Confession 2: A Night before Marriage I Crossed the Line with my Boss

I... I don't even know where to start. My hands are shaking as I type this out. I've been carrying this secret for so long, and it's eating me alive. Every night, I lie awake, staring at the ceiling, wondering if I should just blurt it all out or keep pretending everything's fine. But I can't pretend anymore. Not to myself, at least. If you're reading this, please don't judge me too harshly. I was young, desperate, and so, so naive. This is my confession—the whole messy truth. God, I feel sick just thinking about it.


It all began about five years ago, when I was 26. Fresh out of college, full of ambition, I landed a job at this mid-sized tech firm. I thought it was my big break. I poured everything into it—working 12-hour days, weekends, skipping lunches just to meet deadlines. I was the first one in and the last one out. But months turned into a year, and nothing. No promotion, no raise, nada. Colleagues who slacked off got ahead because they knew how to schmooze. Me? I was just the "hard worker" who got overlooked. It stung. I needed the money—my family wasn't well-off, and I had loans piling up. I started doubting if hard work even mattered.


Then came that night. The one that changed everything. We had this massive project due, and my boss—let's call him Mr. R—asked me to stay late. Everyone else had gone home; it was just us in the dimly lit office, surrounded by stacks of reports and the hum of the AC. He was 48, married, with kids older than me. Respected in the company, always polished in his suits. We wrapped up around midnight, and as I packed my bag, he leaned back in his chair and asked, "So, how do you feel about your progress here? Thinking about that promotion?"


I froze. My heart pounded—I'd been waiting for someone to notice. But I was honest, maybe too honest. "I don't think hard work gets you anywhere here," I said, my voice barely above a whisper. "I've given everything, and it's like I'm invisible."


He smiled, that slow, knowing smile that made my stomach twist. "Well, maybe there's another way. Something... mutual." He didn't say it outright at first, but the hints were there. A hand on my shoulder, lingering too long. Comments about how "dedicated" I was, how he could "help" if I helped him. I knew what he meant. Sex. In exchange for the promotion. My mind raced—say no and stay stuck? Or... God, I hesitated. I told him I needed to think, but he pressed, saying the offer wouldn't last. I was broke, frustrated, and yeah, a little flattered that someone in power saw me that way. In the end, I agreed. We did it right there in his office. Quick, awkward, but done. I felt dirty walking out, but the next week? Promotion. Raise. Just like that.


At first, I told myself it was a one-time thing. But it wasn't. He called me in late more often, and soon, it became regular. And here's the part that scares me to admit—I started enjoying it. Not just the perks, but him. He was older, experienced, and he listened. My family life was a mess—distant parents, no siblings to lean on. I never had that emotional support, someone to make me feel valued beyond my output. With him, it was different. He'd talk to me like I mattered, hold me after, whisper promises. I became the star of the company. Back-to-back promotions, leading projects, salary hikes that let me breathe easy. Life was good. Too good. I ignored the guilt, the fact that he was married. We were careful—protection, pills, all that. Or so I thought.


Then, my family arranged my marriage. They found this guy—sweet, stable, my age. I liked him; he was kind, and I knew I couldn't marry Mr. R. The age gap, his wife—it was impossible. So I went along with it. The wedding was set, invitations sent. I even invited Mr. R, figuring it was professional courtesy. A few days before, I pulled him aside at work. "This has to stop," I whispered, my voice cracking. "I'm getting married. It's over."


He nodded, but his eyes darkened. "One last time," he said. "For old times' sake." I said no, firmly. But inside? God, I wanted it. One final goodbye, to feel that rush, that connection. The night before the wedding, he was staying in our guest room—family insisted, since he was "like a mentor." Everyone was asleep. Around 2 a.m., I couldn't take it. My heart was racing, palms sweaty, as I slipped down the hall in my nightgown. I knocked softly, and he pulled me in. We didn't talk much. It was intense, desperate—like the world was ending. We lost control completely. No protection, no pills. Just raw emotion. I snuck back to my room at 4 a.m., legs shaky, telling myself it was the end.


The wedding day was a blur. I smiled through the vows, the photos, the toasts. My new husband—let's call him A—was beaming. Honeymoon was sweet, normal. Back to work after, and things with Mr. R stopped cold. Professional only. I thought I'd dodged the bullet.


A month later, the shock hit. I missed my period. Test after test—positive. Pregnant. My world tilted. That night... we hadn't been careful. It had to be his. I confronted Mr. R in his office, tears streaming. "It's yours," I sobbed. "What do we do?"


He went pale, then cold. "No. It could be your husband's. You're married now— you've been with him. I can't accept this. My family..." He denied everything, said I was mistaken. I begged, but he shut me out. The betrayal crushed me. How could he, after everything?


Then, the worst part. A found the gynecologist's consultation paper I'd hidden poorly. He was over the moon—"We're having a baby so soon!" He hugged me tight, assuming it was from our honeymoon. He trusted me blindly, even bought my lame excuse about pills failing sometimes. "It happens," he said, grinning. I nodded, forcing a smile, but inside, I was dying.


I quit the company soon after. Couldn't face Mr. R every day. Became a housewife, focused on the pregnancy. Nine months later, our son arrived—healthy, beautiful. A dotes on him, plays with him every evening, calls him "my little miracle." But every time I watch them, the truth stabs me. That's not his child. It's Mr. R's. The resemblance is subtle now, but what if it grows? What if A notices someday?


I've never told him. How could I? It would shatter our family, destroy the life we've built. A loves that boy more than anything, and the kid adores his "daddy." But the secret... it's killing me. I cry in the shower, replay that night over and over. Was it worth it? The promotions, the highs? No. If I could go back, I'd walk out of that office and never look back. But I can't. So I live with it, nervous every day that the truth will slip out, sad that my son's life started with a lie. If you're reading this, pray for me. I don't know how much longer I can hold it together.