Her Husband’s Secret Baby with His Assistant (Her Marriage in Crisis #47)

1. Eve

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Eve

Two Hours Before

The organ music swells, and I’m supposed to be crying happy tears right now.

I’m supposed to be looking at Simon through a misty veil of joy, heart so full it’s threatening to burst, thinking about how lucky I am, how perfect this moment is, how every single decision in my twenty-seven years has led me here, to this church, to this man, to the rest of my life.

Instead, I can’t stop seeing the texts...

My father squeezes my arm. “Ready, sweetheart?”

“Mm-hmm.” The sound barely makes it past my lips. My bouquet is shaking. White roses and peonies, chosen because Simon said they were classic, trembling like I’m standing in a wind tunnel instead of a temperature-controlled church vestibule.

I’m fine. I’m fine.

Two hours ago, I was fine. I was in the bridal suite with my bridesmaids, champagne flowing, everyone laughing at how Becca couldn’t zip her dress without three people helping.

I slipped away to check on Simon because that’s what I do.

I check. I anticipate. I smooth things over before they become problems.

His phone was buzzing on the bathroom counter. He was in the shower, steam curling under the door, humming something off-key. I picked it up just to silence it.

Just to silence it.

Can’t wait to finally have you to myself. After today, no more hiding. - K

My thumb moved before my brain caught up. Scrolling. Heart hammering so loud I was sure he could hear it through the glass door.

Last night was perfect.

I can still taste you.

She doesn’t deserve you. She never did.

And then the photo. Simon, in what I recognized immediately as our apartment, our bedroom, sprawled across our sheets wearing nothing but a smile I’ve never seen him give me. A smile that’s lazy and satisfied and intimate in a way that made my stomach lurch.

The shower turned off.

I set the phone down. Exactly where I found it. Face down.

He stepped out, towel around his waist, water dripping down his chest, and I watched him like I was watching a stranger. Like I was seeing him for the first time.

“Everything okay, babe?”

And I smiled. I smiled. Because what was I supposed to do?

Scream? Cry? Demand answers two hours before a church full of guests watched me walk down the aisle?

Our families are here. The caterers are prepping.

My dress cost fourteen thousand dollars and his mother specifically said the Valentines don’t do scenes.

“Perfect,” I said.

He kissed my forehead. Didn’t even notice my hands were shaking.

Maybe I misread it.

That’s what I’ve been telling myself for two hours. Maybe “K” is a client. Maybe it’s some work thing I don’t understand, some inside joke that sounds worse than it is. Maybe the photo was old, from before we were together, and she’s just... what? Reminiscing? Threatening? Maybe I’m losing my mind.

His assistant’s name is Kiara.

I shove the thought down so hard I feel it crack against my ribs.

“Eve?” My father’s voice is soft with concern. “You look pale.”

“Just nervous.” I flash him a smile that feels like cracking porcelain. “Big day.”

The music shifts. That’s my cue. Hundreds of heads turn in their pews, a sea of pastel hats and tailored suits and faces I barely recognize, all here to watch me become Mrs. Simon Valentine.

I take my first step.

The aisle stretches in front of me, narrow and endless. White runner, rose petals scattered by my six-year-old niece, candles burning in the afternoon light filtering through stained glass. It’s beautiful. It’s everything I spent ten months planning.

It feels like walking to my own execution.

Stop it, I tell myself. You’re being dramatic. This is your wedding. This is the happiest day of your life. You love Simon. Simon loves you.

Can’t wait to finally have you to myself.

I keep walking.

Halfway down the aisle now. Simon stands at the altar in his perfectly tailored charcoal suit, boutonniere straight, hair styled just so. He looks like he belongs in a magazine spread. He also looks...

Bored.

He checks his watch. Actually checks his watch while I’m walking toward him in a dress that took four months to make, and his expression is the same one he wears during quarterly budget meetings. Polite. Patient. Ready for this to be over.

Am I overreacting?

This is my wedding, for fuck’s sake. This is supposed to be the moment where his breath catches, where his eyes go soft, where he mouths you’re beautiful and I feel like the only woman in the world.

He’s looking past me. At the doors.

What is he looking for?

I force my smile wider. My cheeks ache with the effort. Becca catches my eye from her spot near the altar, gives me an enthusiastic thumbs up, and I love her so much but I also want to scream because can’t anyone see? Can’t anyone see that something is horribly, catastrophically wrong?

My eyes find Dean.

Simon’s younger brother stands just behind him, best man by family obligation rather than actual friendship.

Simon has always treated Dean like a slightly embarrassing afterthought, the Valentine who didn’t quite measure up.

But Dean and I go back further than Simon and I do.

Five years, since the night a college friend dragged me to a charity fundraiser and Dean made me laugh so hard I snorted wine through my nose in front of half the room.

We were friends a year and a half before I ever met Simon. Funny, the order things happen in.

He’s not watching me like everyone else. Not with that polite, admiring expectation.

He’s studying me. His brow furrows. Those dark eyes narrow, seeing something no one else seems to notice.

He mouths: You okay?

And my throat closes.

Because no. No, I’m not okay. I’m walking toward a man who might be cheating on me with his assistant, and I’m too much of a coward to stop, too afraid of making a scene, too desperate to believe I’m wrong.

I nod. Smile wider still, until I feel like my face might split.

I’m fine. I’m fine. I’m...

The church doors slam open behind me.

The sound cracks through the organ music, loud enough to kill it dead. Every head turns. I spin, bouquet clutched to my chest, heart in my throat, and...

Kiara Nash stands in the doorway.

Backlit by afternoon sun, she’s practically glowing. A vision in white. And not just white, bridal white. Lace sleeves that look hand-sewn. A cathedral train pooling behind her. She’s been planning this entrance for months, it shows. A veil pinned into her dark, perfectly curled hair.

She’s wearing a wedding dress.

She’s wearing a wedding dress to my wedding.

Time stops. Or maybe I stop. Maybe my heart stops, my lungs stop, everything stops except the roaring in my ears that sounds like the ocean or maybe just my entire life crashing down around me.

I turn to look at Simon.

And I watch his face transform.

First shock. His jaw drops, eyes wide, the most expression I’ve seen from him all day. Then his face shifts into the last thing I expect to see there.

Relief.

Like she’s exactly what he’s been waiting for.

Simon drops my hands. I didn’t even realize he was holding them. He dropped my hands to stare at his assistant standing in the doorway of our wedding wearing a gown that probably cost as much as mine.

Kiara smiles.

It’s the smile of someone who’s already won.