Arabella didn't sleep that night.
She lay motionless in their bed...his side untouched, cold, staring into the darkness while Juliette's smirking voice echoed in her head: "He's mine now."
Pregnant.
Juliette was pregnant.
The words refused to sink in.
Every part of Arabella wanted to believe it was a lie, another one of Juliette's manipulations. But Sebastian had rushed to the hospital. He had looked scared. Concerned.
Concerned enough to prioritize her over his wife.
By morning, Arabella's heart was steel. If Sebastian wouldn't demand the truth, she would.
Midday – Juliette's Apartment, SoHo
It took Arabella twenty minutes to convince the doorman to let her up. She used her married name and a lie about being Sebastian's executive assistant. It worked.
She stood in front of Juliette's door, pulse in her throat. She could still walk away. Still keep her dignity.
Instead, she knocked.
The door opened almost instantly.
Juliette stood barefoot in a silk robe, her hair twisted into a casual bun. Her skin glowed, her lips painted a soft, smug red.
"Well," Juliette purred, leaning against the frame. "The wife."
Arabella's jaw clenched. "I want to talk."
Juliette yawned dramatically and stepped aside. "Come in, darling. Don't drip any rage on the rug, it's vintage."
Arabella entered, fighting the urge to slap the smirk off her face.
The apartment was immaculate, elegant, curated, and soulless. No photos. No clutter. Just cold beauty.
Juliette poured herself a mimosa. Didn't offer one to Arabella.
"So?" she said. "Come to beg for your husband back? Or just to cry?"
"I came to tell you I'm not stupid."
Juliette laughed. "Oh, honey. You're the definition of it. Still playing house while he sleeps in mine."
Arabella's voice sharpened. "I know what you're doing. You're manipulating him. Using that pregnancy as a trap."
Juliette raised a brow. "And yet he keeps choosing me."
Arabella stepped forward. "You think you've won? You haven't. Because he's going to see who you are...what you are. And when he does..."
Juliette cut her off. "He won't, because I'm pregnant, sweetie. That buys me everything you lost."
Arabella stared her down. "You're not pregnant."
Juliette's expression shifted...just a flicker.
Bingo.
Arabella's breath hitched. "You're lying."
Juliette stepped closer, slowly, like a cat toying with a wounded bird.
"Maybe I am," she whispered. "Maybe I'm not. But let me ask you something, Mrs. Crane..."
She leaned in. "If you're so sure he doesn't love me… why hasn't he come back to you?"
Arabella flinched.
Juliette grinned like a predator. "That's what I thought."
Back at the Penthouse
Arabella slammed the door behind her and sank to the floor.
She should've screamed.
She should've recorded Juliette admitting she might be lying. Should've thrown it in Sebastian's face.
Instead, she folded.
Again.
She hated herself for it.
She hated how she still wanted him to come home and say it was all a mistake.
She hated that part of her still loved him.
And as if summoned by that twisted desire, the door opened.
Sebastian.
He looked worn out, his shirt wrinkled, his hair a mess, eyes bloodshot.
She stood.
"I went to see her," she said.
His expression darkened. "You had no right."
"I'm your wife."
"You're a liability."
The words sliced through her.
"I'm not going to be your cover anymore," she snapped. "If she's pregnant, fine. Be with her. But I'm done pretending."
He stepped closer. "You want out?"
"Yes."
He studied her.
Then, almost gently, he said, "Then say it like you mean it."
She opened her mouth...
But couldn't speak.
Her throat locked. Her voice failed.
He nodded slowly. "That's what I thought."
Then turned and walked away again.
Two Days Later
Arabella was called into a lunch meeting with one of Sebastian's PR reps. They needed a new photo of the "perfect Crane couple" to circulate. A new round of investor meetings was coming up.
"Just smile and look expensive," the woman had said with a wink. "You're good at that."
Arabella wanted to throw her water glass.
But instead… she smiled.
That Night
She stood in front of the bathroom mirror, removing her earrings when she heard his voice behind her.
"You looked stunning today."
She froze. Her reflection caught the way his eyes lingered on her back.
"Is this how it works now?" she asked softly. "You humiliate me in private, and compliment me in public?"
He didn't answer.
For a moment, she thought he was about to say something—apologize, confess, anything.
Instead, he simply said, "We're hosting the Stratton gala next week. Wear the emeralds."
Then walked away.
She almost screamed.