Chapter 1Waking Up to His Rival

The private dining room at the Riverstone Grill smelled of charred cedar and vintage cabernet, but the air felt thin, like all the oxygen had been siphoned out before I walked through the door.

I looked around the mahogany table. Our mutual friends—people who had attended our dinner parties, who had toasted to our bright future—suddenly found their water goblets fascinating. Even my mother refused to meet my eyes, her fingers nervously shredding a linen napkin into pale, ragged ribbons.

"You knew?" The question barely stirred the air, but its weight made the room flinch. "All of you knew about him and Haley?"

My mother cleared her throat, a fragile, defensive sound. "Lauren, honey... Haley is like family to me. She was my goddaughter. She faked her own death four years ago just so you wouldn't be triggered, so your mind wouldn't break. She gave up her whole existence for you. Hasn't she sacrificed enough?"

Before I could process the sickening absurdity of that sentence, Haley Brooks stepped forward.

Her linen maternity dress pulled tight over a belly that had to be seven or eight months along. She looked pale, tear-stained, and triumphantly tragic.

"She’s right, Lauren," Haley said, her voice trembling with manufactured pathos. "Your mother knows. Everyone in this room knows. You were the only one kept in the dark, wandering around like a blissful child."

With a flick of her manicured wrist, she tossed a thick stack of glossy photographs onto the center of the table. They scattered across the dark wood, sliding between dessert plates and wine glasses.

I didn't want to look, but my eyes traitorously traced the gloss.

The first was a wedding portrait. Haley in ivory silk, Ethan beside her in a tailored charcoal suit, his hand resting tenderly at the curve of her hip.

The second: a road trip through the Rockies. Three couples hanging out the open windows of a vintage Ford Bronco, flashing peace signs against the backdrop of snow-capped pines. Ethan was laughing behind the wheel, Haley beside him, their fingers intertwined over the gear shift.

The third was taken on Thanksgiving at my mother’s home in Connecticut. A turkey on the carving board, wine glasses raised, laughter captured mid-toast. Every face I had loved and trusted was in the frame.

Except mine.

"You see that?" Haley’s voice pitched higher, jagged with self-pity. "Look how happy everyone was without you. Do you have any idea what it felt like to hide in the shadows? To change my name, to stay indoors, just so your fragile little brain wouldn't snap?"

The shrill, grating cadence of her entitlement hit an exposed nerve behind my temples. Without a word, I reached out, scooped up the buttercream anniversary cake from its crystal pedestal, and smashed it squarely into her face.

Haley shrieked. Frosting smeared across her eyelashes, clumping in her blonde bangs, turning her calculated elegance into grotesque clown paint.

"You chose to crawl into another woman’s bed," I said, my voice dead and cold. "You chose to live like a rat in the baseboards. Don't play the martyr now."

She sputtered, wiping sugar from her lips, her eyes flaring with venomous malice. "You think I’m the mistress, Lauren? You really think you’re the wife?"

She reached into her leather tote and slapped a blue leatherette folder onto the frosting-stained tablecloth.

"Open it," she hissed. "Look at the official state seal, you pathetic idiot. Our marriage license. Registered in New York County four years ago."

My breath snagged in my throat.

"The day you found out you were pregnant," Haley sneered, leaning in, "Ethan took you to that quaint little courthouse in the suburbs, didn't he? Only it wasn't a courthouse. It was a rented soundstage in Queens. The clerk who had you swear on the Bible? An off-Broadway actor paid two hundred bucks for the afternoon. While you were framing a fake piece of paper, Ethan was standing in the Manhattan Municipal Building, sliding a ring on my finger. We are the legal husband and wife. You’ve been playing house with a phantom."

The room tilted. I slowly turned my head toward Ethan.

He was standing slightly behind her, his shoulders caved, his gaze glued to the polished floorboards. He looked like an accused man waiting for the gavel to drop.

"Is that true?" I asked.

Ethan swallowed hard, unable to meet my eyes. "Haley gave up her identity to protect you, Lauren. She gave up her career, her family, everything, so your mind wouldn't shatter. She just wanted one thing... she wanted the legal title. A shred of security. I... I couldn't deny her that."

He stepped toward me, hands raised in a placating gesture. "Blame me, Lauren. Hate me. But she's carrying my child. Please, don't hurt her."

Something inside me fractured into sharp, clean edges.

I stepped forward and swung my right arm.

The slap cracked through the silence like a gunshot. Ethan’s head whipped to the side, his spectacles askew, a crimson handprint blooming across his cheekbone. He stumbled back a step, but he didn't retaliate.

I raised my hand again and hit him with my left, harder this time.

He took it in silence, his jaw tight, eyes brimming with cowardly remorse.

Haley lost her mind. She threw herself between us, spreading her arms like a mother hen shielding her territory. "He is my husband! Don't you dare touch him!"

"Fine," I breathed. "Then it’s your turn."

I drew back my hand to strike her, but before my palm could connect with her face, Ethan’s fingers clamped around my wrist like a vice.

The sorrow in his face vanished, replaced by a glacial, clinical authority.

"I told you, Lauren. Back off. If anything happens to that baby, you won't survive the guilt."

I have always hated being threatened.

With my free hand, I snatched a full glass of dark bourbon from the table and hurled the amber liquid straight into Haley’s face.

The liquor soaked her hair, dripping down her neck and onto her exposed collarbone. Haley gasped, clutching her throat. Within seconds, her pale skin erupted in angry, blotchy hives. Her chest heaved in ragged, whistling spasms.

"Ethan..." she choked out, her knees buckling. "I... I can't breathe..."

Ethan’s face went dead white. "Her allergy. Jesus Christ, Lauren, she has an acute alcohol allergy!"

He scooped Haley into his arms, turning toward the doorway. I stood directly in his path, rooted to the carpet.

He didn't slow down. He lowered his shoulder and slammed violently into me, knocking me sideways against the edge of the sideboard. The sharp wood dug into my hip, sending a dull ache through my ribs.

"What is wrong with you?" Ethan yelled over his shoulder, his voice hysterical as he sprinted into the hallway. "You already almost killed her once! Do you want blood on your hands again?"

I didn't chase them.

The door swung shut behind them, and immediately, our so-called friends moved into the gap, forming a tight, human wall between me and the exit. They looked at me with cold, defensive suspicion—as if I were a feral animal, a rabid threat to the star-crossed lovers.

I stood there in the quiet wreckage of the dining room, listening to the muffled sirens in the distance.

My wrist throbbed where Ethan had gripped it, but my mind was stuck on those final words he had spat at me.

You already almost killed her once.

What did that mean? What had he stolen from my head?