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

"Mia?" His mother's voice crackled through the tiny phone speaker. "Yes, she is my great-aunt's granddaughter. Why are you calling me about this in the middle of the workday?"

"Sophie thinks I hired a complete stranger," Damon replied, leaning his hip against the kitchen island.

"Sophie, dear." The older woman's tone shifted, adopting a sharp, condescending edge. "I understand pregnancy makes women difficult, but you need to stop being so petty."

I crossed my arms over my chest. "She is overstepping her boundaries."

"Mia is a remarkably sweet, hardworking girl," his mother scolded. "She cleans your house and cooks your meals. You should be grateful you have an extra set of hands."

"I didn't ask her to do any of that," I shot back. "She was hired to be a nanny, but the baby isn't even here yet."

"She is preparing!" his mother snapped. "Do not be so narrow-minded, Sophie. Family helps family. You need to be far more accommodating."

The line went dead.

Damon pocketed his phone. "Are we done here?"

I stared at the black screen on the counter. Two against one. Three, if I counted the girl hovering near the refrigerator. My pulse thudded loudly in my ears. Arguing further would only spike my blood pressure, and the doctor had explicitly warned me about managing my stress levels.

"Fine," I muttered, dropping my arms. "She stays."

Damon crossed the kitchen in two strides. He wrapped his arms around my shoulders, pulling me firmly against his chest. "Thank you. You're making the right choice."

Mia scurried forward. She dropped into a crouch right in front of us and pressed her bare palm directly against my lower abdomen.

"I will take such good care of you," Mia whispered. Her eyes gleamed as she stroked the fabric of my sweater. "Both of you."

A violent shudder ripped down my spine. I jerked back, breaking Damon's embrace and swatting Mia's hand away.

"Don't touch me," I demanded.

I turned and walked out of the kitchen. Let them think they won this round. I needed solid proof, and I was going to find it.

Over the next four weeks, my own house turned into a minefield of bizarre, unsettling discoveries.

"Is that my pearl hairpin?" I asked one Tuesday afternoon, pointing at the glittering clip securing Mia's messy bun.

Mia reached up, her fingers grazing the faux pearls. "Oh! I found it under the living room sofa. I just pinned it up so it wouldn't get sucked into the vacuum cleaner."

A week later, I yanked open the top drawer of the hallway console, searching for spare keys. My missing gold pendant sat perfectly coiled next to Mia's cherry lip balm.

"I was keeping it safe!" Mia cried when I held it up to her face. "You leave your jewelry everywhere, Sophie. I didn't want it to get lost."

"Then why didn't you put it in my jewelry box?" I challenged.

"I forgot!"

Damon always took her side. Every single time.

The breaking point arrived on a rainy Thursday afternoon.

I finished my prenatal yoga class early and headed straight upstairs to change. I pushed open the master bedroom door.

Mia stood in front of my full-length mirror.

She wasn't cleaning. She wasn't organizing. She was posing.

She wore my red leather mini skirt. The zipper strained dangerously against her hips. She twisted side to side, admiring her reflection, running her hands down the tight material.

"Take it off," I commanded.

Mia shrieked. She spun around, her face draining of all color. "Sophie! I—I was just fixing your closet!"

"By wearing my clothes?" I stepped into the room, slamming the door shut behind me. "Take my skirt off right now."

"It fell off the hanger!" She grabbed the hem, tugging it downward as if trying to cover her exposed thighs. "I just wanted to see if it fit."

"You have absolutely no right to touch my things."

"You can't even zip it anymore!" Mia blurted out.

I froze. "What did you just say to me?"

Mia slapped a hand over her mouth. "I just meant... because of the baby. It's too tight for you now. It's just going to waste in the back of the closet."

The bedroom door clicked open.

"What is all this yelling?" Damon asked, stepping onto the carpet.

He stopped dead in his tracks. His gaze dropped immediately to Mia's bare legs, lingering for a fraction of a second before darting up to my furious expression.

"She is wearing my clothes," I told him, my voice dangerously low. "In our bedroom. Fire her, Damon. Today."

Tears spilled over Mia's eyelashes. She buried her face in her hands, her shoulders shaking violently. "I'm sorry! I've never owned anything so pretty. I was just pretending."

Damon sighed heavily. He stepped between us, effectively shielding Mia from my view.

"Sophie, look at her," he said gently. "She's just a kid who made a stupid mistake. She doesn't have the luxury of buying designer clothes."

"I don't care. Get her out of my house."

"No." Damon's jaw tightened. "I am not throwing my cousin onto the street over a piece of leather."

"She insulted my body," I fired back. "She is invading my privacy!"

"I didn't mean to insult her!" Mia cried to Damon, grabbing the back of his shirt. "I just said she's glowing and pregnant!"

"Liar," I hissed.

"Enough," Damon ordered. He turned his head slightly, addressing the weeping girl behind him. "Take it off and put it back. Right now."

"I will," Mia sobbed, retreating toward the master bathroom to change. "I swear."

Damon faced me again, his expression hardening into stone. "If she does it again, I will pack her bags myself. I promise you that. But right now, you need to calm down."

I stared at my husband. He wasn't looking at me with concern or apology. He was aggressively managing a problem. The blatant favoritism settled over me like a suffocating blanket. He wasn't protecting a helpless family member. He was protecting her.

By my fourth month of pregnancy, my bump had grown round and firm.

I sat on the edge of our mattress one evening, folding a stack of new maternity shirts.

Damon walked out of the walk-in closet. He carried two fluffy pillows under his left arm and a thick white duvet tucked under his right.

"What are you doing with those?" I asked.

He tossed the bedding onto the armchair near the window. "I'm moving into the guest room."

I stopped folding. "Why?"

"I toss and turn too much." He rubbed the back of his neck, actively avoiding my eyes. "I kicked you twice in my sleep last night. I don't want to hurt you or the baby."

"You didn't kick me," I replied evenly.

"I wake up every time you get out of bed to use the bathroom," he countered, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. "We both need our rest. My work schedule is brutal right now. It just makes sense for a little while."

"The guest room is right next to Mia's room," I pointed out.

"It's the only other furnished bedroom on this floor, Sophie." His tone grew sharp, laced with immediate irritation. "Do you want me to sleep on the downstairs sofa?"

"No."

"Then it's settled." He scooped up the pillows and the duvet. "It's just until the baby comes. Better for everyone."

"Okay," I said, keeping my voice perfectly flat. "Goodnight."

He walked out, the door clicking softly shut behind him.

I sat perfectly still in the empty room.

Damon thought he was being clever. He thought his excuse was flawless. But as I stared at the closed door, a cold, sharp clarity pierced through the lingering fog of my denial.

He wasn't moving out to protect my sleep.

He was moving out to be closer to her.