The Lace Bra Under My Husband’s Pillow Isn’t Mine

The bathroom door swung open, releasing a cloud of steam. Damon stepped out, a towel wrapped around his waist, water dripping from his wet hair onto his shoulders.

I held up the scrap of black lace.

"Damon," I said, my voice tight. "Whose is this?"

He paused, wiping a hand over his face. He didn't flinch. He didn't even blink. He just stared at the underwear dangling from my fingers.

"It's yours, Soph," he said evenly.

"I have never bought anything like this." I shook the fabric. "And this size? It's tiny. It wouldn't have fit me even before I got pregnant."

Damon chuckled, a low, dismissive sound. He walked over, closing the distance between us, and reached for the lace.

"You bought it months ago, right before we found out about the baby," he explained, his tone smooth and reassuring. "You ordered it online, remember? It came in the wrong size, and you complained about how you forgot to return it. It must have just gotten mixed up in the laundry and ended up on the bed."

I stared at him. "I don't remember that."

"Pregnancy brain, sweetheart." He tapped my forehead gently. "The doctor said you'd be forgetful. You're stressing over nothing."

He took the underwear from my hand, walked over to the small trash can by the vanity, and dropped it in.

"There," he said, turning back to me. "Problem solved. Don't let it upset you, Sophie. You know stress isn't good for the baby."

I looked at the trash can, then back at Damon's calm, handsome face. My chest tightened, a knot of unease settling deep in my stomach. But he was right about one thing—getting worked up wasn't good for the baby.

"I'm going to sleep," I muttered, turning away.

"Good idea," he said, following me to the bed. "Get some rest."

The next morning, the sunlight streaming through the kitchen windows did little to warm the chill in my bones. Damon sat at the island, scrolling through his phone, a cup of black coffee steaming next to his hand.

I set my mug down with a sharp clack.

"I want to let Mia go," I said.

Damon's finger froze on the screen. He slowly lowered his phone, the relaxed lines of his face hardening instantly.

"Excuse me?" he asked, his voice dropping an octave.

"I want to fire her. We can hire an older, more experienced nanny. Someone grounded."

"Are you out of your mind?" Damon stood up, his chair scraping loudly against the tiles. "Where is this coming from?"

"I just don't think she's a good fit."

"Not a good fit?" He scoffed, crossing his arms. "You're being completely irrational, Sophie. This is just your pregnancy hormones making you paranoid. You're imagining things."

"I'm not imagining anything. I want her gone."

"Well, you can't." He leaned across the island, his eyes narrowing. "She's family."

I blinked, taken aback. "What?"

"She's a distant cousin on my mother's side," Damon stated, his tone brooking no argument. "She lost her job and her apartment. She had nowhere else to go. I took her in so she wouldn't be on the street. Plus, she's your age. I thought having someone young around would keep you company while I'm at work."

Before I could respond, the kitchen door swung open. Mia stood there, holding a steaming bowl on a tray. She wore a modest, high-necked sweater today, a stark contrast to yesterday's silk slip.

She looked between Damon and me, her eyes widening.

"Is everything okay?" she asked, her voice trembling. She set the tray down on the counter. "Sophie, are you mad at me? Is this about yesterday? Because I couldn't go to the clinic with you?"

"It has nothing to do with yesterday," I said flatly.

"See?" Damon turned to me, gesturing toward Mia. "She's terrified she did something wrong. You're terrorizing the poor girl over nothing."

Mia's eyes welled up with tears. "I'm so sorry, Sophie. I really am. I made your herbal soup. Please, don't be angry."

I pinched the bridge of my nose. "I'm not angry about the clinic, Mia."

"Then what is it?" Damon demanded, pulling his phone from his pocket. "You don't believe she's my cousin? Fine. I'll prove it."

He hit a button and put the phone on speaker, tossing it onto the counter. It rang twice before a familiar, crisp voice answered.

"Damon? What is it?"

"Mom," Damon said, his eyes locked on mine. "Sophie needs some reassurance. Can you explain to her exactly how we're related to Mia?"

A brief pause hung in the air, filled only by the faint static of the connection. Then, his mother spoke.