His Wife, His Mistake
Chapter Two: caught
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Arya's POV
The third missed dinner.
The sixth unanswered message.
The tenth time he came home after midnight.
I stopped keeping count after that. But my heart did not.
Every second he stayed away, something inside me slowly, silently began to rot.
I had carried his name for four years. Worn his ring. Lived in his mansion. Smiled for his cameras. Yet I was beginning to feel like the intruder in my own life.
I stood by the bedroom window in the dark, hand resting on my stomach. A stomach that now held the tiniest of secrets. A heartbeat that was his too… whether he cared or not.
He didn't know I was pregnant.
Because every time I tried to tell him, he either wasn't there — or I wasn't enough of a reason for him to stop and listen.
But tonight would be different.
Tonight, I needed to know the truth.
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It wasn't like me to snoop. I wasn't that kind of wife.
But being ignored, rejected, and replaced can do strange things to a woman's patience. And worse — to her pride.
He had told me he'd be home by ten.
It was 11:36.
The pain in my chest wasn't from the waiting anymore — it was from what I knew deep down, but didn't want to admit.
So I put on my long coat, flat shoes, and tied my curls back. I texted him once — a simple: "Where are you?"
No reply.
I called a taxi, gave the driver the address I found in his wallet a few days ago — a printed card that had fallen out: "The Luxora Apartments." No explanation. No business tag. Just sleek lettering and an address I'd never heard him mention before.
My fingers trembled as I clutched my bag. The driver didn't ask questions. He could probably feel the tension rolling off me like heat.
The city lights blurred through the window as I stared out, cold and terrified of what I might find.
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The Luxora was no ordinary building.
It was the kind of place for secrets — modern, elite, private elevators. The kind of place men went when they wanted to be unseen.
I watched from across the street, my heart banging like a drum inside my ribs.
At 12:05 AM, his car pulled up.
My breath caught in my throat.
It was Damon. My husband. Stepping out of the sleek black sedan in his dark suit and watch I gifted him last Christmas.
He didn't look tired. He didn't look like a man just coming from work.
He looked like a man arriving home.
I sank deeper into the shadows.
He walked inside like he'd done it a thousand times.
Minutes passed. Then the lights on the ninth floor came on.
Then… I saw her.
A tall, slim woman in a silk robe walked to the window, glass of wine in hand. Blonde hair. Long legs. Barefoot.
She didn't look surprised to see him.
And when he entered the frame, behind her, pulling her into a kiss — I knew.
There was no accident. No misunderstanding. No excuse.
He was cheating on me.
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I couldn't breathe.
Not because of the cold — but because I had just watched my husband kiss another woman from across a street like I was watching a scene from a nightmare.
I didn't stay to see what came next.
I turned and walked.
Fast. Then faster. Then I was nearly running down the street, hugging my coat around my stomach like I could protect the baby inside from the truth.
But there's no way to protect a child from the father they'll never know.
Not when he's already chosen someone else.
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I got home at 1:14 AM.
The mansion was quiet, dark, and colder than usual.
I went straight to the bedroom and locked the door behind me.
I stared into the mirror, trying to recognize myself. But all I saw was a woman who had loved too much… and lost herself in the process.
My makeup had smudged. My eyes were red. I looked like a stranger — one who had been forgotten, left behind.
I didn't cry.
Not this time.
I simply walked to the closet, pulled out a suitcase, and laid it on the bed.
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He came home at 3:27 AM.
I heard his footsteps in the hallway, the sound of his keys on the table, the soft creak of his expensive shoes crossing the floor.
I didn't move. Didn't breathe.
He paused outside our bedroom door.
Then he walked past it.
Just like always.
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The next morning, I made breakfast in silence. Toast, eggs, coffee. For myself only.
Damon came downstairs in his usual suit, scrolling through his phone.
He didn't greet me.
He didn't kiss me.
He didn't even notice I had packed away my wedding dress into a box beside the stairs.
I looked at him one last time and tried to feel something — anything.
But the love had drowned in last night's rain.
All that remained was resolve.
I picked up my bag and walked past him toward the front door.
"Going somewhere?" he asked, not even looking up.
I paused.
"Yes," I said. "Far."
He raised a brow, finally glancing at me. "What's that supposed to mean?"
I smiled faintly — the kind of smile you give before you shut a door behind you forever.
"You'll understand soon."
Then I left.
Not just the room. Not just the house.
But the life we shared.
Because what he didn't know yet was this:
He hadn't just lost a wife.
He'd lost a family.
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Next Chapter Tease:
Four years later, they meet again — and she's no longer the woman he left behind.