His Affair, Her Heartbreak

I woke to the soft California light filtering through our bedroom curtains, my hand automatically reaching across the sheets to find Ryan's warmth. The space beside me was empty, the sheets cool to the touch. For a moment, I lay still, eyes fixed on the ceiling, trying to ignore the hollow feeling in my chest. Today was my thirty-fifth birthday.

No good morning kiss. No breakfast in bed. Not even a hastily scrawled note.

My phone buzzed on the nightstand, the screen lighting up with notifications—messages from acquaintances I barely knew, people from Ryan's world offering perfunctory birthday wishes. None from him.

"He's probably planning something special," I whispered to the empty room, hating the desperate edge in my voice. Ten years together, and I was still making excuses for him.

I swung my legs over the side of the bed, wincing slightly as my fingers unconsciously traced the scars on my abdomen—permanent reminders of the day I'd thrown myself between Ryan and a knife-wielding stalker. The doctors had been clear afterward: I would never have children. Ryan had held my hand in the hospital, promising me forever. "We'll get married once things settle down," he'd said. "Once my career takes off."

A decade later, I was still waiting.

The doorbell chimed downstairs. I pulled on my robe and padded down the marble staircase of our Beverly Hills mansion—a home that had never quite felt like mine despite the years I'd spent managing every aspect of its upkeep alongside Ryan's skyrocketing career.

A delivery man stood at the door with an arrangement of lilies—not roses, which Ryan knew were my favorite. The card attached was small, cream-colored, with a florist's logo embossed in gold.

"Delivery for the Mitchell residence," he said, handing me the flowers.

I thanked him automatically, my attention fixed on the card. As I closed the door, I slipped my finger under the seal and pulled out the note.

*For the most beautiful house in Beverly Hills. Love always, C.H.*

C.H.

Chloe Harper.

The lilies trembled in my grip. Rumors had been swirling for months about Ryan and his young co-star—whispers at industry parties, sympathetic glances from makeup artists on set. Ryan had dismissed it all as "Hollywood gossip" when I'd confronted him. "You know how this town works, Vic. They need something to talk about."

But flowers delivered to our home? On my birthday?

I set the arrangement down on the entryway table, my mind racing. Ryan had left early for a meeting—that's what he'd said last night. But his schedule was my domain; I managed his appointments, his contracts, his entire professional life. There was no meeting this morning.

I climbed the stairs to his home office, a room I respected as his private space despite my role as his unofficial manager. The door was unlocked. Inside, everything was meticulously organized—my doing, of course. I sat at his desk, uncertain what I was looking for until my eyes fell on a folder partially hidden beneath