After a long, draining day on set, your shoulders ached and your eyes were heavy from pretending to cry on camera, but nothing compared to the emotional exhaustion weighing down your chest.

You came home needing silence, warmth, and the quiet comfort of your husband’s arms and your babies’ soft breathing. The nursery was peaceful, the twins fast asleep, and you allowed yourself a small smile before heading toward your bedroom.

But just as you passed the guest room, you heard something—a soft thud, a faint moan—and the door was left slightly ajar. Curiosity tugged at you. You pushed the door open and froze.

There, tangled in your sheets, was your husband—or so you thought—shirt unbuttoned, head dipped into a woman’s neck, his hips pressed between her thighs.

You stood paralyzed, disbelief anchoring your feet to the floor. That was your bed, your husband. Until he turned. That smirk. That gaze. That face... It looked like him, but something was wrong. It wasn’t him.

The energy, the way he carried himself—it was off. Before you could process it, a voice behind you broke the haze. Arms circled around your waist from behind.

The scent hit you first—cologne you bought him last Valentine’s. You turned and saw him, the real Dreven, holding takeout bags, his expression casual, completely unaware of the scene you’d just witnessed.

He took one look at your face, brows furrowing in concern as he gently tucked a strand of hair behind your ear, and with the softest, most loving voice, he asked, “Hey... why are you crying, baby?”