The elevator climbed to the fifth floor with agonizing slowness, each floor marker lighting up like a countdown to something I wasn't ready to face. My hands pressed against my belly, feeling the baby's restless movements as if she could sense my mounting anxiety. The receptionist had reluctantly agreed to escort me to the Premier Suite, her nervous energy radiating in the confined space.
"Mrs. Hansen, perhaps we should wait for your husband to arrive," she whispered, her voice barely audible over the elevator's mechanical hum.
I shook my head, my wedding ring catching the overhead light as I gripped the handrail. "I need to see her now."
The elevator doors slid open with a soft chime, revealing the luxury wing's marble hallway lined with fresh orchids. Each step toward Suite 501 felt like walking through thick honey, my pregnant body moving slower than my racing mind. The receptionist's keycard beeped against the electronic lock, and the heavy door swung open to reveal a scene that stopped my heart.
A young woman, maybe twenty-five, stood by the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city. Sunlight caught the diamonds at her throat and wrist—Elena's diamonds, the family heirlooms meant for me. She turned with practiced grace, her glossy black hair catching the light, her figure slim and elegant in a way mine hadn't been for months.
"Can I help you?" Her voice carried the confidence of someone completely at home in luxury.
My mouth went dry. "I'm Amelia Torres-Hansen. This is my suite."
The woman's perfectly sculpted eyebrows rose in what appeared to be genuine surprise, then her expression shifted to something between pity and disdain. "I'm sorry, but you're mistaken. I'm Mrs. Hansen." She gestured to herself with a delicate hand adorned with a wedding ring that caught the light. "Vivienne Hansen."
The world tilted slightly. "That's impossible. I'm married to Drew Hansen. I'm eight months pregnant with his child."
Vivienne's laugh was like crystal breaking—beautiful and sharp. "Oh my. Drew warned me about this." She turned to the receptionist, who stood frozen in the doorway. "This is the coworker he mentioned. The one who's been... fixated on him."
"Fixated?" The word came out as a strangled whisper. "I'm his wife!"
"Sweetheart," Vivienne's voice dripped with false sympathy as she moved closer, the diamonds at her throat catching the light with each step. "I understand you work with my husband, but this delusion has gone too far. Drew and I have been married for two years. These diamonds?" She touched the necklace—my necklace—with possessive fingers. "His wedding gift to me."
The baby kicked hard against my ribs, as if protesting the lies filling the air. "You're wearing my sister's jewelry. Elena Torres owns this birthing center, and she gave me those diamonds."
"Elena Torres?" Vivienne's eyes widened in mock surprise. "Oh, you poor thing. You really have constructed quite an elaborate fantasy, haven't you?"
Footsteps echoed in the hallway behind us, and my heart leaped with relief. Drew would sort this out. He would tell this woman exactly who I was, would demand she remove Elena's jewelry and leave our suite immediately.
"What's going on here?" Drew's familiar voice filled the doorway, but when I turned to him with desperate eyes, his expression wasn't the outrage I expected. It was... careful. Controlled.
"Drew, thank God you're here," I breathed, reaching for him. "This woman is claiming to be your wife. She's wearing Elena's diamonds and—"
But Drew stepped past me, his arm sliding around Vivienne's waist with practiced ease. The gesture was so natural, so intimate, that it hit me like a physical blow.
"Amelia," he said, his voice gentle but firm, the tone one might use with a confused child. "We've talked about this. You can't keep doing this to yourself."
The room spun slightly. "Drew, what are you talking about?"
Vivienne leaned into his embrace, her hand resting on his chest with the familiarity of countless repetitions. "Darling, maybe we should call someone. She seems genuinely distressed."
"You're both insane," I said, my voice rising despite my efforts to stay calm. "Drew, I'm your wife. We've been married for three years. I'm carrying your baby!"
Drew's expression remained maddeningly patient. "Amelia, you're a valued colleague, but you're not my wife. This is my wife, Vivienne. We've been together since college."
The receptionist shifted uncomfortably behind me, and I could feel her doubt radiating like heat. To her eyes, I probably looked like exactly what they were claiming—a delusional pregnant woman confronting a composed, elegant couple.
"I have proof," I said, my hands shaking as I fumbled through my purse. "My wedding ring, our marriage certificate—"
"Oh honey," Vivienne interrupted, extending her left hand to display a wedding band that perfectly matched the one I wore. "Anyone can buy a ring."
My fingers closed around my marriage certificate, but as I pulled it out, Vivienne continued speaking with devastating precision.
"Drew has that little scar on his shoulder from when he fell off his bike at age seven. He puts exactly two sugars in his coffee, never cream. He hates horror movies but pretends to like them to seem tough." Each detail landed like a physical blow. "He talks in his sleep about his childhood dog, Max."
Those intimate details—details only a wife should know—hung in the air like accusations. Drew's face remained carefully neutral, but he didn't deny a single word.
