Blue Illusion review: Sales assistant slept with my husband

I still wake up some nights crying, eight years later, because of the disgusting, predatory animal Blue Illusion kept on their payroll and protected with everything they had.

She was unforgettable: mid 40s, wide swaying hips that she rolled like a stripper when she walked past the change rooms. She reeked of that cheap, sickly-sweet perfume that clung to my husband’s clothes for days. Fake laugh, fake sympathy, fake everything, except the way she pressed herself against married men while their wives were distracted two metres away.

I trusted her. I actually confided in her about my marriage problems, my insecurities, my body after three kids, because she acted like a friend. She used every single word I told her to seduce my husband. He admitted she whispered my private fears back to him while she was on her knees in the back room after closing. Full sex on the stockroom floor, among the boxes and tissue paper, while I was at home bathing our children and cooking dinner.

When I found out I collapsed in the middle of the shop, screaming, sobbing, begging the manager Lee to do something. Lee just stared at me with dead eyes, took my name and number, promised HR would call. Nothing. Not one word. That vile, hip-wiggling [censored] kept prancing around the store the very next day, still flashing her cleavage, still laughing that fake laugh, still protected. Everyone knew why: she was screwing the owner too. That’s the only explanation for why a serial marriage destroying slut was untouchable.

Blue Illusion destroyed my family and then spat in my face. My kids grew up in a broken home because some over-sexed, husband-hungry predator decided my life was her playground, and the company covered for her. I hope she rots. I hope Lee rots. I hope every woman who ever steps foot in that store knows what kind of filth they’re funding.

Burn it down before you shop there. Zero stars.

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