"Isabella."
The word reached me before the door closed. Daniel's voice—low, careful—floated through the hallway like a hand extended too late. I didn't turn around. I stayed where I was, just inside the shadow of the stairs, my fingers pressed into the curve of the banister as if it might steady me.
The woman stepped into the light first.
She was tall, elegant in a way that came from practice, not ease. Her dress clung to her figure without apology, dark and expensive, rainwater still clinging to the hem. Her hair was pulled back, sleek, controlled. She looked like someone who belonged in this house. Someone who knew how to walk through wealth without flinching.
"Isabella," Daniel said again, sharper now.
I turned slowly.
"Andrea," I said, recognizing her before he could explain. His senior partner. The woman whose name appeared in emails marked urgent. The woman he'd assured me was nothing more than business.
Andrea's lips curved into a smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. "I didn't realize you were home," she said.
"I live here," I replied. My voice sounded steady. I barely recognized it.
Daniel stepped forward. "This isn't what it looks like."
That sentence again. Men loved it. As if appearances were ever the problem.
"It looks like you brought your work home," I said. "Again."
Andrea glanced between us, her gaze lingering on Daniel. "The meeting ran late. We had a situation with the overseas investors."
"At midnight," I said.
She didn't answer. She didn't have to. Daniel shifted beside her, the smallest movement, but I saw it. How his body angled toward hers. How familiarity lived in the space between them.
"I'll wait in the car," Andrea said after a moment. "We can finish this tomorrow."
Daniel hesitated.
That was all it took.
"Go," I said. "You've already chosen."
Andrea brushed past me, her perfume lingering like an accusation. The door closed behind her. Silence rushed in to take her place.
Daniel exhaled slowly. "You're making this bigger than it is."
"No," I said. "I'm finally seeing it for what it is."
He ran a hand through his hair. "You didn't answer my calls."
"I didn't have anything left to say."
"That's not fair."
I laughed, a short sound that surprised even me. "Fair? You hid things from me. You lied. You let another woman stand between us and told me I was imagining it."
"I didn't cheat on you," he snapped.
"Not yet," I replied. "But you've been rehearsing."
His jaw tightened. "You're exhausted. Emotional."
"Don't," I said softly. "Don't reduce me to something easier for you to manage."
We stood there, the distance between us wider than the room could hold. Somewhere upstairs, a door creaked. A soft footstep followed.
Linia.
She paused at the top of the stairs, her presence suddenly heavy. She wore a robe, her hair loose around her shoulders, her expression carefully neutral.
"I heard voices," she said. "Is everything okay?"
Daniel looked at her too quickly.
"Yes," he said. "Go back to bed."
She hesitated, her eyes flicking to me. "Madam?"
"I'm fine," I said. "Aren't I, Daniel?"
She nodded slowly, then turned and disappeared down the hall.
I waited until her door closed before speaking again.
"You didn't tell me Andrea was here," I said.
"It was business."
"You didn't tell me Linia was helping you with documents either."
"That's different."
"Why?" I asked. "Because one of them doesn't ask questions?"
His silence answered for him.
I picked up my phone and unlocked it. The ultrasound image glowed faintly on the screen.
"Do you want to explain this?" I asked, holding it up.
His face drained of color.
"Where did you get that?"
"So it is real," I said. "Thank you. That saves time."
He stepped toward me. "Listen—"
"Don't touch me."
He stopped.
"You promised me honesty," I said. "You promised we would face everything together. And now I find this? After everything my body has been through?"
"It's not—"
"Mine," I finished for him. "I know."
His shoulders slumped. For a moment, he looked older. Smaller.
"It was a mistake," he said quietly. "One night."
"One night," I repeated. "That's all it takes, isn't it?"
"I was lonely," he said. "We were drifting."
"We were grieving," I corrected. "There's a difference."
He opened his mouth, then closed it. Words failed him now. That, too, was familiar.
"I went to the clinic today," I said. "Alone."
He looked up sharply.
"The doctor was kind," I continued. "Careful with his words. He told me we could try again. New protocol. New hope."
My voice wavered. I steadied it.
"And I failed. Again."
Daniel's eyes softened. "Isabella—"
"Don't," I said. "Not tonight."
I turned away from him and walked upstairs, my legs heavy but determined. In the bathroom, I locked the door and leaned against it, breathing through the ache in my chest.
The mirror reflected a woman I barely recognized. Her eyes were too bright. Her mouth held too many unsaid things.
I slid down onto the floor, my back against the cold tile. For a moment, I let myself feel it. The grief. The anger. The betrayal. All of it tangled together until I couldn't tell where one ended and the other began.
A knock sounded at the door.
"Isabella," Daniel said softly. "Please."
I didn't answer.
Another knock, lighter this time.
"Madam?" Linia's voice.
My stomach tightened.
"Yes?" I said.
"Maria sent me to check on you," she said. "She's worried."
I stood and unlocked the door just enough to face her. Her eyes flicked to my face, then away, as if she'd already learned where not to look.
"I'll be fine," I said.
She nodded. "If you need anything…"
Her voice trailed off, sincere. Or practiced. I couldn't tell anymore.
She turned to leave, then paused. "Madam?"
"Yes."
"Sometimes," she said carefully, "things break so something else can grow."
I stared at her.
"That sounds like something you've thought about a lot."
She offered a small smile. "Life gives you time to think when you have nothing else."
After she left, I locked the door again.
That night, I slept alone.
In the morning, the house felt different. Quieter. As if it were waiting.
Daniel was gone when I came downstairs. Maria hovered near the kitchen, concern etched into her face.
"Madam," she said, "your appointment—"
"I'm not going," I replied.
She nodded, accepting it without question.
Linia sat at the counter, stirring tea she didn't drink. She looked up when I entered.
"Good morning," she said.
I studied her face. The calm. The patience. The way she seemed to fit into spaces without effort.
"Did you know?" I asked suddenly.
Her spoon stilled.
"Know what, madam?"
"About the clinic."
Her eyes widened just enough. "No."
I watched her carefully. "You're a very good liar."
She swallowed. "I don't lie."
"You survive," I said. "There's a difference."
She looked down at her tea. "I'm sorry if I've caused trouble."
The words sounded rehearsed.
"You didn't," I said. "But you're standing in the middle of it."
She looked up, startled. "I never meant—"
"I know," I said. "That's what makes it dangerous."
My phone buzzed.
A message from an unknown number.
You weren't the only one who failed.
My fingers went cold.
Another message followed almost immediately.
Check the clinic records again.
I looked up slowly.
Linia was watching me.