Chapter 4: The Wife’s Inability to Support Herself (Part One).

“Phew… I scared myself for nothing. Something like that? Impossible. Even if… even if something happened, I’d have noticed.”

Ayata Aina let out a shaky breath. Her taut shoulders slumped, and she melted onto the soft sofa behind her, all strength drained.

“But… who? Why make a video like that?”

She frowned, digging through her memories.

She’d never seen the blonde woman in the video. Couldn’t imagine anyone who’d not only been inside their home but entered their most private bedroom and recreated every detail so perfectly.

As her thoughts spiraled, her phone buzzed in her hand. The screen lit up.

A voice message from Hoshiya Kaoru:

“Aina, you home yet? Did you eat the food on the table?”

His voice flowed through the speaker—clear, rippling like a mountain spring, laced with the usual tenderness and care.

Hearing it, picturing him sneaking a message from the izakaya’s back room, a wave of sweetness washed over Ayata Aina. The corners of her mouth softened.

She pressed the voice button, forcing her tone steady:

“I’m eating now. When do you finish, Kaoru? I’ll come pick you up.”

She sent the message, stood, and returned to the dining table. After her earlier frenzy, the once-warm dishes were stone cold, grease congealing on the surface.

She carried the chilled bowls to the kitchen, loaded the microwave, and hit start.

The low hum echoed in the silent room.

“Ding—”

Another voice message.

Ayata Aina grabbed the phone and played it.

“The izakaya closes at eleven, Aina. You have work tomorrow—sleep early, no need to come.”

Hoshiya Kaoru’s voice, background noisy with clinking glasses and muffled chatter.

“Okay, I’ve got to work. Eat properly.”

The message ended. Ayata Aina stood frozen, phone in hand.

Amid the chaotic noise, she’d clearly heard a sharp female voice shout—

“…Hoshiya!”

That voice… that voice…

Her pupils shrank. Blood seemed to freeze in her veins.

A chill shot up her spine without warning.

The voice felt eerily, inexplicably familiar.

[I’ve heard it somewhere!]

“Ding!”

The microwave chimed, shattering the kitchen’s deathly stillness.

“Ha… what am I even thinking…”

Ayata Aina rubbed her throbbing temples, forcing a weary, helpless smile that flickered and vanished.

“Eat first. Fill the stomach. At ten-thirty, I’ll go get Kaoru.”

She muttered, as if convincing herself.

Hoshiya Kaoru said not to come, but how could she let him walk home alone past eleven at night?

She retrieved the reheated food, sat on the cold chair, and shoveled rice mechanically.

Dishes that usually delighted her tasted like wax.

After hours of emotional whiplash, her stomach felt stuffed with lead, appetite gone.

She managed a few bites, then set down her chopsticks. Half the rice remained.

Standing, she cleared the dishes. Porcelain clinked against the table—sharp in the oppressive quiet.

Normally, Hoshiya Kaoru handled this without thinking.

With him gone, Ayata Aina did it herself.

She didn’t mind chores, yet a thought tugged: if Kaoru hadn’t gone to work, she’d be wrapped in his warmth right now…

Carrying the jumbled feelings, she dragged her heavy steps to the bathroom.

She needed hot water to wash away the day’s dust and the gloom clinging to her mind.

The bathroom glowed soft amber, light spilling over pale gray tiles.

After showering, the air hung humid with faint cedar-amber scent—Hoshiya Kaoru’s body wash.

Then she noticed the full-length mirror, fogged with steam, reflecting her blurred, exhausted outline.

She wiped a clear patch with her palm.

The mirror showed a face heavy with fatigue. Her gaze drifted down—neck, then body.

Almost reflexively, the image of the video’s blonde flashed: toned, gym-sculpted, brash, powerful.

Ayata Aina straightened, then let her shoulders sag.

Once, at eighteen, in the prime of youth, her body had been her pride—tight, vibrant, no less than that woman’s.

But who stays eighteen forever?

Now a corporate drone, Ayata Aina hadn’t gained weight, but her waist carried softer curves, arms less defined.

Partly Hoshiya Kaoru’s fault—his cooking was too delicious.

Mostly, though, she’d slacked on exercise. Not for lack of desire, but time.

What wage slave has time to gym and still calls themselves a slave?!

Her fitness had slowly declined. Even during intimate moments with Hoshiya Kaoru, she sometimes felt… out of steam.