The Wives’ Circle

The street looked perfect.
Every driveway lined with matching sedans, every lawn trimmed to the same emerald neatness, every porch light glowing in the warm dusk. From the outside, it was a paradise — an unbroken rhythm of polite hellos, polished smiles, and weekend barbecues where no one ever said what they truly felt.

But inside those houses, behind curtains drawn at night, the perfection cracked.

Clara, thirty-two, lay awake most nights beside her husband Daniel, watching the rise and fall of his chest, untouched and untouched herself. She still wore lace to bed, hoping, but his back was always turned.

Vanessa, thirty-eight, argued with Victor in whispers. Their house had the smell of money, the gleam of success, but their bed was cold. Every word she spoke to him now was half a dagger, half a plea.

Marissa, twenty-nine, was restless. She ran each morning at the gym, her ponytail bouncing, her shirt clinging with sweat — and she loved when the trainer’s eyes followed her. It was dangerous, and she wanted more danger.

Evelyn, forty-one, looked like a queen on her balcony. The neighbors envied her poise, her curves, her flowing dresses. But no one knew the loneliness she hid when the house grew too silent. Her glass of wine stayed full, her bed empty.

And then there was Tessa. Twenty-seven, newly moved in, shy, with soft lips that trembled when she smiled. She wanted something — she didn’t know what — only that it was more than the careful life she was supposed to live.

The street looked perfect.
But hunger whispered beneath its walls.

And all it would take was one spark.