She Was Never Just the Wife novel Chapter 3

Chapter 3 Morning Surprise

When Celia woke up, the room was already bright with morning light.

Out of habit, she reached for her phone and saw it was already 10:17 a.m. She sat bolt upright, pain throbbing at her temples.

That was the price of staying up all night. It had been a long time since she’d pushed herself that hard.

By the time she’d finished dealing with the lab emergency the night before, it was already four in the morning. She’d gone straight back to her room and collapsed into bed, never expecting to sleep this late.

She got out of bed and went over to the mirror.

Her eyes were as red as she’d expected, with faint shadows beneath them. She turned on the faucet and splashed cold water on her face over and over. Only after a few rounds did she finally feel a little more awake.

Her stomach was starting to protest, so she changed into something casual, an off-white knit cardigan and a pair of light gray pants. She twisted her hair into a loose low bun, leaving her neck bare.

As she headed downstairs, her mind was still on breakfast. There should still be some bread and milk in the fridge, and warming something up would do.

But the moment she reached the turn in the staircase, she stopped short. A child’s bright laugh drifted up from the living room below.

Laylah’s soft voice followed. “Ricardo, eat properly. No playing around.”

Then came Beckham’s voice, gentler than Celia had ever heard it. “Take your time. No rush.”

Celia’s fingers tightened around the banister before she noticed. She stood there, looking down through the gaps in the railing.

Sunlight poured through the floor-to-ceiling windows and across the dining room, washing the long table in warm gold.

Laylah wore a pale blue knit dress, her long hair falling loosely over her shoulders. Bent over beside the three-year-old, she gently wiped his mouth.

Beckham sat next to the boy with a spoon in hand, patiently feeding him oatmeal. In dark gray loungewear, with his hair still a little mussed, he looked like he’d only just gotten out of bed.

In the morning light, his profile looked softer than usual. There was even a faint trace of warmth in his eyes, something Celia had never seen there before.

In Celia’s memory, Beckham was always in a suit, his brows faintly drawn and his eyes cold and distant. Even at home, he never seemed to relax, as if no one could ever truly get close to him.

But now he sat there, fully focused on feeding a child breakfast, as if nothing else in the world mattered.

“Don’t spoil him too much, Beckham,” Laylah said. “Let him eat by himself.”

“It’s fine.” Beckham lifted another spoonful to Ricardo’s mouth. “He went through a scare yesterday. I’ll let him have this today.”

Ricardo opened his mouth when Beckham held up the spoon, swallowed, then said in his small voice, “Beckham’s the best.”

Seeing Beckham smile and tousle the boy’s hair, Celia felt her chest tighten so hard she nearly forgot to breathe.

Standing there on the stairs, she felt like an outsider to the little family below.

Then Laylah looked up and saw her, and their eyes met.

The warm smile on Laylah’s face stiffened for a split second before she quickly smoothed it over and rose to her feet. “Ms. Ross, you’re up.”

Laylah had called her Ms. Ross, not Mrs. Lucero, and the distinction hit Celia harder than she expected.

Celia walked down the last few steps without breaking stride. At the entrance to the dining room, she let her gaze sweep over the three people at the table.

“Morning,” Celia said, her tone even.

Only then did Beckham look up at her, his brows drawing together slightly. Seeing her swollen eyes and tired face, he had probably assumed she’d cried all night.

“Why are you only getting up now?” he asked, his tone unreadable.

“I didn’t sleep well,” Celia said.

She walked to the coffee machine and poured herself a cup of black coffee. “Go on. Don’t mind me.”

Cup in hand, she turned and started toward the living room.

“Ms. Ross,” Laylah called after her.

Celia turned and looked at her.

Laylah looked apologetic. “I’m sorry about what happened at the airport yesterday. I know I put you in a difficult position.

“Ricardo and I were supposed to stay with my parents last night, but I’ve been away for three years, and I didn’t know if they were still upset with me. So we stayed at a hotel instead.

“I didn’t expect the paparazzi to follow us. Ricardo got so scared he wouldn’t stop crying, and he refused to sleep unless Beckham held him. Beckham was worried about him, so he stayed with us at the hotel all night.

“I’m really sorry for causing him so much trouble.”

It was a flawless explanation, smooth, reasonable, and impossible to argue with.

First came the apology, as if none of it had been deliberate.

Then came the story about her parents, the three years she’d been away, and the hotel, all of it reframing her choices as something forced by circumstance rather than freely made.

Then came Ricardo, scared enough to cling to Beckham, and with that, Beckham staying the night no longer sounded improper at all.

Even her final note of apology was enough to make her seem thoughtful and considerate.

But beneath all of it, Celia was left with only one fact: Beckham had spent the whole night with them.

Holding her coffee cup, feeling the heat press into her fingertips, Celia looked from Laylah’s apologetic face to Beckham.

He had already lowered his head to wipe Ricardo’s mouth, as if there were nothing unusual about any of it.

Then Celia smiled. It was the faintest smile, but it made Laylah’s chest tighten all the same.

“You’re being too polite, Ms. Stein,” Celia said calmly, as if they were making small talk. “Beckham has a soft heart. If he sees a woman alone with a child and struggling, how could he not help?”

Laylah’s expression changed ever so slightly.

Beckham looked up too, his gaze sharpening as it settled on Celia.

Celia pretended not to notice and continued in the same even tone. “Still, you’re young, and your son’s still little. Sooner or later, you’ll meet the right man.

“You can’t keep asking someone else’s husband to step in for you, can you?”

The dining room fell completely still. Even the servants in the kitchen stopped and quietly listened in.

The smile on Laylah’s face wavered. She bit her lower lip, and tears quickly welled in her eyes. “You’re right, Ms. Ross. I didn’t think it through. Ricardo and I will move out today.”

“Laylah,” Beckham cut in, displeasure clear in his voice. “You don’t need to leave.”

“Didn’t you hear? Mr. Lucero’s never even spent the night in Mrs. Lucero’s room.”

“Seriously?”

“I’ve seen it myself. He always sleeps in the guest room.”

Celia heard every whispered word. Holding her coffee, she felt her fingers tremble slightly, not from heartbreak, but from the sheer absurdity of it all.

For three years, she had thrown herself into this marriage like a fool. In the end, all it had earned her was the servants’ pity, her husband’s indifference, and everyone else’s quiet ridicule.

And now Laylah, the woman Beckham had never forgotten, was back, walking into the house with her three-year-old son as though she had every right to be there.

Meanwhile, Celia, the one who was actually his wife, had somehow become the outsider. The whole thing was almost laughable.

The coffee had long since gone cold, but Celia still hadn’t taken a sip. She stood there, staring out the window until footsteps stopped behind her.

Beckham came to a stop beside her. After a moment of silence, he said, “Laylah and Ricardo will be staying here for now.”

“Mm,” Celia replied without turning to look at him.

Beckham paused before adding, “Don’t make things harder for them.”

At last, Celia turned to look at him. Her eyes were still swollen, but all the softness in them was gone, leaving only a deep, unsettling calm.

“Beckham,” she said, in a tone more serious than he had ever heard from her before. “In these past three years, have I ever made things hard for you?”

Beckham froze at the question.

“Have I ever made things hard for your family? Your friends? Or even…” Celia’s voice stayed light, but every word fell clean and clear. “The woman you care about most?”

Beckham said nothing, because he knew she was right. She never had.

For three years, Celia had been gentle and quiet, always proper, always measured, never once making trouble for him.

“So.” Celia smiled, and there was the faintest hint of mockery in it. “What makes you think I’d start now?”

Beckham looked at her, and for a moment, words caught in his throat.

“About last night…” he began, wanting to explain, but not knowing where to begin.

“I know you were with them last night,” Celia said for him. “Ricardo was scared and needed you. Of course you stayed.”

She said it so calmly, so plainly, that the unease in Beckham’s chest only deepened.

“Celia, we need to talk,” he said.

“About what?” Celia turned her head and looked back out at the garden. “About making it up to Laylah for everything she went through these past five years?”

“About giving her son a real family? Or…” She paused, and when she spoke again, her voice was lower. “About how I should quietly make room for them?”

Beckham felt something seize in his chest. “I never said I wanted you to leave.” His voice came out dry.