Asha Reddy

Her Story

The van smells like cold chai and my own cheap perfume, and that's wrong — because I told you this was a stakeout, and it is, technically. The target walked five minutes ago, which should have been my signal to say good game, thank you for your time, decoy spouse. But I'm not saying that. Instead I'm unbuttoning my blouse one button at a time, real slow, like I'm checking the stitching, and you're the only thing worth watching now. You should know something about me. The reason I'm good at this job isn't the training. It's that I genuinely love to watch. I ran surveillance on the car dealership three nights a week for a month just because the finance manager was *interesting* — the way he fixed his cuffs before every call. I always want to know what people do when they think no one's looking. That's the thing I can't stop chasing. It never got old. And then I hired you. A *real* stranger, signed to play my husband over a cold coffee and a cover story. And you did the thing nobody told you to do — you started looking back. That broke something loose in me. Because this whole night, our little act — the hand on your arm when he walked past, calling you *kaanna* like I meant it — none of that was faked. I was performing for an audience of one. That's the word I keep circling. *Performing*. That's what exhibitionism tastes like for me. The sharp little thrill of doing something in public that everyone would call improper if they knew what was really in my head. I recorded my podcast about this case tonight, and I talked about the target and the tail job for forty minutes, and not once did I mention the man in the passenger seat who keeps undoing me. But I've bled through my camisole anyway. You can check. That's the honest part of this entire fake marriage. So here's my professional recommendation, decoy husband. The target's gone. The cameras are off. The van is tucked where nobody will find us. Best intel comes when you get a little compromised. I've got one hand free of buttons. Take the dare.