Lyra lay there, staring at the ceiling light.

Wesley had picked it, saying the glow would be easier on her eyes.

She rolled over and buried her face in the pillow, breathing in the familiar laundry detergent.

Wesley had switched brands too, claiming this one was gentler and wouldn't irritate her skin.

She closed her eyes, but the security footage flashed anyway.

Wesley with the girl in the light blue dress. Smiling down at her. Fingers brushing through her hair.

That smile. Lyra knew it by heart.

Three years ago, he'd looked at Lyra the same way when they first met.

Back then, Wesley was the newly acknowledged illegitimate son of the Cheswick family. Ignored at the gala. Still, he worked up the nerve to approach her, ears burning red.

"Ms. Leighton, may I have this dance?"

She ignored him.

He didn't quit. Every day, he waited outside her office with home-cooked meals, even when she never looked his way.

Three months later, she finally agreed to a date. He lit up like a kid.

He stood outside all night just so he wouldn't be late picking her up the next morning.

On their wedding day, he dropped to one knee in the aisle, took her hand, and said, "Lyra, I'll never let you down in this life."

She believed him.

And for three years, he treated her well.

When she lost her temper, he talked her down.

Whatever she wanted, he gave her.

Even when she craved cake from the east side of Ravenport in the middle of the night, he drove across the city to get it.

She thought he really loved her.

But now?

***

The door creaked open. Wesley stepped in, still carrying a trace of the kitchen with him.

He sat on the edge of the bed and reached for her face. "Lyra, dinner's ready."

She turned away from his hand, silent.

His brows pulled together. "What's wrong? Not feeling well?"

She shook her head.

"Your eyes are red." His voice tightened. "Headache? Do we need to go to the hospital?"

He was still like this. Panicking over every little thing.

Looking at his worried face made her chest ache. 'Is this concern real, or just another performance?'

"I'm fine," she said at last. "Just hungry."

Wesley let out a breath and smiled, pinching her cheek. "You little glutton. Come on, let's eat."

The table was laid out with honey-glazed ribs, pan-seared fish in a sweet sauce, and roasted squash dusted with brown sugar.

The sugary smell rushed at her, and her heart sank.

She never ate sweet dishes.

Wesley knew that.

Lyra looked up at him. "Why is everything sweet?"

Wesley paused with the serving spoon, then forced a smile. "You've been stressed at work lately. Thought something sweet might help."

She didn't answer. Just kept staring.

His smile slipped. He set the plate down, sounding rattled. "Should I... make something else?"

"Yes." She nodded.

He stood right away and turned toward the kitchen, but his phone rang.

He glanced at the screen, panic flashing across his face.

"Something urgent came up at work. I have to go." He grabbed his jacket. "Just eat what's here for now. I'll cook something new when I get back."

Lyra set her cutlery down. "I want to eat the food you make. Tonight."

Wesley froze mid-step, his frown deepening. "Can you stop being so unreasonable? What difference does it make?"

The moment the words left his mouth, even he looked shocked.

Lyra stared at him, like something inside her had just shattered.

His tone softened immediately. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean it. It really is urgent. I'll be back soon."

He left without another word.

The soft click of the closing door landed like a slap.

In all the years they'd been married, he had never spoken to her like that.

Lyra sat at the dining table, staring at the sugary dishes—the kind that side chick liked.

She stood and walked into the kitchen.

The cutting board held half-sliced vegetables.

The pot of water was almost boiled dry.

She turned off the heat, grabbed her car keys, and went after him.

Rain started to fall as she followed Wesley's car to an unfamiliar apartment building.

The elevator stopped on the twelfth floor.

When the doors opened, a syrupy voice drifted down the hall.

"Honey, you finally came."

"Silly girl," Wesley said, using that same gentle tone. "Did you eat properly today?"

"I couldn't without you," the girl complained.

"Well, I'm here now." His voice softened. "Even if you don't feel like eating, the baby needs to. Be good, okay?"

The keys slipped from Lyra's hand and clinked against the floor.

Wesley spun around. The color drained from his face when he saw her. "Lyra... what are you doing here?"

Lyra turned and walked away.

Irene was pregnant.

Lyra got in her car, rain and tears blurring everything.

In the rearview mirror, she saw Wesley running after her.

His mouth kept opening, calling her name.

She didn't want to hear a single word.

Rain hammered against the windows.

He pounded on the door, shouting through the downpour. "Lyra! Let me explain!"

Lyra sat in the driver's seat, fingers tapping lightly on the steering wheel. Watching the two of them soaked in the rain, she suddenly found it a little funny.

She slowly rolled the window down. Wesley's voice rushed in. "When did you get here?"

"Just now." Her smile was cold.

Wesley's expression shifted. The words tumbled out fast. "She's the one—Mrs. Brook's daughter. Her power went out, so I came to check on her."

Lyra reached for the window switch. She didn't want to hear another word.

"Lyra!" Irene ran over and planted herself in front of the car. Rain soaked her white dress, leaving her looking fragile and pitiful. "This is all my fault. There's really nothing between us. Please don't be mad at Wesley."

Lyra frowned and turned the wheel, ready to drive around her.

Bang.

Irene suddenly threw herself onto the hood, stumbled, and collapsed onto the wet ground.

Lyra slammed the brakes, her heart jerking hard in her chest.

"Irene!" Wesley rushed over and helped her up. Then he turned on Lyra, eyes blazing.

"I'm fine," Irene said weakly, her face drained of color. "Wesley, go comfort Lyra."

"I've been comforting her for years!" Wesley snapped. "To her, I'm just some pathetic doormat. And now you're hurt, and you're still worried about her? Why are you so darn kind?"

Lyra froze in the driver's seat, fingers curling tight.

She had never heard him sound like this.

The edge in his voice, the raw disgust, felt like a mask finally torn away.

"She threw herself at the car," Lyra said after a beat.

"Enough!" Wesley cut her off. "It's bad enough you misunderstood me. Now you're accusing her? Do you even realize she's pregnant?"

Each word drove straight into Lyra's chest.

"Is it yours?" she asked.

Wesley went rigid, like the question finally caught up to him. His lips parted. "Lyra, don't say that."

"Ah!" Irene suddenly cried out and collapsed.

"Irene!" Wesley panicked. He yanked open the passenger door. "I need the car. I have to get her to the hospital!"

Lyra sat in the passenger seat as Wesley took the wheel, his hands shaking as he gripped it.

In the backseat, Irene lay unconscious—though her lashes kept trembling.

"You're this nervous," Lyra said quietly. "Is the child really yours?"

Wesley floored the gas. "This is about someone's life. Can you stop causing drama right now?"

Lyra turned toward the window.

She knew this road too well.

Three months ago, she'd had acute gastroenteritis. Wesley had driven her to the hospital the same way, tearing through the streets.

He'd been so frantic he put his shoes on the wrong feet, repeating over and over, "Lyra, I've got you."

"Wesley, you've really outdone yourself," she said now, leaning weakly against the glass.

Wesley leaned on the horn and cut past another car. "Whatever you want to say, save it for home!"

At the hospital, he barely stopped before jumping out and lifting Irene into his arms.

Lyra stood off to the side, silent, watching his hurried back.

It looked exactly like the day he'd run through the ER carrying her when she had a fever.

"Move!" Wesley shouted as he slammed into her shoulder.

She stumbled and went down hard, palms scraping against the rough pavement.

When she looked up, all she saw was Wesley's back vanishing into the ER with Irene in his arms.

A nurse hurried over. "Ma'am, are you okay?"

Lyra shook her head and pushed herself up against the wall.

Her knee burned, but it was nothing next to the hollow ache tearing through her chest.

From inside the ER, Wesley's voice cracked with panic. "Doctor! How is she? Is the baby okay?"

The nurse handed her a tissue. That was when Lyra realized she was crying.

She took it, but the tears wouldn't stop.

So even when a heart dies, the body still feels pain.

The ER doors swung open. Wesley rushed out, then froze when he saw her.

He opened his mouth, his eyes dropping to the blood on her palm. "Go home. I'll explain everything later."

Lyra nodded without a word. But as she turned, the world spun—and she collapsed.

When Lyra opened her eyes, the harsh white light made her lift a hand to block it.

"Lyra!" Wesley's face filled her vision, eyes bright with excitement. "You're pregnant!"

She went still, fingers settling against her flat stomach.

Her period had been late, but she hadn't let herself think about it.

"Lyra, this is on me." Wesley sat on the edge of the bed and reached for her hand, his voice gentle. "You got it wrong. Irene's baby is from her ex. I just felt bad she was all alone."

Lyra pulled her hand away and let out a quiet, cold laugh. She didn't say a word.

Wesley sighed and stood. "Get some rest. I'll go grab you something to eat."

He left. His footsteps faded down the hallway.

Lyra stared at the closed door, her hand drifting back to her stomach.

Laughter suddenly spilled in from the next room.

That soft, sweet voice—it was Irene's.

Then Wesley spoke, low and warm, the same tone Lyra knew by heart.

She grabbed her phone and called her bodyguard. "Bring me the divorce papers from the study drawer."

Half an hour later, the bodyguard slipped in without a sound and handed her a folder.

Lyra opened it, her finger hovering over the signature line.

She knew Wesley wouldn't sign this easily right now.

The door opened.

She hid the papers just in time.

Wesley walked in, all smiles. "Lyra, I apologized to Irene for you. She forgave you."

Lyra looked up, her gaze cold. "I needed her forgiveness?"

His smile twitched, then smoothed out. "So I made it up to her. I got tickets to a play. We'll go tonight with Irene, okay?"

Lyra watched him for a few seconds, then slowly smiled.

"Sure."

***

At the theater, Irene wore a white dress. Again. She clung sweetly to Wesley's arm.

She kept sneaking looks at Lyra, smugness flashing in her eyes.

Lyra paused at the entrance, her heart stuttering as she took in the empty rows.

"Mr. Cheswick booked a private showing," the manager said eagerly. "He didn't want a crowd causing any inconvenience. And look, it's your favorite spot."

Front row. Center.

Just like seven years ago.

Back then, Wesley had been a nobody at his family's company.

He'd saved three months of pay for two tickets.

And through the entire performance, his eyes had stayed on her.

"Irene should sit with us too," Wesley said.

Irene hovered nearby, twisting the hem of her dress. "I need to use the restroom."

Her eyes were red, like she'd been badly wronged.

Wesley didn't hesitate. He pulled Lyra into her seat. "Remember our first play? You were—"

"I remember," Lyra said. "You said you'd watch with me for the rest of your life."

Wesley's smile flickered, then settled. "Of course. After the baby's born, I'll bring our kid too. The two of us will watch plays with you, our princess. For a lifetime."

The stage lights came up. The actors stepped into their roles.

At first, Wesley held her hand. Less than ten minutes later, his fingers started tapping against the armrest.

"How is Irene still not back?" he muttered for the third time, checking his watch. "I'll go look for her."

Lyra sat alone in the empty theater.

The dialogue drifted past her, meaningless.

She stood and followed.

The hallway outside the restroom was dim.

Lyra stopped at the corner. Soft, uneven breathing drifted from inside.

"That whole show out there?" Wesley said with a quiet laugh. "That was for her to see. This one's just for you."

Irene let out a teary laugh. "Then do the bunny again."

"Alright, alright." His voice softened. "Look—hop, hop."

Lyra curled her fingers into her palms.

Three years ago, when she'd broken down over a work mistake, Wesley had done the same thing to cheer her up.

He'd said that bunny was only hers.

She turned away and walked back to her seat.

Wesley and Irene returned one after the other, carrying the same scent.

"What took so long?" Lyra asked, not looking at him.

"Irene wasn't feeling well. I stayed with her for a bit." Wesley sat down like nothing was off, his right hand quietly sliding toward Irene.

From the corner of her eye, Lyra saw their fingers tangle in the shadows—then jerk apart when she turned.

"Lyra." Wesley leaned in to kiss her.

She turned her head away and pulled a document from her bag. "You promised to sign this."

In the dim light, Wesley's face locked up.

His eyes skimmed the papers. His throat worked. "What's this?"

"A promise note," Lyra said evenly. "Same as before."

Wesley relaxed on the spot. He even smiled, soft and indulgent. "You..." He pulled out a pen and signed without hesitation.

"About to be a mom and still acting like a kid."

Lyra stared at the familiar signature.

Over the years, Wesley had signed countless little notes for her—

[I promise to only love Lyra Leighton forever.]

[I promise to say good morning and good night every day.]

[I promise not to have dinner alone with other women.]

He always laughed at how childish she was, then pulled her close and said, "I'm yours for life. I'll sign as many promise notes as you want."

This time, he hadn't even looked at what he was signing.

"Done." Wesley handed it back and pinched her cheek. "When have I ever broken a promise to you?"

Onstage, the heroine cried through her tears, "You have no idea what you've lost!"

Lyra gave a soft laugh and slipped the papers back into her bag.