was right. Maybe it was too much—too confident, too rebellious, too unlike the subdued image of the wife he preferred.

That’s why the suit lives a double life. By day, it stays hidden in the closet, tucked away like a secret I’m afraid to fully own. But on nights when I meet lovers or embark on new dates, it transforms me into someone else entirely. Someone untamed. The suit empowers me, gives me a freedom I can’t quite explain.

Each time I wear it, I feel alive in a way my marriage no longer offers. The compliments, the stolen glances—they remind me that I am still vibrant, desirable. Maybe it is too much, but for those moments, I don’t care. The suit isn’t just fabric; it’s rebellion stitched with desire.