Following the sudden death of my husband, I couldn’t muster the courage to step into his garage. He had always firmly prohibited me from entering that space. Yet, when the time came to put it up for sale, I unlocked the door and was struck with shock at what lay inside…

She said it like it was nothing. Like sharing champagne with my husband while I stayed home folding laundry was completely normal. We always got along so well, she added casually.

I turned to face her fully. How well, exactly? Her smirk faltered. I know about Isabel, I said.

I know about Logan, about the garage, the fake company, the will. I know everything. So if there’s more, tell me now.

Rachel’s eyes narrowed. She walked over to her liquor cart, refilled her glass and said softly, Fine, you want the truth? She set the glass down and placed a hand on her stomach. I’m pregnant, she said.

And it’s Thomas’s. I didn’t move. I didn’t speak.

My brain just shut down. Ten weeks, she continued. I found out a week before he died.

He knew. He said he’d take care of everything. He even told me he would leave Isabel soon.

I froze. You were still seeing him after Isabel died. Rachel gave a small shrug.

She was never supposed to be permanent. I was always the one who stayed. I felt like I was floating outside my body.

The walls, the furniture, the sound of the refrigerator humming. All of it faded into background noise. You slept with my husband.

I whispered. Rachel shrugged. Don’t act so surprised.

You had your perfect little life. Your perfect house. Your perfect dinners at seven o’clock.

Meanwhile, I was struggling to pay rent, working dead-end jobs, listening to Mom compare us like I was some failed version of you. Then Thomas started showing up, offering help, listening. She looked up at me, eyes suddenly sharp.

You were his routine. I was his escape. The slap came before I realized I’d raised my hand.

Rachel’s head snapped to the side. Her wineglass shattered on the floor. She didn’t cry.

She didn’t yell. She just smiled. Now there’s the real Vivian, she said.

Not the prim, perfect wife. The woman who just found out she’s been living a lie. I turned away, breathing hard, hands trembling.

Why didn’t you tell me? I asked quieter now. Because you never would have believed me, she said. You always thought I was jealous.

And maybe I was. But this? This wasn’t about you. This was about me finally getting something for myself.

I shook my head. You didn’t just take something. You stole everything.

She walked closer, her expression suddenly unreadable. Say what you want, but that baby growing inside me? He or she is your family, whether you like it or not. My throat tightened.

I wanted to scream, to break things, to rewind time. But instead, I said, I’ll honor what Thomas left in his will. Not for you.

For the baby. Because they didn’t ask for this mess. Rachel blinked.

Her voice softened for the first time. You mean that? I don’t know what I mean, I whispered. But I know this.

I need to leave. I walked toward the door, ignoring the glass crunching under my shoes. My fingers trembled as I grabbed the handle.

Behind me, she called out. You think I’m the worst thing Thomas did? I didn’t answer, because I wasn’t sure anymore. I didn’t go home that night.

I couldn’t bear to step into that house with its carefully arranged dinnerware and untouched bed. Instead, I returned to Claire’s, clutching the sapphire necklace in my fist like it might burn a hole through my skin. She didn’t ask where I’d been.

She just opened the door, looked at my face and said, you need sleep. But I couldn’t sleep. Not when every room in my mind was crashing inward.

The next morning, Logan picked me up in his car. Claire came too, she insisted. You’re not going into your husband’s secret vault without backup, she said, tossing her coat over her shoulder.

Thomas’s office was in a high-rise downtown. He’d always called it just a satellite space when I asked somewhere to take private meetings, he’d said. I never once set foot inside.

But Logan had a key card. I’m listed as a co-owner, he said, scanning us through security. The receptionist barely glanced up.

Thomas had built a life so compartmentalized, it never needed explaining. The elevator ride felt like years. At the 14th floor, Logan led us to a glass-walled office with cold, modern furniture and no trace of warmth.

Not a single photo of me, no framed memories, just sleek surfaces, gray walls and a subtle scent of cologne I hadn’t smelled before. There, Logan pointed to a large abstract painting mounted behind the desk. The safe’s behind that.

I reached into my bag and pulled out the necklace. My fingers found the small clasp. I twisted it counterclockwise.

Click. A hidden compartment popped open on the back of the sapphire pendant. Inside, a thin metal plate no larger than a SIM card…