When the Universe Listens

Chapter 10

She Walked Into Her Own Ruin

Saturday marked exactly five months since Rhea lost her baby. She hadn’t told anyone, but the date lived in her bones. Her body remembered even when she tried to forget. Sitting on the edge of their bed, she gently touched her lower abdomen, imagining what might’ve been. If she hadn’t miscarried, her belly would’ve been swollen now—maybe enough to feel tiny kicks. Her hands curled over the empty space. Her heart ached. She had wanted a daughter. A little girl who would inherit her curls and her stubborn smile. Someone she could braid hair for, someone who’d grow up to love the scent of jasmine like she did. But fate—cruel or kind, she wasn’t sure—had other plans.

She closed her eyes. A soft smile touched her lips for a brief moment as she remembered Lucian. It had been days since she last saw him—he was away for work overseas. But he had held her when she broke down. He had grieved with her, quietly and completely. He never tried to fix her pain, just stayed present. Lucian, in a way, reminded her that she still had a pulse. The soft click of the bedroom door snapped her out of her thoughts.

“Asher?” she called.

No answer. She heard the shuffle of keys, then the front door slamming shut. Peeking through the window blinds, she saw Asher walking briskly to his car. It was Saturday. Why was he in such a hurry to go to work?

He hadn’t kissed her goodbye. He hadn’t even looked at her. Again.

Her gaze shifted to the nightstand. Asher’s phone was still there, charging. Strange. She stared at it, her stomach knotting. He never forgot his phone. Ever. It was like an extra limb to him. Something about the way he’d left—rushed and distracted—left a bitter taste in her mouth. Her fingers trembled as she reached for it. She hesitated.

Don’t, Rhea. But the ache in her chest was louder than reason. She unlocked it. No password change.

As soon as the screen lit up, a notification appeared.

“Baby I miss u already.. can’t wait to feel u again”

Her breath caught mid-inhale. For a moment, the room seemed to tilt. She stared at the words, hoping—praying—they meant something else. A joke. A wrong number. A cruel prank.

But her thumb, trembling, tapped the screen.

The thread opened to a cascade of messages. Flirtatious texts. Voice notes. Heart emojis. Photos—some modest, most not. A woman’s bare legs tangled in silk sheets. A selfie of her biting her lip. Pet names. Plans for hotel stays and wine nights.

And then, the final blow—a message from Asher, dated weeks ago:

“Lowkey glad she miscarried. Wasn’t ready to be a dad. We can live now, no drama.”

The words scorched through her chest like acid.

Rhea blinked. Once. Twice. Her thumb let go of the phone, and it slipped from her hand, bouncing soundlessly on the bedspread. Her lungs locked. Her entire body felt weightless and impossibly heavy at once.

That wasn’t a stranger’s cruelty. That wasn’t a mistake.

That was him.

The man who had held her while she cried herself to sleep. The man who had knelt at her hospital bedside and kissed her forehead. The man who had whispered, “We’ll get through this.”

He had lied with the same lips that had kissed her tears away.

Rhea stumbled backward until the backs of her knees hit the mattress. She collapsed, not from weakness, but because the truth had stolen her spine. Her hands flew to her mouth as a guttural, silent cry ripped through her. No sound came—just shaking. Just shattering.

She pressed her forehead to her knees, her breath coming in broken waves. Glad she miscarried? She wanted to vomit. She wanted to scream. She wanted to tear the skin from her chest to stop the pain from eating her alive.

How long had he been pretending?

The grief she thought they had shared now felt like a sick performance. A cruel play where she was the only one who believed the script. He had pitied her, maybe. Comforted her, sure. But loved her? No. Not really. Not enough to stay faithful. Not enough to care about their baby.

She sat in the dark for a long time. She didn’t know how long. The glow of the screen had faded. But the burn inside her chest kept growing.

Eventually, the tears slowed. The silence became sharper than any sound.

She stood, walked into the bathroom, and splashed cold water on her face. Her reflection stared back—bloodshot eyes, pale lips, a face she barely recognized. She gripped the edge of the sink, knuckles white.

She couldn’t confront him now. Not yet. Not like this.

He would lie. He would spin it. Say it was nothing. Say it was old. Say it was “just texts.”

No. Not this time. She needed truth. She needed proof. She needed to see it with her own eyes.

So that night, when Asher came home, she didn’t say a word.

She didn’t let him see her broken.

She just sat on the couch, eyes on the television, pretending. When he leaned over to kiss her cheek, she flinched before she could stop herself—but she forced a small smile. He didn’t seem to notice. Or maybe he didn’t care.

When he asked if she was okay, she simply nodded. “Just tired.”

He accepted it. And that, somehow, made her ache even more.

She lay in bed that night with her back turned to him, eyes wide open, staring at the wall until the sun began to rise.

And by then, her mind was clear.

-

That morning, Asher got ready and left again. Another “work emergency.”

Rhea’s eyes followed him coldly. No emotion on her face. Just silence. But her heart was raging. She waited five minutes. Then, she grabbed her keys and slipped into her car, trailing him from a distance.

Her hands shook on the steering wheel. Every minute felt like an eternity. But the road he took wasn’t to his office. It led her through unfamiliar streets, quieter parts of town. Her pulse quickened.

Asher pulled up to a cream-colored house with a green door and parked confidently in the driveway. He didn’t knock. He just walked in. Like he lived there. Rhea parked two houses away and waited. Her breath fogged up the windshield. Then, driven by something she didn’t quite recognize—rage? heartbreak? survival?—she stepped out.

The front door was slightly ajar. Careless. Or maybe fate was on her side. She tiptoed barefoot onto the porch, every step heavier than the last. She could hear music. Jazz, soft and flirtatious. She slipped in through the door, moving like a ghost.

Inside, the house smelled like roses and something sweet baking. Her stomach turned. She could hear them in the living room. “Asher, stopppp,” a woman giggled.

“You love it,” he replied, voice low and seductive.

“Ugh, you taste like toothpaste,” she said, laughing. “You’re always brushing before I kiss you.”

“Professional habit,” he teased. “I can’t let my favorite girl taste last night’s dinner.”

Rhea pressed her back to the wall. Every word was another stone on her chest. Then silence. Followed by a moan. Rhea inched closer, her bare feet pressing against the hardwood floor in agonizing silence. Her back hugged the wall, heart racing like a trapped animal. She didn’t want to see. She already knew.

But the soft gasp that floated through the air pushed her forward. Her breath hitched as the woman’s voice came again.

“Asher, you’re so bad…” she whispered.

“You bring it out of me,” he murmured, thick with want.

Then the unmistakable jingle of a belt being unfastened. Rhea’s entire body tensed. No. Please no. She pressed her eye to the crack between the wall and the living room door. And there they were. Her husband, shirtless, slouched back on a plush grey couch that wasn’t theirs. His hair slightly tousled from her fingers. His hands greedily roaming. And on his lap—her.

The woman was straddling him, her silk robe open now, revealing smooth skin and lacy black underwear that barely held any modesty. She arched into him, arms wrapped around his shoulders, moaning softly into his ear. Her hips began to move in a slow, deliberate rhythm. Back and forth. Up and down.

Rhea’s stomach twisted. She could see everything.

Something inside her refused to leave empty-handed. Pain could be denied. But proof? That was undeniable.

She needed something he couldn’t lie his way out of.

With shaking fingers, Rhea reached into the pocket of her jacket.

Her phone.

She pulled it out slowly, cautiously, praying even the faintest sound wouldn’t betray her presence. Her thumb slid over the screen—camera. Flash off. Silent mode on.

She raised it, breath shallow, vision swimming.

And she pressed record.

The woman’s thighs clenched around Asher’s waist as she rocked against him, grinding with a kind of practiced ease, like this wasn’t the first time they’d done this in that very spot.

Asher’s hands gripped her waist tightly, guiding her movements with a hunger Rhea hadn’t seen in months—no, years. Not since before they lost the baby. Not since before the distance crept into their marriage like a disease.

Now it made sense. That distance had a name. A face. A body that fit too perfectly in his hands. The woman threw her head back, hair cascading down her back as she gasped and laughed breathlessly.

“God, I’ve missed you,” she moaned, rolling her hips with more urgency.

Asher’s voice was hoarse.

“f**k, you feel so good…” His belt now lay discarded on the floor. His jeans open. Rhea covered her mouth. She didn’t want to see, but she couldn’t look away. The woman pressed her palms against his chest, riding him in slow, sensual waves. Her robe had fallen completely off one shoulder. Her skin glistened with sweat and lust and familiarity. Rhea blinked rapidly, willing herself not to cry. Not here. Not in front of this.

But it was already too late. Her vision blurred. Her knees nearly gave way. She braced herself against the wall, teeth sinking into her lip to stop the sob rising from her chest.

She watched as Asher leaned forward, lips tracing a path from the woman’s collarbone to the swell of her chest. She laughed softly, breath catching. “You always know how to make me melt,” she whispered.

“It’s my job,” he smirked against her skin. “You’re my escape.” That broke Rhea.

Escape.

Wasn’t she supposed to be his home? The woman leaned in, her lips brushing against his ear. “Let’s get married.” He didn’t answer right away. He just closed his eyes and held her tighter, pulling her body flush against his. “Soon,” he murmured. “I promise.”

Rhea backed away before she heard more. Her hands covered her mouth. She stumbled into the hallway, trying not to scream. The betrayal pulsed through her veins like venom.

In her haste, her shoulder hit a small ceramic vase perched on a side table.

Crash.

And now, she had been seen.