Chapter 3The Ghost I Crowned

I genuinely liked this girl, so I answered her with a patience I rarely showed anyone anymore.

“To make you official. You’re carrying a child. We can’t have you hiding in the shadows, can we?”

Stella’s hand flew to her stomach. “I—I told you, I don’t want to take Mr. Hayes from you…”

I cut her off with a gentle smile. “Let’s not talk about that. First, dinner.”

It was clear Donovan had never taken her anywhere nice. The evening’s modest fifteen-course tasting menu left Stella utterly overwhelmed. By the end of it, she was clutching my hand like a lifeline, her eyes wide.

“Mrs. Hayes, that prosciutto with the fig jam was incredible! And the way they did the eggplant… I’ve never tasted anything like it.”

I watched her practically bounce with excitement, reminding her gently to be careful.

She laughed, then her cheeks flushed with embarrassment. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Hayes. I grew up poor. I haven’t seen much of the world. I know I’m probably acting like a fool.”

I just shook my head and smiled, reaching out to pat her head.

“Do you like it?” I asked softly. “This kind of life.”

Stella nodded without hesitation.

“Yes.”

Good, I thought. That makes this easier.

I tucked her into a guest suite and waited until the lights were out. The house fell silent.

I stood in the garden, breathing in the familiar, suffocating stillness of my life. The head housekeeper approached with my cigarettes and a lighter, her expression as conflicted as Arthur’s had been.

“Ma’am, must you do this? I don’t think… I don’t think he really loves this girl.”

“She’s young, that’s all. In every other way—education, background, poise—she can’t hold a candle to you.”

“And what good has it done me?” I murmured, taking a long drag. “I’m still here, year after year, counting the days like a monk in a monastery.”

A life of such exquisite, soul-crushing boredom.

Perhaps it was seeing Stella, a living echo of my past, that made the memories surface. Tonight, for the first time in years, I allowed myself to remember.

I remembered being a girl who didn’t know the meaning of hardship. My parents were farmers in Ohio. We were poor, but their love was rich. They spoke to each other with a kindness and respect that money could never buy. I was a good student, not brilliant, but good enough to earn a scholarship to NYU.

And so, at twenty, when I met the Donovan Hayes—the campus royalty who walked through life like he owned it—I wasn’t scared or intimidated. It never once occurred to me that I wasn’t good enough for him.

While every other girl was chasing him, I was trying to figure out what I’d do after graduation.

Perhaps it was that indifference that caught his eye. He fell in love with me. He pursued me relentlessly.

I didn’t care for money or expensive gifts. So he took a pottery class to make me a coffee mug, his large hands clumsy with the clay.

I believed in equality, in partnership. I hated the stuffy, expensive restaurants he liked. So he learned to cook for me, blistering his hands in the process.

To marry me, he went to war with his family.

I never knew the full extent of what he endured. I only knew that he vanished for three months and returned thirty pounds lighter, his eyes red-rimmed and haunted. He just held me and said, “Evelyn, I can finally marry you.”

He gave me a wedding that was the talk of New York, our photos plastered across the society pages for a week.

And I, like a fool, believed we would love each other forever.