Sleep eluded me that night. I tossed and turned, Troy's whispered phone conversation replaying in my mind like a broken record. The clock on my nightstand ticked past 2 AM, then 3, each hour stretching endlessly as I stared at the ceiling.

When dawn finally broke, I slipped out of bed. Troy hadn't come upstairs—he must have slept in his study. The thought sent a fresh wave of hurt through me.

I padded downstairs, my bare feet silent on the marble. The house felt different somehow—colder, as if the warmth of our shared life was seeping away. I paused at the kitchen, making myself a cup of tea with mechanical movements.

When I turned to leave, I noticed something odd. Troy's study door stood slightly ajar.

In five years of marriage, he'd never left it unlocked. Never.

My hand trembled as I pushed it open wider. The room smelled of his cologne and old paper. Morning light filtered through the blinds, casting stripes across his mahogany desk.

"Troy?" I called softly, but got no answer.

He must have left early for work. Without saying goodbye.

I started to close the door when something caught my eye—a drawer slightly open, papers visible inside. My heart hammered against my ribs as I crossed the threshold.

"I shouldn't," I whispered to myself. "This is private."

But after last night's discovery of his Instagram obsession with Lyla, I couldn't stop myself. I knelt before the drawer and pulled it open.

Inside lay stacks of letters—hundreds, maybe thousands of them. Each envelope bore the same elegant handwriting: "To Lyla."

My fingers shook as I picked up the nearest bundle. The dates ranged from years ago to... last month?

*Last month.*

I sank into Troy's leather chair and tore open the most recent letter.

"My dearest Lyla," it began. "The dreams won't stop. I see you in every sunset, hear your laugh in every breeze. Five years has changed nothing—you're still the only woman I've ever truly loved."

The letter continued, page after page of intimate confessions. How he'd never stopped loving her. How he'd settled for Clara because Lyla wasn't available. How he fantasized about their reunion.

"I've made a life with someone else," he wrote, "but it's you I think of when I wake in the night. It's always been you."

I read letter after letter, my vision blurring with tears. Each one more devastating than the last.

The sound of the front door slamming jolted me back to reality.

"Troy?" I called, my voice strange and hollow.

Footsteps approached the study. Troy appeared in the doorway, his expression shifting from surprise to fury in an instant.

"What the hell are you doing?" he demanded, striding toward me.

I held up the letters. "What are these?"

"You're going through my things?" He snatched them from my hands. "Those are private, Clara."

"Private?" My voice cracked. "You wrote them to another woman while married to me."

"You had no right!" His face flushed dark red. "This is my personal property. You've violated my privacy."

"Violated your privacy?" I stood, letters scattered around me like fallen leaves. "You've been writing love letters to your ex for our entire marriage!"

Troy's jaw clenched. "You're being emotionally unstable. This isn't like you."

"Then what am I like, Troy? Tell me, because I'm starting to think I never knew you at all."

"You're being ridiculous." He gathered the letters, shoving them back into the drawer. "These are just... remnants of the past. They don't mean anything."

"They're dated last month," I said quietly.

His eyes narrowed. "If you can't handle this, maybe you should call Dr. Mitchell. Get your medication adjusted."

The casual cruelty of his words stole my breath. "You think I'm crazy?"

"I think you're making mountains out of molehills." He turned away, dismissing me. "We're done discussing this."

Three days later, my phone buzzed with a text from Marcus, my agent.

"Clara, have you seen this?"

Attached was a photo from Lyla Watkins' Instagram—a candid shot of her and Troy at Café Laurent, their old favorite place. The caption read: "Catching up with an old friend. Some connections never fade."

The timestamp showed three hours ago.

My hands trembled as I dialed Troy's number.

"Where are you?" I asked when he answered.

"In a meeting," he said smoothly. "Can it wait?"

I stared at the photo—his hand resting casually on hers across the table, both of them smiling like they shared secrets I could never know.

"I saw the picture, Troy," I said quietly.

A long pause followed. Then: "I'll call you later."

The line went dead.

I sat alone in our kitchen, the silence pressing in around me like a physical weight. Outside, California sunshine bathed the world in golden light, but inside our home—inside me—everything had gone cold and dark.

My phone buzzed again. Another text from Marcus.

"Clara, I think you should know—Lyla's back in LA. For good this time."

The doorbell rang at precisely 9 AM. I wiped my eyes, still puffy from last night's tears, and opened the door to find a delivery man holding an enormous bouquet of white roses.

"Delivery for Mr. Gardner," he announced cheerfully.

I signed for the flowers, my fingers trembling slightly. White roses—Lyla's favorite. I remembered Troy mentioning it once, offhandedly, years ago. The card attached read simply: "Welcome home, L."

Home. As if this was her home. As if I were the intruder.

I placed the roses on the entryway table, then sneezed violently. My allergies had always been mild, but today they felt fierce, punitive. I fumbled for my antihistamines in my purse.

By noon, another delivery arrived—a cake from Sweet Tooth Bakery, Troy's favorite. The delivery girl handed me a card.

"To celebrate new beginnings," it read in Troy's handwriting.

I lifted the lid and my stomach lurched. Mango cake. My severe allergy that had sent me to the emergency room twice since we'd been married.

"Troy knows I can't eat this," I whispered to myself, staring at the golden fruit embedded in cream frosting.

That evening, Troy came home carrying a bottle of champagne.

"I made reservations at Sizzling Pot," he announced, setting the bottle on the counter. "Seven o'clock."

My blood ran cold. "Hot pot? Troy, you know I can't—"

"It's not for you," he said, not meeting my eyes. "Lyla loves it. She's been craving authentic Chinese since she got back."

The room seemed to tilt beneath my feet. "You made dinner reservations for Lyla? Using my allergies as an excuse not to include me?"

"Don't be ridiculous, Clara." He sighed, pouring himself a glass of water. "Lyla's been traveling for months. She needs comfort food."

"And what about me?" My voice cracked. "I'm your wife."

Troy's eyes hardened. "You're being selfish and controlling again. This is exactly why I didn't tell you about seeing her."

I stared at him, this stranger wearing my husband's face.

---

Two weeks later, I sat in Dr. Mitchell's office, staring at the small plus sign on the pregnancy test.

"Congratulations, Clara," Dr. Mitchell said warmly. "You're about six weeks along."

Joy bloomed in my chest—pure, untainted happiness for the first time in months. A baby. Our baby.

"I'd like to tell Troy tonight," I told Dr. Mitchell, already planning a special dinner. "Make it memorable."

I spent hours preparing Troy's favorite meal—roasted duck with orange glaze, garlic mashed potatoes, and haricots verts. I set the table with our wedding china and lit candles around the dining room.

When Troy came home, I could see the surprise in his eyes.

"What's the occasion?" he asked cautiously.

"Sit down," I said, my heart racing. "I have news."

We sat across from each other, the candlelight dancing between us. I took a deep breath.

"I'm pregnant."

Troy's fork clattered against his plate. "You're... what?"

"Six weeks," I said, unable to keep the smile from my face. "We're going to have a baby."

Instead of joy or excitement, a shadow crossed his face. He set down his napkin and leaned back in his chair.

"Are you sure about the timing?" he asked carefully.

The question hit me like a physical blow. "What do you mean?"

"I mean..." He ran a hand through his hair. "I have some important business developments coming up. Things that could change everything for us."

Business developments. Code for Lyla.

"This baby is 'us,' Troy," I said, my voice barely above a whisper. "This is our future."

He wouldn't meet my eyes.

---

The argument started over dinner and escalated as the night wore on.

"You're putting her before our baby!" I shouted, my voice hoarse from crying.

"Don't be dramatic," Troy snapped back. "This is about business connections."

"Business!" I laughed bitterly. "Is that what you call meeting her for dinner three nights this week?"

A sharp pain lanced through my abdomen, stealing my breath mid-sentence. I clutched at my stomach, panic rising.

"Troy," I gasped, "something's wrong."

His face paled as he saw me double over. "Clara?"

The pain intensified, radiating through my lower back. I felt a warm wetness between my legs.

"Troy," I whispered, "I think I'm losing our baby."

The next hours passed in a blur of pain and tears. Dr. Mitchell diagnosed severe gastritis brought on by stress, but the damage was done. Our baby was gone.

I lay in the hospital bed, staring at the ceiling as nurses moved quietly around me. The room was dim, the only sound the steady beep of monitors.

Hours passed. No Troy.

When he finally appeared, his collar was askew and his eyes couldn't meet mine.

"Where were you?" I asked, my voice hollow.

"The audition," he said vaguely. "Lyla had her callback today. I couldn't miss it."

I turned my face away as tears slid silently down my cheeks.

"I'm sorry about the baby," he added, not sounding sorry at all. "But maybe it's for the best. The timing just wasn't right."