The door swings open and I smell coffee. Not just coffee. *Damien's* coffee—two sugars, splash of oat milk, that specific ratio he's particular about. I drop my suitcase in the entryway. We've been back from Bali less than an hour. He said he'd grab us lunch while I showered off the plane smell, but apparently he came home first and— She's standing in my kitchen. Blonde hair swept into the kind of loose bun that takes twenty minutes to look effortless. Wearing silk pajamas that catch the afternoon light streaming through the window. My silk pajamas. No. Not pajamas. The room tilts as my brain catches up to what I'm seeing. The fabric. The lace at the neckline. The hand-sewn pearl buttons. She's wearing my wedding dress. Not one like it. *Mine.* The custom Vera Wang that cost more than my first car, that I wore six days ago on a beach in Seminyak while Damien cried and promised me forever. She turns, coffee mug in hand—my favorite mug, the ceramic one my sister made—and smiles. "You must be the other woman he told me about." Her voice is pleasant. Conversational. Like we're meeting at a dinner party instead of in my kitchen where she's *wearing my wedding dress* and holding coffee she made in my house with my husband's precise specifications. I try to speak but nothing comes out. She takes a sip, watching me over the rim. "I'm Celeste. Damien's wife." "His wife." The words scrape out of me. "I'm his wife." "Mm." She sets down the mug carefully, adjusting the dress where it pools slightly at her waist. She's taller than me. The hem doesn't quite reach the floor the way it did when I wore it. "That's adorable. Did he do the whole beach ceremony thing with you too? He loves that. Very romantic." My phone is in my hand but I don't remember pulling it out. I'm calling Damien. It rings once. Twice. Voicemail. I call again. Voicemail. Celeste watches with something like sympathy. "He's probably screening. He does that during the transition period. Easier to let us sort it out ourselves." She smooths the lace at her hip. "You really do have exquisite taste. This dress is stunning." I'm going to be sick. "Get out." "Out?" She tilts her head. "Sweetheart, I live here."