The corridor stretched before you, lit by the weak afternoon sun filtering through rain-streaked windows. Dust motes danced in the golden shafts, undisturbed.

Your footsteps echoed against the marble floor as you made your way upstairs, your hand resting unconsciously on your still-flat stomach. A secret you'd guarded for three days now, waiting for the right moment.

From the drawing room, you heard hushed voices.

When the housemaids scurried away, catching sight of you and turning crimson, you continued to your study on legs that felt foreign.

There it was. The letter.

Ivory parchment, sealed with crimson wax. A flowing script you didn't recognize addressed to your husband. It sat on the corner of his desk, innocuous and damning.

Your fingers trembled as you traced the seal. Lady Tillei Arnold. A name that had haunted your engagement season. The widow who had taught him things, who had held his heart before you.

The household was quiet. Benedict wouldn't be home for hours yet, or so the note he'd sent this morning had assured you.

The study clock ticked. One minute. Two.

Then, from downstairs, the unmistakable sound of the front door swinging open.