The Corpse in Bed Strikes Back Chapter 1

The mistress sent me a naked photo of her and my husband.

The caption was the grenade.

“Your husband says you’re a corpse in the sack.”

I didn’t reply.

I went straight to the printing house, fast-tracked an order for fifteen hundred copies, and plastered them all over her apartment complex.

The next day, she called me, sobbing, begging me to forgive her.

I chuckled. “Don’t rush it. That was just the appetizer. The next grand gift is for both of you.”

* * *

My phone screen flickered to life, the time reading 2:00 a.m.

I had just finalized the ultimate proposal for next quarter’s exhibition and was about to close my laptop. A crisp notification sound sliced through the silence of the study.

It was a photograph.

Grant Kingsley, my husband of five years, tangled up naked with a young woman. The backdrop was our master bedroom—the Italian-imported gray sheets I’d personally selected were now crumpled into a mess.

The girl’s face was turned toward the camera, a smirk of pure provocation on her lips as she took the selfie. Grant’s face was buried in the curve of her neck, obscured, but the Patek Philippe watch on his wrist, the one I’d given him for his birthday last year, was unmistakable.

Beneath the image, a single line of text followed.

“Your husband says you’re a corpse in the sack.”

I stared at the words, specifically at "corpse in the sack," for a long time.

A chilling sensation crept from my fingertips, up my arm, and settled firmly in my heart. But the searing pain I should have felt, the gut-wrenching collapse—it never arrived. Instead, there was an alien, almost peaceful stillness, like a boot that had been suspended over my head for years had finally dropped with a dull, heavy thud.

So, this is how it ends.

My fingers moved with the detached precision of someone finalizing a work document. I screenshotted the photo and the accompanying text. The image was saved into an encrypted folder I’d created weeks ago.

The folder’s name: The Final Chapter.

I opened my laptop, pulled up another document I’d prepared long ago, and felt no hesitation. The file title was: Sage Tanner.

It contained every piece of information about her, more detailed than any internal HR file. Her exact home address down to the unit number, her parents’ contact information and workplace, her alma mater, even the boutique coffee shop she habitually visited every morning.

I had collected all this a month prior.

The moment Grant started working late with suspicious frequency and the faint, unfamiliar scent of a woman’s perfume began to linger in his car, I knew this day was inevitable. I hadn't succumbed to useless emotional turmoil—no interrogation, no screaming matches. That would have been a waste of my energy.

I simply, and quietly, prepared all the necessary ammunition for the war I knew was coming.

I picked up my phone and dialed the number of Mike, the owner of the printing house I’d worked with for years.

Mike’s voice was thick with sleep. "Rory? It’s late…"

“Mike, I need a rush job,” my voice was unnervingly calm. “Fifteen hundred A4 glossy, full-color prints. I need them in three hours. I’ll triple the price.”

“What’s the content, to be so urgent?”

“A photo. And a single line of text.”

I sent him the screenshot via email.

There was a few seconds of silence on the line, followed by a low sigh. “Rory, you…”

“Mike. Domestic dispute,” I cut him off, my tone devoid of emotion.

“...Got it. I’m firing up the machines now.”

I didn’t sleep. I changed clothes and drove to the printing house. The machines roared, and the acrid smell of fresh ink permeated the air. I watched, expressionless, as the obscene images were spit out of the cold machinery, one after another. Grant, the sheets I picked out, the expensive watch I bought—all turned into the stage for his betrayal.

Mike offered me a cigarette; I politely declined. He simply patted my shoulder, saying nothing.

At 4:00 a.m., I drove away, my trunk heavy with three cumbersome cardboard boxes. I had pre-hired three temps via a local gig app and met them outside Sage Tanner’s apartment complex.

“I want these plastered on every single surface in this complex,” I handed them a thick wad of cash and a box of photos. “The bulletin board, the elevator lobby, the gym equipment, and taped to the door of every single unit.”

“Uh, ma’am, what is this?” A young man hesitated, looking at the photo.

I pulled another stack of bills from my wallet and added it to the pile. “Make sure you’re thorough.”

No more questions were asked under the weight of the triple cash incentive.

I didn't leave. I parked my car in the shadows across the street and silently watched them, like ghosts in the dark, distributing my "masterpiece" into every corner.

The faint light of dawn broke the darkness.

Movement started in the complex. Early-morning walkers and joggers were the first to find the jarring, full-color sheets. They gathered at the bulletin boards, pointing and whispering. Next, uniformed security guards started running around, tearing them down, but for every sheet they removed, another was quickly discovered.

Fifteen hundred copies. Enough to ensure the scandal would fully ferment by sunrise.

I watched the lights flicker on behind the windows, and the hesitant, peering silhouettes, and a cold smirk touched my lips.

My phone finally rang.

It was Sage Tanner.

The moment I answered, her piercing sobs erupted, the background a cacophony of neighborly shouts and angry discussion.

“Ms. Leighton! I’m so sorry! I really am! Please, please, just let this go!” Her voice was shaking uncontrollably. “My parents will kill me if they find out! I’ll lose my job! Please!”

I let out a soft, gentle laugh, rolling down the window to let the cool morning air brush against my face. My tone was falsely kind, like I was consoling a frightened child, but the words were pure venom.

“Don’t rush it.”

“That was just the appetizer.”

“The next grand gift is for you, and your darling Grant.”