Promises and Pomegranates by Sav R. Miller

CHAPTER 27
DROPPING my head into my hands, I dig the heels of my palms into my eye
sockets, creating kaleidoscopes of color spotting across my vision.
A vein in my temple throbs painfully, maniacally, as I pore over the list
of possible IP addresses of the flash drive culprit, growing more agitated with
Ivers International’s incompetence at finding the person.
Earlier this morning, a third flash drive appeared, that same grainy
footage not attributed to my state-of-the-art security, but filmed with an
outside party’s camera.
Marcelline brought it in with the mail, and when I plugged it into my
desktop, I was met with the black and white evidence of me baring my soul
to my wife, both of us stark naked in the ocean.
Somehow, compared to the others which caught us in the middle of
lascivious acts, this one felt more intimate. More exposing.
More purposeful.