My stomach lurched. She drifted past me as if I were invisible, no more significant than a lamp in the corner.
“To be honest,” she said with a casual shrug, “this house always felt far too empty for just one woman rattling around inside it.”
I whipped my gaze toward Dominic. “Tell me she’s lying.”
He gave me nothing. Not a word.
That silence thundered louder than a shouted confession.
I didn’t argue when Dominic announced Daniela would be moving in.
“She’s eight months pregnant,” he reminded me, as though I could forget. “She’s carrying our baby. It’s safer if she’s here with us. That way we can watch her closely and make sure everything goes smoothly.”
We. The word hit like a slap. As if my opinion mattered anymore.
His explanation? She had no family nearby, and she’d feel more comfortable in the mansion. That was his noble justification.
And me? I simply nodded.
What else could I do? Refuse, and look like the cruel, jealous wife? It wasn’t as if I could parade the truth around town: Oh, by the way, my husband has been secretly tampering with my medications for years so I’d never conceive, and now I suspect he’s sleeping with the surrogate carrying our child.
No. I swallowed my outrage. I said nothing.
---
During the first few days of her stay, I avoided her as much as I could. She spent her hours lounging in the sunroom, flipping through parenting guides, sipping delicate cups of herbal tea, humming little tunes like some glowing Madonna. Dominic prepared a room for her on the second floor—conveniently situated across from ours.
Too close. Far too close.
I kept telling myself I was being ridiculous. Overly sensitive. Emotional. Hormonal—even though I wasn’t the one swollen with pregnancy. But deep down, I knew something else was happening. Daniela wasn’t there just for the baby. Dominic wanted her there for himself.
And he doted on her in ways he never did for me.
He massaged her feet in the evenings while they watched television together—on the couch I had chosen. He fetched her blankets and tucked pillows under her side when she napped. He asked about her cravings, then instructed me to prepare the dishes she wanted. When she complained about her aching back, he turned to me with that authoritative tone: “Run her a bath. Use the lavender salts.”
Bit by bit, I faded. A ghost wandering my own home. A servant taking orders.
“Lorraine, can you warm her milk before she sleeps?”
“Lorraine, Daniela’s hungry again—make that soup she likes.”
“Lorraine, go buy her prenatal vitamins. Not the ordinary ones, the imported brand.”
I obeyed. Every time.
Because the rare moments I hesitated, he’d look at me with disdain, as if I were the selfish one, the unstable one, the woman unfit to be a mother.
I felt like a maid trapped in some twisted Victoral court—watching Dominic, the king, and Daniela, his pregnant queen, play house with my life.
And worst of all? He wasn’t even hiding it.
---
Then I stumbled across the photo.
I had only been searching Dominic’s desk for a pen. But buried beneath a tangle of old receipts and business papers was a picture—creased at the edges, but clear enough.
Dominic. And Daniela.
Younger. Smiling. His arm draped across her shoulders like it had always belonged there.
My stomach turned to lead.
That night, when I confronted him, I didn’t scream. I didn’t shed a single tear. I simply held up the photo. My voice steady. “How long?”
He didn’t even flinch. Just exhaled heavily, leaning against the dresser with arms crossed, as though I were asking about a late meeting instead of betrayal.
“It was years ago,” he said flatly. “A fling. Nothing important.”
“I thought she was your cousin’s friend.”
“So what? She’s just the surrogate now. That’s all this is. You’re imagining things again.”
Again. The word stung like a lash. Always dismissing me as the irrational wife who blew everything out of proportion.
I wanted to hurl the photo in his face. Instead, I turned on my heel and walked away.
---
That night, sleep eluded me.
The bed was cold, sheets untouched on his side. Dominic never returned. He had murmured something earlier about an “urgent meeting” with foreign investors.
“Don’t wait up,” he’d said smoothly. “It’s business.”
And like the fool I was, I believed him. Like I always did.
But hours ticked by. Midnight slid past. The house was too silent. My chest tightened. I needed air.
I rose, padded down the hall. Passed the balcony doors. Then—Daniela’s room. Her door wasn’t shut. A narrow gap gave me a view inside.
What I saw stopped my heart cold.
Dominic.
Completely bare.
Driving himself into Daniela from behind. Her swollen belly heavy between her arms as she held herself up on hands and knees.
And he wasn’t quiet.
“Yes—harder, Dominic,” Daniela moaned, her voice drenched in pleasure. “I love it when you lose control with me.”
He gripped her hips, pulling her back with brutal force.
“This cunt is perfect,” he groaned. “You were made for me.”
She twisted her head, smiling over her shoulder. “Eight months pregnant with your baby, and I still want you every night. Doesn’t that make you insane with desire?”
His hand cracked across her ass. “You’re mine. You’ve always been mine.”
“And your wife?” Daniela’s laugh rang out, sharp and cruel. “That little fool asleep down the hall?”
He chuckled darkly. “She’s nothing. Just a name. You’re the one I love. You’re the one I fuck.”
“Say it again,” she begged breathlessly.
“I love you, Daniela,” Dominic growled, voice raw. “I fucking love you. I’ve been with you for three years—while married to her.”
I couldn’t move. I couldn’t breathe.
I wanted to rip the door open, to scream, to burn everything to ash. But my body betrayed me, rooted to the spot.
I just stood there, watching the man I had given my life to tear it apart without hesitation.
And Daniela reveled in it.
She moaned louder, clawing the sheets. “You’re not going back to her. Not after this. Not when I make you this desperate. I own you now.”
“You do,” Dominic gasped, driving harder. “I’ll keep fucking you until you can’t take anyone else.”
Each thrust slammed into me like a hammer, splintering what little remained of my heart.
My stomach turned, bile rising. Because suddenly everything aligned—every excuse, every lie.
Those urgent late-night calls.
The endless “business trips abroad.”
The hushed conversations that ended the second I stepped into the room.
The supposed year-long project that required him overseas.
Three years.
Three of the four years we were married… he had belonged to her.
I wasn’t his wife.
I was a mask. A convenient front.
A pawn he kept around to make everything look proper, while he built his true life—with her.
