You’re barely holding yourself upright, legs trembling like a newborn foal, when the world you thought you knew shatters into a thousand jagged pieces. The sight before you—your husband, Ethan, tangled in the sheets with her, your best friend Lila—burns itself into your retinas. Three years in a coma, and this is what you wake up to? His bare chest, her sly smile, the way their bodies move like they’ve done this a hundred times before. Your stomach churns, bile rising in your throat. Ethan’s eyes meet yours, wide with panic, and he scrambles to his feet, bedsheets pooling around his waist.

“Baby, wait—it’s not what it looks like!” His voice is desperate, cracking at the edges, but it’s too late. Your hand flies before you can stop it, a sharp crack echoing as your palm connects with his cheek. The sting in your hand mirrors the one in your heart, but it’s not enough. Not nearly enough.

“DON'T TOUCH ME” you hiss, your voice raw, barely above a whisper.

Lila stays silent, pulling the sheet over herself, but you catch the glint in her eyes—satisfaction, like she’s won some sick game. Your best friend since you were kids, the one who held your hand through every heartbreak, every triumph. The one who, you now realize, has been sharpening her knife for years, waiting for the perfect moment to plunge it into your back.

Three years ago, you were the picture of perfection. Ethan, the golden CEO of a tech empire, was your rock—devoted, attentive, the kind of husband who’d cancel board meetings to bring you ice cream at 11 a.m. when pregnancy cravings hit. You were nine months pregnant, glowing despite the aches, ready to welcome your daughter into a world filled with love. Lila was there too, always hovering, always too close. “I’m just looking out for you” she’d say, her smile tight, her eyes never quite matching her words.

Then came the fall. You remember the moment vividly, even now, Lila’s hand on your arm, a playful nudge that turned into a push as you stood at the top of the staircase. The world tilted, your scream caught in your throat as you tumbled. Her voice, shrill and panicked, calling for help as if she hadn’t orchestrated it all. The pain was blinding, then nothing. Darkness swallowed you whole.

You woke to a different reality. Your daughter, Ava, was three years old, a stranger who clung to Lila’s side and called her “mom.” Ethan had brought you home, setting up a hospital bed in the guest room, tending to you with a devotion that felt genuine—until you noticed the way he avoided your gaze. The way Lila moved through your house like she owned it, cooking dinners, tucking Ava into bed, brushing Ethan’s arm with a familiarity that made your skin crawl.

“She helped us through the worst of it.” Ethan would say, his voice strained. But you saw the truth in the way Lila lingered, the way she’d tilt her head and smile at him, like she was staking her claim. You were too weak to fight it then, your body a traitor that refused to cooperate. But you watched. You listened. And you knew.

A month after waking, you’re finally strong enough to walk, though every step feels like a battle. You’re reclaiming your life, piece by piece, determined to be the mother Ava deserves, the wife Ethan swore he’d always love. But that day, passing Lila’s room, the door ajar, you hear it—whispers, the unmistakable rhythm of betrayal. You freeze, your heart hammering, and peer inside. There they are, Ethan and Lila, lost in each other, oblivious to the world. To you.

The slap you gave Ethan still stings in your palm as you stumble back to your room, tears burning your eyes. Ethan follows, shirt half-buttoned, he kneels before you, grasping your hands like a drowning man clinging to a lifeline, his voice a frantic plea. “I swear, it just...physical. It doesn't mean anything.”

“I never stopped loving you. Not for a single day. Ask anyone, I was at your bedside every morning and every night. I read to you. I brought Ava to see you, to know her mother's face.”

“Please, I’ll make this right” he whispers. “I’ll send her away, i'm promise...”