He Fed Me My Father Ashes

"I stared at the photo on my phone screen, my breath hitching in my throat. Every muscle in my body went rigid.

In the grainy, candid shot, a man was buried against a woman’s chest. His face was obscured, but a tiny, distinct mole on his earlobe caught the light. It pierced my eyes like a needle.

My husband, Xavier Cross, had that exact same mark.

It had started with a viral thread I’d stumbled upon while scrolling through a popular campus gossip site. The title was blunt: “Rating My Boyfriend’s Skills: From Stiff Academic to Bedroom God.”

In the comments, the original poster—let's call her ""The Muse""—was boastfully sharing her ""training"" results. She claimed her boyfriend was a buttoned-up, prestigious university professor who had once been hopelessly repressed, but was now ""the gold standard"" in bed.

She described how he’d summon her to his private office, pinning her against the mahogany desk the second she walked in, kissing her with a desperation that left her bruised."