The Lingerie Thief Next Door - Chapter 4: Chapter 4

Back in our room, my husband studied me with concern. "You've been on edge lately," he said softly. "What's going on?"
I bit my lip, fighting the overwhelming urge to collapse into his arms and confess everything—his father's sickening behavior, the violation, the way my skin still crawled with disgust.
But remembering how quick he'd been to defend Leonard earlier, I swallowed the truth and forced out some flimsy excuse instead.
He pulled me into a hug, his warmth both comforting and suffocating. "You've been working too hard," he murmured. "Take a few days off. Once things calm down at the office, we'll go somewhere—just the two of us."
I nodded against his chest, my arms tightening around him, my emotions a tangled mess.
We talked for a while, and slowly, the tension in my shoulders eased. When I got up to grab my nightgown for a shower, I found it—neatly folded, tucked away in the bottom layer of the recliner.
My husband smirked. "You always lose things and then accuse them of vanishing. See? It was right here the whole time."
My fingers trembled as I clutched the fabric.
Leonard. He must have slipped it back, thinking I wouldn't notice. Did he really believe I was that oblivious? That he could just pretend nothing had happened?
The thought of where it had been—what he might have done with it—sent a wave of revulsion through me. My hands shook with fury.
I hurled it straight into the trash.
My husband frowned. "You've been tearing the house apart looking for that, and now you're throwing it away?" He hesitated, then added cautiously, "Mia… are you going through menopause?"
I whipped around, my glare sharp enough to cut glass.
He raised his hands in surrender. "Okay, okay, bad joke. But seriously, you've been acting… off."
Before I could snap back, the door swung open.
Leonard strolled in, Benny's tiny hand in his, balancing a plate of sliced fruit like some kind of peace offering. "Don't be upset, Mia. Here, have a snack."
My last thread of patience snapped.
This—this was the problem. No knock. No respect for boundaries, no matter how many times we'd told him.
I used to brush it off as an old man's forgetfulness. Now I knew better.
When Benny was born and I was breastfeeding, Leonard would barge in without warning. My husband had confronted him, but he'd just scoffed. "If it's private, you'd lock the door. What's the point of knocking?"
Now it was crystal clear—this disgusting old man had been playing a long game.
The realization that his perversions might stretch back years made bile rise in my throat.
All I'd ever wanted was a normal marriage. A peaceful life. How had I ended up in this nightmare?
Before I could stop myself, I lunged forward, ripped the plate from his hands, and smashed it against the floor.
Ceramic exploded. Fruit splattered.
Silence.
Then—
Benny wailed.
Leonard immediately turned to soothe him, murmuring soft reassurances.
The old fox. Putting on the perfect act. But I saw it—the faint, smug curl of his lips. He'd planned this.
"Mia, what the hell?" my husband snapped.
"He didn't knock!" I shouted. "Why are you yelling at me?"
"He's an old man bringing you food! Can't you at least pretend to be grateful?"
"Grateful?" I choked out a bitter laugh. "Oh, sure. Your family's just full of saints—"
Mid-rant, Leonard—eyes theatrically wet—scooped up Benny and shuffled out, closing the door softly behind him.
My husband exhaled, suddenly drained. "Mia, if something's wrong, just tell me. Don't keep exploding over nothing. If there's no real issue, then what's the problem? This constant fighting—it's destroying us."
He was right. But how could I possibly say it?
My legs gave out. I crumpled to the floor, knees pulled to my chest, sobs tearing through me.
Wordlessly, he knelt beside me and pulled me into his arms. No more questions. No more lies. Just silence.