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His Wife, His Mistake
Chapter One: His late Nights
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Arya's POV
The two pink lines stared back at me.
Faint but there. Quiet, but screaming.
I blinked at the pregnancy test in my shaking hand, as if the result would disappear if I looked long enough. But no matter how many times I checked, the truth remained.
I was pregnant.
I sat on the cold bathroom floor, still in my silk robe, with the morning light spilling through the half-open blinds like some kind of cruel spotlight. The luxury of the Blackwood estate wrapped around me — marble floors, gold faucets, polished mirrors — and yet I had never felt more unsure, more… alone.
My heartbeat thundered in my chest, echoing louder than the silence in our marriage.
I pressed my palm gently to my stomach.
There was nothing to feel yet. No bump, no flutter. But I felt something deeper — a spark. A tiny, fragile hope fighting to exist inside me.
Damon should be the first to know, I told myself.
He was my husband.
We might have drifted. He might be distant. Cold. Absent. But he deserved to know. Maybe this could change everything. Maybe he'd smile again. Hold me like he used to.
I stood, shaky but determined, and walked to the bedroom. I would tell him tonight.
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That evening, I set the table like I hadn't in months.
White candles. Silver cutlery. The salmon he loved — or used to. I even opened a bottle of non-alcoholic wine, because suddenly I had to start thinking differently.
I wore his favorite dress. The soft champagne-colored one with the open back. He used to trace his fingers along my spine when I wore it. That was back when he saw me. Back when we laughed. Before his phone became more familiar with his smile than I was.
I checked the time. 7:18 PM. Damon usually came home around eight.
I practiced in the mirror what I'd say:
"I'm pregnant."
No, too direct.
"I have something to tell you."
Too vague.
"We're having a baby."
Too happy. What if he didn't feel the same?
I didn't get much time to rehearse.
Because eight came. Then eight-thirty. Then nine. Then ten.
And he still wasn't home.
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I stared at the untouched food and the candle wax pooling onto the tablecloth. My stomach churned with something between hunger and heartbreak.
When the door finally opened at 10:43 PM, I stood quickly, heart racing. I smoothed down my dress and stepped into the hallway.
Damon walked in, expression unreadable, his tie loosened and his eyes half-tired, half-distant.
He paused when he saw me — as if surprised I was still awake.
"You're home," I said softly.
He nodded. "Long meeting."
I forced a smile. "I made dinner."
His eyes flicked to the table. "I ate."
Of course he did.
I swallowed hard. "Can we talk? Just for a moment."
He glanced at his phone, then at me. "Arya… I'm exhausted."
Please don't shut me out again.
"This is important," I said, quieter now.
He sighed and set his phone on the counter. "What is it?"
I opened my mouth. The words were right there. Four syllables. Three seconds.
But I couldn't say it.
Not while he stood there like I was another task to cross off his schedule. Not while his eyes darted to the clock behind me.
I lowered my gaze.
"It can wait," I lied.
He nodded, already turning toward the stairs. "Goodnight."
And just like that, he was gone.
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I sat alone at the dinner table, staring at the melting candles and untouched plates.
I didn't cry.
Not yet.
Instead, I whispered into the quiet, as if the baby inside me could hear.
"It's okay. I'll love you enough for both of us."
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Later, I lay in bed pretending to sleep as Damon finally joined me. He didn't say a word. He didn't ask how I was, or why I'd gone quiet. He just turned off the light and lay down, his back facing me.
In the darkness, I turned the other way, one hand over my stomach.
That night, two hearts beat in one body — mine steady but sad, and the other tiny, new, and full of a future Damon didn't know existed yet.
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The next morning, I woke up determined.
I would tell him today. No more waiting. No more fear.
But when I went downstairs, he was already gone.
A note on the kitchen counter:
"Left early. Meeting with Cavanaugh. Will be late again."
No I love you.
No kiss.
Not even a smiley face.
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I stood there, note in hand, as a sharp truth finally hit me:
This wasn't a marriage anymore.
It was a contract. An arrangement. A prison with glass walls and cold sheets.
I folded the note, tucked it into a drawer, and made a quiet promise to myself:
If he won't come back to me… I won't beg him to stay.
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Next Chapter Preview:
The Night She Followed Him — And What She Saw Shattered Everything.