A woman stood in the doorway, tall and poised, holding a delicate pastry box tied with a pink ribbon.
“Hello,” she said, tilting her head slightly. “I’m Valeria. We’ve been chatting online.”
Her name landed in my chest like a blow. My mouth went dry; I couldn’t form a sound.
She smiled, calm, amused, almost triumphant. “Sebastian’s been incredibly kind to me lately. I wanted to make him something special… a little thank-you. Since I’m here already, you won’t send me away, right? You’re not that type of wife.”
Before I could answer, she stepped past me, her heels clicking across the marble as if she owned the house.
“Wow,” she murmured, surveying the room. “Not much has changed. I’d almost forgotten how beautiful this place is.”
Her perfume drifted around me—soft, floral, lingering. My hands trembled so badly I had to hide them behind my back.
She wandered down the hall like a visitor returning to a familiar world. When she reached the garden, her face lit up. “These orchids… he’s still tending to them? I love that.”
My throat tightened. I remembered Sebastian watering those orchids every morning, trimming their roots meticulously. I’d always thought it was his ritual for peace before the day began. He never mentioned they were her favorites.
We walked toward the veranda, where the wind chimes swayed in the breeze.
“Still here,” she said, tilting her head. “We bought these in Kyoto. He said the sound reminded him of me.” She glanced at me. “Isn’t he sentimental?”
The sound that once soothed me now scraped against my heart. Every evening, I had thought he liked it. Now I realized… he was listening for her.
Inside the living room, her fingers lingered over the piano. “Oh, he kept this too. I played here every night after dinner. He hated it at first, said it distracted him from work. But eventually, he just sat there, listening.”
She smirked. “Does he still do that when you play?”
I couldn’t speak. I didn’t even try.
She drifted to the shelves, tracing a vinyl record’s spine. “My favorite album. He always said it was too sad. Funny, how men pretend to forget the things they can’t let go of.”
I followed silently, every word cutting through me. My home no longer felt mine. Every corner, every sound, every detail belonged to her first.
Then she went to the bedroom.
Her fingers brushed over the neatly folded shirts. “Still using the linens I gave him in Florence,” she said. “He swore he’d never wear anything that soft. But look at him now.” She turned to me over her shoulder, honeyed smile in place. “I’m sure you keep them nice. He likes his things just the way I left them.”
My chest hurt so much I thought I might break. I had ironed those same shirts, believing I was building a life with him. Instead, I’d been preserving a ghost.
Valeria’s gaze glinted with nostalgia and mock pity. “You’ve done well,” she said softly. “Not every woman could live surrounded by someone else’s memories.”
I had no words. Silence pressed down, accusing.
She stopped at the wall of our wedding photos. A soft laugh escaped her.
“Funny,” she murmured. “Sebastian and I always planned three photoshoots—desert, ocean, forest. We never finished them before I left. Looks like you two made my little dream come true.”
I froze. My stomach knotted. Those exact themes… he’d chosen them himself. I’d believed he was romantic, creative. Now I knew—he’d only been finishing what she had started.
A voice cut sharply through the room, cold and commanding.
“What are you doing here?”
Sebastian stood at the doorway, face hard, eyes flitting between us.
Valeria turned, her posture softening instantly. “Oh, Sebastian,” she said, lifting the pastry box. “I made these for you. Your lovely wife invited me in… she was so kind, even suggested I stay for dinner.”
Dinner? My jaw clenched. She was lying perfectly.
Sebastian’s glare softened slightly as he looked at her. “Valeria is just a neighbor’s niece,” he said calmly, turning to me. “We grew up together. Like family. She went abroad for a while, that’s why you haven’t met her.”
I stared, silent. The ease in his voice, the way he said her name… he didn’t notice my hands shaking, didn’t see how broken I felt. He kept smiling, oblivious.
Neighbor’s niece? Really.
Valeria’s smile was sweet and calculated. “Oh yes. Sebastian always took care of me. I was picky when I was young. He learned all my favorites—sweet and sour ribs, braised meatballs, steamed sea bass…” She giggled. “I used to tell him he’d make a great husband one day.”
I clenched my fists. Those were the dishes he had cooked for me every weekend. He’d said he learned them because I loved them. I believed him. I thought it was love.
I couldn’t stand there any longer. I mumbled an excuse about feeling dizzy and fled upstairs before my face betrayed me.
Minutes later, a soft knock.
Valeria again. Of course.
She entered, carrying a steaming bowl, smiling that same false gentleness. “Sebastian made this for you,” she said. “He asked me to bring it up. It’s good for your pregnancy. Drink it while it’s warm.”
The smell hit me first: bitter, sharp, heavy. My stomach lurched.
