The Nantucket sky was a postcard-perfect canvas, streaked with wisps of pink and orange as the Winbury estate stood tall, regal, and utterly unaware of the impending disaster about to unfold inside.

Thomas Winbury had just stepped through the grand front doors, adjusting his sweater with the kind of nonchalance only a man who had no clue he was about to get verbally obliterated could muster. He thought he had played his cards right—he had been careful, meticulous even. Or so he believed.

The affair with Isabel Nallet was meant to be nothing more than a beautifully reckless lapse in judgment, tucked away in the secret folds of Nantucket's quieter corners, specifically the Sand Dollar Motel. A motel, he now realized, that was way too cheap for his lifestyle and far too easy to recognize on social media.

It had started as a regular evening at the Winbury house—his wife, Abby, was resting upstairs, blissfully unaware, and the usual calm presided over their luxurious home. That is, until four chaos-bringers, each armed with the energy of a thousand college breakups, stormed in.

Kimberly Finkle, clutching her phone like it was the holy grail, slammed it down on the marble kitchen island. "EXPLAIN THIS, Thomas!" she shrieked, eyes burning with righteous fury.

Thomas blinked, feigning innocence like a child caught stealing cookies. "Explain what?"

"OH, I don't know, maybe the fact that you were very publicly exiting the Sand Dollar Motel looking like a man who just committed all seven deadly sins?" Whitney Chase crossed her arms, exuding the energy of an investigative journalist who was one exposé away from ruining his life.

Leighton Murray smirked, leaned in, and delivered the finishing blow. "And the best part? It wasn't just some tabloid garbage—I was the one who saw it first. Imagine my surprise when I opened Instagram and saw you, in broad daylight, stumbling out of Nantucket's premier venue for extramarital affairs. You idiot."

Thomas paled.

Bela Malhotra, who had been calmly stirring sugar into her coffee like a mafia boss about to execute a betrayal, finally looked up. "Damn, Tommy boy. Motel cheating? That's rookie behavior. And I say this as someone who has watched an insane amount of Bravo."

He ran a hand down his face, his usual suave demeanor crumbling like a sandcastle under a tidal wave of judgment. "Alright, first of all, can we not do this in my kitchen?"

Kimberly's laugh was sharp and humorless. "Ohhh, you mean the kitchen where you and your pregnant wife eat?!"

Whitney snatched the phone from the counter, zooming in on the picture. "AND you weren't even being discreet! Dude, you look so guilty. You're literally walking out looking like you saw God and he told you to go home immediately before you ruin your life."

"First of all," Thomas began, trying to reclaim control of the situation, "that's just a bad angle."

Leighton snorted so hard she nearly choked on her own disdain. "Bad angle? That's your defense? I—oh my God, someone get this man a lawyer because if that's the level of argumentation he's working with, I fear for his future."

Bela leaned forward, resting her chin on her hand like she was at a front-row seat of Broadway's messiest drama. "I need to know—was it worth it?"

He hesitated. "I—I mean, that's not the point here."

"NO, IT IS THE POINT!" Kimberly snapped. "Your wife is upstairs, thinking you're, what, faithful? Meanwhile, you're out here reenacting every single mistake made by Tristan Thompson?"

"God, that's so embarrassing for you," Whitney added with a disappointed shake of her head. "Like, no offense, but if you're going to cheat, at least do it in a way that doesn't make you a meme."

Thomas sighed, rubbing his temples. "Okay. Okay. I get it. You're mad."

Leighton's eyes narrowed. "Mad? No, no, Thomas, mad is what happens when I run out of my $95 face cream. This is what happens when I find out a so-called man is out here treating his PREGNANT WIFE like an optional side character in his life."

Bela tapped a finger against the counter. "Tell me something, Thomas. What was the plan here? Just, like, an outline. Were you planning to lie? Deny? Blame your 'crazy' ex-girlfriend? I need to understand your level of delusion."

His jaw clenched. "Look, I—I know what I did was wrong, okay?"

Whitney raised a hand. "Ah-ah-ah, see, that's where you lose me. Because if you knew it was wrong, you wouldn't have done it. That's just basic logic, buddy."

Kimberly turned to Leighton. "How long do you think before Abby finds out?"

Leighton smirked. "I give it an hour. Max."

Thomas groaned. "Come on, guys. Don't make this worse than it already is."

"Buddy, you already did that yourself when you walked out of that motel looking like the literal embodiment of a guilty conscience," Bela said, sipping her coffee with zero sympathy.

"You know what? I don't have to sit here and take this," Thomas huffed, standing up straighter. "This is my house, and—"

"And?" Leighton challenged.

"And I'd like it if you all left."

Silence.

Then, four simultaneous laughs exploded in the kitchen.

Bela wiped away a mock tear. "Oh, Tommy. Sweetheart. No."

Kimberly crossed her arms. "We are absolutely not leaving until we decide you have suffered enough."

Whitney pulled up a chair. "And I'm thinking at least another thirty minutes."

Leighton checked her nails. "Or whenever Abby walks down those stairs. Whichever comes first."

Thomas groaned. He was doomed.

And worse? He knew he deserved every second of it.