Wife Faked Death, Husband Searches

The bedroom had become my prison. Three weeks since the miscarriage, and the walls of our Beverly Hills mansion felt like they were closing in on me with each passing day. The doctor had ordered bed rest, but Ryan made it clear my confinement was as much punishment as recovery. My third failure. My third dead child.

I stared at the ceiling, tracing the ornate molding with my eyes as I had countless times before. Outside, the California sun blazed, but inside our bedroom—no, Ryan's bedroom—the air conditioning kept everything perfectly, artificially cool. Like a morgue for my dreams.

The buzz of Ryan's phone on the nightstand startled me. He'd left for a meeting with his agent hours ago, forgetting his personal phone in his rush. The screen lit up with a notification from a group chat I didn't recognize. Something called "The Bachelors Club."

I shouldn't look. I knew I shouldn't.

My hand trembled as I reached for the device. The passcode—our anniversary date—unlocked it immediately. I'd never snooped before. There had never been a need; Ryan had always been so careful to maintain his image as Hollywood's most devoted family man.

"Nothing beats last night's rebound," read the most recent message from someone named Jake. There was a string of fire emojis after it.

My heart stuttered in my chest as I scrolled up.

"Sterling's back in the game!" Another message, accompanied by a blurry photo of what looked like Ryan at a nightclub, his arm around a woman I didn't recognize.

And then I saw it. Ryan's own message from three days ago: "Can't stand looking at her anymore. Body's disgusting after this one. At least with the other two she bounced back."

My fingers went numb. The phone nearly slipped from my grasp.

"Bringing Cassie home tomorrow. Wife's still bedridden, won't even know. Doctor says another two weeks before she can even function normally. Plenty of time to enjoy myself."

I couldn't breathe. Each word was a knife, precise and cruel. I scrolled further, desperate to find something—anything—that might contradict what I was reading. Instead, I found only more cruelty. More mockery. More plans to betray me while I recovered from losing our child.

Our child. The thought sent a fresh wave of grief through me. I had held that tiny life inside me for almost five months before my body betrayed us both. And while I bled and wept, Ryan had been... what? Planning his escape? Celebrating his freedom?

I placed the phone exactly as I'd found it and curled onto my side, pulling the blanket over my head as if it could shield me from the truth. The expensive Egyptian cotton absorbed my silent tears as I tried to reconcile the man who held my hand at the hospital with the monster in those messages.

Hours later, as the sun began to set, casting long shadows across the bedroom floor, I heard Ryan's footsteps on the marble staircase. Heavy. Deliberate. The footsteps of a