She lounged across my bed as if it had always belonged to her—legs crossed, posture lazy yet possessive. Draped over her shoulders was the ivory silk robe he gave me last Valentine’s, now hanging open in careless luxury. The fabric slipped against her skin, her damp hair sticking to one side as she smiled—a slow, self-satisfied curve that screamed victory.
Her gaze slid over me like I was an inconvenience.
“Oh,” she said lightly, almost laughing. “Didn’t realize this was yours, Valentina. My bad. It just looked… comfortable.” She arched her back and stretched her arms high, staking her claim on everything my eyes could see. “It was dry, soft—felt wasteful not to use it. You don’t mind, right? I mean, I’m practically a regular here anyway.”
My brain stuttered. What did she just say?
Her tone was all honey with a razor hidden underneath—pretending innocence while twisting the knife.
I didn’t move.
The bathroom door opened, steam drifting out—and then he appeared. Lucas. A towel slung low at his hips, wet hair pushed back. His eyes flicked between us, unreadable, like he was standing in front of a shattered reflection trying to decide which half to save.
“Anabella spilled wine on her dress,” he said, tone clipped and clinical, like he was filing a report instead of defending betrayal. “She asked for something to wear. I told her to borrow your robe. End of story. Don’t start anything, Sav. Not tonight.”
Anabella tilted her head toward him, lips curling into a smirk.
“Thanks, Lucas. You really came through,” she said sweetly, voice dripping with something that wasn’t gratitude.
He gave her a curt nod. “Try not to ruin another outfit next time.”
She laughed, tossing her hair back, the sound light but cruel. “Promise I’ll keep the wine far away next round, boss.”
Then his gaze settled on me—cold, deliberate. “Don’t turn this into one of your scenes, Valentina. We’ve got real problems to deal with.”
My throat tried to form words, but nothing came out. He crossed the space between us and pressed a perfunctory kiss to my forehead—void of love, more command than comfort.
“We haven’t eaten. Make something,” he said, his tone soft only in sound, never in meaning. “You need food too.”
I turned away before the humiliation could pull me under. In the kitchen, the silence was suffocating. Tears hit the counter before I even noticed them. I chopped onions, garlic, peppers—the blade cutting through each one like it was my own flesh.
Their voices carried from the hallway.
“You think Valentina’s mad I’m here?” Anabella asked, all sweetness and poison.
Without hesitation, Lucas replied, “She’s not my wife. She doesn’t get to be mad. That’s final.”
Her laugh was quiet, teasing. “Guess I misjudged her. Usually she’s got claws.”
“She’s tired,” he answered flatly. “Let her stay quiet.”
Each word hit like a punch that didn’t bleed.
When dinner was ready, I brought the plates out. Anabella was already sprawled across a chair, her legs elegantly crossed, one arm draped over the table like a queen presiding over her throne.
“Thanks for cooking, sweetheart,” she told Lucas, reaching out to wipe a crumb from his mouth with her fingertip.
Lucas looked only at me. “Eat something. You’ll need your strength.”
Anabella met my stare, lips curling. “Don’t worry, Valentina. I’m not stealing your seat. Just your appetite.”
I stayed standing. Watching. Their laughter filled the room, easy and familiar, her touch on his arm light and natural—like I had already been erased from the picture.
When their plates were empty, I slipped away without a sound. Back in the bedroom, I lay down on the cold side of the bed. The robe still smelled faintly of her perfume.
And in that silence, the thought hit me like a truth I’d been running from:
You lost him, Valentina. And you helped him do it.
---
I must’ve blacked out sometime later, face pressed into the sheets. When I came to, voices drifted from the kitchen. Not silence anymore—laughter. Her laughter.
“These eggs are amazing,” Anabella was saying. “You always cook better than me. Valentina doesn’t know how good she’s got it. If I had you, I’d keep you in the kitchen every morning.”
I moved toward the doorway, slow and hollow. She was already dressed—in my black cotton shirt and gray shorts, her hair tied back with my silk scrunchie.
Lucas stood at the stove, flipping eggs like it was just another ordinary morning. He glanced at me calmly.
“Come eat, Sav.”
I pulled out a chair and sat. He slid a plate in front of me—toast, eggs, apple slices. The food tasted like nothing.
Then he folded his arms, voice level. “Anabella’s pregnant.”
The world tilted. My fork slipped from my hand, clinking against the plate.
He added, steady and firm, “It’s mine.”
Anabella smiled across the table like she was sharing good news with an old friend.
“We wanted a child,” Lucas said, his tone low, rehearsed. “Remember? We even talked about adoption. We tried.”
I remembered. Every single test that failed. Every sterile clinic room that ended with me crying in silence. Now he looked at me like she had given him something I never could.
“I’ve decided she’ll stay here until the baby’s born,” he said casually, as if my home were his stage and I was the extra who didn’t get a line.
Anabella lifted my mug to her lips, sipping from it without hesitation. “I told him it’s your call, really. I could stay somewhere else, but Lucas thinks it’s safer here. For the baby.”
Her skin glowed. Her voice was soft enough to sound sincere, cruel enough to cut through my chest.
“I want what’s best for them both. You’re strong, Valentina. You’ll make a wonderful second mom.”
My throat burned as I stared at her. They didn’t know. Neither of them knew that there was another heartbeat inside me too. Seven weeks. Seven miserable, dying weeks.
And they didn’t know I was running out of time.
Lucas sat there like judgment itself, unmoved.
Seven years. That’s how long I’d given him. My youth, my loyalty, my silence. I’d hidden his crimes, washed blood from his hands, built a life around his shadows. And now he brought her into my house like I was nothing.
A sound tore from me—part grief, part fury.
“You’re really doing this?” I whispered. “After everything? After every secret I buried, every lie I carried for you? You call this love?”
He didn’t even look guilty.
“Don’t turn this into a scene, Valentina,” he said coolly. “You’re not the victim here. Think about the baby.”
And that’s when I realized—
I was never home to him.
Just another place he passed through.
