After the Divorce, I Became the Billionaire's Lost Heiress

Stuart pulled out his phone, a little sheepish, and opened the saved folder on my account. "Babe, I saw you'd bookmarked a few skincare articles the other day. I asked a nutritionist and a dermatologist, and they both said oysters help. I know you don't like seafood, so I prepped them until there wasn't a trace of the smell."

There wasn't a single thing in it I could pick apart.

Stuart was the heir to the most powerful family in all of New York. Every day there were endless files and meetings waiting for him, and still, whenever I was unhappy, he'd push it all aside and come to me.

Sometimes I couldn't stand to slow him down, and I'd tell him not to bother staying with me. He'd only pull me in, wounded, and bury his face against my neck.

"How could work matter more than my wife? Your stomach's bad, so I'll just come home every day and cook for you."

This time was no exception. He remembered every one of my needs, everything I liked, and he cooked for me.

I held back against the smell and didn't bolt right away.

He reached out, worried, and touched my cheek. "Are you not feeling well? I'll throw it out right now."

The moment his hand touched me, I caught it. A faint trace of milk.

But before I could be sure, his phone rang.

The instant he answered, his brows drew tight and his voice went taut.

"I'm coming right now."

He snatched the car keys by the door, urgent.

"Rosalind, something's gone wrong at the company. I have to get back and handle it. I'll make it up to you tonight with your favorite roses."

The moment he stepped out the door, the apartment went still.

The post had rooted itself in my head. My hands clenched the blanket, and the restlessness only sharpened.

Everything about Stuart, the way he acted, the things he said, was the same as always. The same gentleness.

But every little detail kept whispering that something was off.

I swallowed my nausea and went through the cabinet under the coffee table, the bookshelf, even the bathroom trash can.

Everything was normal. Just the traces of the life Stuart and I shared.

Had I really imagined the smell?

I knocked my knuckles against my own head and went to sink into the beanbag chair to rest, and that was when I found something in the crease of the couch.

My hand stopped. Slowly, I drew it out.

A pair of lingerie panties, still stained with a milky fluid, still smelling of milk.

And in the past two months, Stuart and I hadn't touched each other once.

In that moment, a roar went off in my skull.

Cold all over, hands shaking, I pulled out my phone and saw the new update under that top comment.

"Bro, I just used seafood to cover it, and my wife didn't suspect a thing. Works every single time. She didn't catch it last time either. Last time I was even going at it with her best friend right in the bedroom. Such a rush. Right now I'm with my little sweetheart, getting ready for her birthday party tomorrow."

The poster fired back instantly: "Bro, I've already got the seafood ready. You eat good, man! Got any pics of you two going at it?"

The top comment didn't write back. He just dropped a photo below it.

Two hands in the picture, fingers laced together. I knew Stuart's hand at a glance. And on the woman's hand was a distinctive red string, a charm for safety.

It was the one I'd prayed for, to keep Luna safe through her delivery.

So it was true. Stuart had been sleeping with Luna — my best friend. And there was a child. He'd told me the vasectomy was done, that he only ever wanted me, and every word of it had been a lie. He'd brought her into our bed, into the home we built, and left the two of them smeared into every corner of it.

My chest caved in on itself. I couldn't get a full breath past the tears, only short, shredded ones that scraped going down.

Stuart remembered that I loved roses, remembered my favorite cake, remembered to cook for me, remembered to come home and give me a kiss.

He remembered all of it. He'd only forgotten the one promise that ever mattered.