Chapter 3

Seven a.m., and I was still in the same spot as last night—by the floor-to-ceiling windows, clutching a cup of cold coffee.

The ocean view remained breathtaking, but I couldn't appreciate it.

I was waiting for an answer. Any answer.

Maybe a phone call from Dorian, an apology, an explanation. Maybe courage from somewhere deep inside, telling me what to do.

But there was nothing.

Only my phone lighting up with a message from Lucy:

[Valentina, have you seen this interview? I think... you should know.]

I stared at the message, foreboding rising in my chest.

Below the link was the Architectural Digest logo, the headline glaring: "Building Dreams: Architect Seraphina Ashford's Most Personal Project"

My hands began to tremble.

Maybe the answer had arrived. Just not the kind I wanted.

I clicked through.

Seraphina's photo dominated the spread—standing at that familiar cliff's edge, the villa as her backdrop. She wore a white suit, her smile confident and elegant, declaring some indisputable truth.

"My proudest achievement is a Malibu cliffside villa," Seraphina said in the interview. "I designed it for... someone very special. Every detail carries our shared dreams and memories."

My breathing quickened.

"Seeing it realized is like watching love take physical form. This isn't just architecture—it's emotion made tangible." Seraphina continued, "True designers pour their souls into every inch of space."

Crash—

The coffee cup slipped from my hand, porcelain shattering.

The images showed design sketches, Seraphina's signature and date glaring at me—two full years before my wedding.

She was publicly claiming ownership... making me what? A thief?

I took screenshots, rage coursing through me.

I sat there in a daze until my phone alarm reminded me—I had that designers' gathering this afternoon.

Normally I looked forward to these events. But now...

I glanced at my haggard reflection. Maybe getting out would help. At least I wouldn't be alone in "Seraphina's house."

Three p.m., at a boutique café in Beverly Hills, LA's top designers were holding their monthly gathering.

I took a deep breath and pushed through the door, trying to appear unbothered.

But I immediately sensed something was off.

The conversations died abruptly, all eyes on me.

"Isn't that the woman living in Seraphina's house?" Designer Bianca lowered her voice, deliberately loud enough for me to hear.

"I heard Seraphina considers that villa her signature work," another designer, Julian, shook his head. "How awkward."

I walked toward their table, my pregnancy making movement clumsy. "Hi, everyone."

"Valentina!" Bianca feigned delight, though her eyes glinted with excitement. "We were just discussing Seraphina's interview. You've seen it, right?"

"Yes." I tried to stay composed, but my face was heating.

"Honestly, that house is a masterpiece," Julian stated bluntly. "But living in it... how does it feel? Knowing it's Seraphina's baby."

My face flushed, ears ringing. "It's my home. I'm Dorian's wife."

Silence.

Then pointed whispers.

"But the inspiration and design are all Seraphina's," senior designer Celeste challenged. "So what... are you exactly?"

I felt slapped.

"Look, we all know you're talented," Bianca offered false comfort, her eyes full of condescending pity. "But that house... everyone knows it's Seraphina's baby. Like an artist's signature piece."

My blood boiled. "I'm not anyone's replacement!"

Everyone exchanged glances.

That look—full of pity, tinged with cruel clarity.

Celeste laughed softly. "Of course not, darling. It's just... complicated, isn't it?"

Awkward silence.

I realized I'd been isolated by the entire design circle.

In their eyes, I was that pitiful fool occupying someone else's spot.

I hastily said goodbye and fled.

Driving home, my phone kept ringing—"concerned" friends wanting gossip. I declined every call.

Back at the villa, I sat alone on the sofa—in this living room Seraphina designed.

Evening light filtered through the windows, illuminating the screenshots on my phone.

The Architectural Digest interview, design blueprints, Seraphina's signature, dated evidence...

I saved each one, backed up every file.

Each image reminded me: I'd been living in someone else's dream.

I caressed my belly, feeling the life inside.

Dorian owed me an explanation.

Click—

The door lock turned.

Ten p.m., Dorian pushed through, wearily loosening his tie, startled when he saw me.

"You're still up? The doctor said you need sleep." He tried deflecting. "I'll just shower..."

"Stop!" I stood, holding my phone out. "I need an explanation, Dorian. About Seraphina, about this house, about our marriage."

His expression changed instantly. "Valentina, it's late, let's talk tomorrow..."

"No! Right now!" My voice trembled but held firm. "Why did you have Seraphina design our home? Why can she claim in magazines it's her signature work? Why did everyone laugh at me today?"

"I don't want to discuss Seraphina." His response was terrifyingly cold as he continued toward the stairs. "There's nothing to say."

I stared in shock. "So your solution is to make me hide? Not defend me? Not clarify the truth?"

"What's there to clarify?" He stopped but didn't turn, his voice carrying suppressed irritation. "Seraphina did design this house. That's a fact."

My heart stopped.

"What about our marriage?" My voice shook, tears streaming. "Our child? What am I to you?"

"Don't drag everything together!" He whirled around, impatience flashing in his eyes. "It's just a house!"

"Just a house?" I could barely believe it. "Then why didn't you tell me? Why let everyone mock me?"

"I don't owe you a play-by-play of everything!" His voice rose, then immediately lowered, forcing himself to stay rational. "Valentina, can you not be so dramatic?"

"Dramatic?" Fury flooded through me. "I've been living in your ex's dream for three years, and questioning that is dramatic?"

His fists clenched, but he took a deep breath. "I don't want to fight."

"But I do!" I exploded. "Tell me, what does Seraphina really mean to you? Why is her word more important than my tears?"

His face went completely cold, a dangerous light in his eyes, his voice ominously low:

"Don't push me... Valentina."

The air froze.

My heart struck, barely able to breathe.

Looking at my husband's unfamiliar face, I realized for the first time: he was never really mine.