The penthouse smells wrong. I notice it the moment I step through the door, dragging my suitcase behind me—something sweet and powdery, like baby lotion and lavender, layered over the familiar scent of the eucalyptus diffuser I left running a month ago. My heels click against the marble foyer, and I'm already pulling my phone out to text Ryan that I caught an earlier flight when I hear it. A soft, wet suckling sound. I freeze. The sound comes from the living room—my living room, the one with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city, the one I left pristine and empty when I flew to Singapore thirty-two days ago to close the biggest deal of my career. My hand tightens around my phone as I move forward, my pulse suddenly loud in my ears. A woman sits on my white leather couch. She's maybe twenty-five, blonde hair pulled back in a messy bun, wearing yoga pants and one of Ryan's old Columbia t-shirts. And she's breastfeeding a baby. No—two babies. One latched to her breast, the other sleeping in a bassinet beside the couch. Twins. My brain stutters, trying to process the image. Trying to make it make sense. Then I see what's around her neck. My grandmother's sapphire necklace. The one Ryan said was stolen six months ago. The one he filed an insurance claim for. The one I cried over because it was the only thing I had left of her. It's resting against this stranger's collarbone, catching the afternoon light. "Who the hell are you?" The words come out harder than I intend, but I don't care. My hands are shaking. The woman looks up, and for a split second, I see surprise flicker across her face. Then it's gone, replaced by something calmer. Almost serene. "You must be Natalie." She adjusts the baby at her breast, completely unbothered by my presence. "Ryan said you weren't coming back until tomorrow." Ryan said. "I asked you a question." I step further into the room, and that's when I see the rest of it. A diaper bag on my coffee table. A baby swing in the corner. A bottle warmer plugged in by the kitchen. Signs of life—of *their* life—scattered through my home like they belong here. Like I'm the intruder. "I'm Claire." She says it like I should know the name. Like it should mean something. It doesn't. "That's not an answer." My voice is ice now. "What are you doing in my home? With my husband's shirt? Wearing my—" I can't even finish the sentence. My throat closes around the words. Claire shifts the baby to her shoulder, patting its back with practiced ease. "Ryan didn't tell you?" "Tell me what?" Before she can answer, I hear the front door open behind me. Keys jingling. Footsteps. "Claire, I got the formula you—" Ryan rounds the corner carrying two shopping bags, and the sight of me stops him mid-sentence. The bags slip from his hands, bottles of formula and boxes of diapers spilling across the floor. "Natalie." His face drains of color. "You're home early." I stare at my husband—my husband of six years, the man I married in a small ceremony in Napa, the man who held me when my grandmother died and promised me forever—and I don't recognize him. His hair is disheveled. There are dark circles under his eyes. He's wearing sweatpants at three in the afternoon. "What is this?" I gesture at Claire, at the babies, at the chaos that's taken over our home. "What the fuck is this, Ryan?" He opens his mouth. Closes it. His eyes dart to Claire like he's looking for help. And that's when she stands, cradling the baby against her chest, my grandmother's necklace swinging forward. "I'm Claire Westfield," she says, walking toward me with a smile that doesn't reach her eyes. "The mother of Ryan's children." The words land like a physical blow. I actually take a step back. "That's not—" Ryan starts, but Claire keeps talking. "The twins are three months old. Ryan and I have been together for almost two years now." She tilts her head, studying me with something that might be pity. "I'm sorry. I assumed you knew. Ryan said you two had an arrangement." My vision tunnels. The room spins. "Ryan." I can barely hear my own voice over the roaring in my ears. "Tell me she's lying." He's staring at me with something that looks like panic. Or guilt. Or both. "Nat, I can explain—" "Tell me she's lying!" The baby in Claire's arms starts to cry. And Ryan doesn't say a word.