Prologue

“Dr. Benson asked me to marry him.”

The words were soft — so quiet that for a moment, Richard Abbott thought he’d misheard. But they hung in the air between them, fragile and final.

“I said yes.”

They weren’t just words. They were bullets, lodged in his chest before his heart had time to brace. Silence stretched through the room, long and stiff. The ticking antique clock on the far wall sounded too loud, too smug in the space she’d just fractured.

Richard didn’t move. Couldn’t. He was seated behind his desk — the same place where he’d written checks, signed school forms, planned project bids. It felt absurd that this would be the place where she told him she was leaving.

“Congratulations.”

It came out too fast. Mechanical. Hollow. Like a pre-recorded message he didn’t remember hitting ‘play’ on.

It wasn’t what he felt. Not even close.

“Thank you, Mr. Abbott,” Monet said, voice still gentle, but a little too even.

Mr. Abbott.

Not Richard.

For three years, she’d lived in this house. Cared for his kids like they were her own. Stepped into the mess of his grief, never asking for more than she was offered. She’d never overstepped. Never imposed.

But she'd been... there. Steady. Quiet. A constant.

And now she was leaving.

He blinked at her—really looked at her, not over her, not past—for the first time since she walked in.

She wasn’t smiling. Not glowing with excitement. But she wasn’t crushed either. Just... still. Like someone holding a heavy thing with both arms and pretending it didn’t ache.

“Are you okay, Monet?” he asked, quietly.

Her eyes—those warm chestnut eyes that had soothed Carter through nightmares and calmed Meredith’s tantrums—lifted to his. And for just a second, he saw it.

Not joy. Not certainty.

Fear.

A flicker of it, buried under the calm mask she wore like second skin. Then she looked away.

She stood to leave, brushing invisible creases from her skirt. The hallway light streamed in when she opened the door, and for a moment the gold glow hit her braid-covered shoulders like something out of a painting.

She looked angelic. Unreachable.

“Today was the happiest and saddest day of my life, Mr. Abbott,” she said softly, before walking out.

And then the door clicked behind her. Sealing the room in silence.

Richard exhaled. Not the kind you take when you’re tired — the kind you take when your chest has been too tight for too long and you didn’t realize until the pain finally cracked through.

The words echoed back to him, clearer now.

She’s leaving.

Not just leaving the house. Leaving them. The bedtime routines. The stories. The little lunches. The subtle, almost invisible way she’d stitched herself into the fabric of their lives.

He leaned back in his chair, staring at the now-closed door like it might open again. Like this had been a bad dream.

At least he had warning, he thought bitterly. At least this time, it wasn’t like Hannah.

Her death had been sudden — brutal in its finality. One moment she was breastfeeding Carter. The next, he was calling 911 with trembling fingers and bloodless lips.

He and the kid's never got to prepare for goodbye with Hannah. Monet was giving him that chance. But somehow, it hurt worse.

Because he’d let himself relax around her. Let the house breathe again because she made it easier to. Let the children feel joy because she made space for it.

She hadn’t just filled a gap. She had become the glue . And now she was gone.

Or nearly.

Soon she’d belong to another man. Not just professionally, but personally. Legally. Publicly. And he’d have to teach his children to accept that. Maybe even encourage it.

The thought twisted like glass in his gut.

“Damn it.”

He rose suddenly, pacing behind the desk like a lion rattled in a cage. His hands curled into fists before relaxing again, useless against the rising swell of emotion he didn’t have the right to name.

She wasn’t his. Not once. Not ever.

He’d never crossed that line, never let himself even dream of it.

But now, watching her leave, he realized something sharp and undeniable:

He didn’t want her to go. He thought about the kids. What would he tell them? That Monet had found a new life? That someone else had promised her forever?

His jaw tightened, help was replaceable, his head argued.

But his heart knew better. She wasn’t just help.

She was Monet.

And now that she was leaving — he was finally realizing what that meant.

He would replace her. He had no choice.

Even if the idea made him feel like he was cutting out his own rib.