Melinda’s POV
My heart pounded hard, thudding against my ribs. The weight of betrayal sat heavy in my gut, making me feel sick. Every breath felt shallow, like even the air was filled with disappointment.
My life was falling apart. My heart raced. My hands shook on the wheel, but I kept them there tight, my knuckles turned white. I hadn’t stopped crying since I left .
My vision blurred as the city lights bled into each other, streaks of gold and red running like wet paint. I blinked hard but the tears kept coming, hot and steady. This wasn’t real, it couldn’t be but the ache in my chest said otherwise. This was a bloody nightmare.
What was I going to do?
It had been over thirty minutes since I walked out of Andrew’s office, and I still had no idea where I was going. I didn’t need a destination. Not yet. Just movement.
I needed to feel like I was putting distance between myself and the mess behind me. Only the engine kept going, filling the empty space Andrew and Vanessa had cut out of me.
The Los Angeles skyline blurred through the windshield. The lights flickered as I drove past. Horns blared in the distance but I didn’t hear them not really. I only heard the echo of his voice. The fabric of my world tearing at the seams.
And the dress I wore the same silly white thing I put on every anniversary was now a cruel joke. White. A color for innocence.A color for fools. For funerals. It clung to my skin, damp with sweat, sticking to me like regret.
I should’ve torn it off and burned it the second I walked out of that building. Vanessa’s body tangled with Andrew’s flashed behind my eyes again and again like a horror reel stuck on loop. No matter how hard I blinked, it kept playing. Too loud. Too clear.
What shattered me most wasn’t Andrew it was Vanessa. My own sister. Of all people, it was her. I used to think blood meant something, that she’d always have my back. But now I see her clearly.
She’s been reaching for what’s mine since we were kids. The boys, the attention ,they never wanted her. Not really. They came to her just to get closer to me. And I think..
Maybe that’s what broke her. Or maybe she was always like this. I just refused to see it.
My phone buzzed on the passenger seat. Again.
Andrew.
His name lit up the screen, bright and smug. I silenced it without even glancing fully. He didn’t get access to me anymore. Not with excuses. Not with fake remorse. Not with that voice that used to make me feel safe.
I didn’t know where I was going, but I knew one thing for sure I wasn’t going home besides that, the house wasn’t mine anymore. Not really. It hadn’t been for a long time.
We built it together brick by brick, side by side. Fresh out of school, full of dreams and blueprints.
Somewhere along the way, I’d stopped being a partner. I’d become a background fixture. A tool. A name he used when it suited him. A name he could ruin when it didn’t.
He thought I’d fold. Collapse into tears and wait for him to explain it away like he always did. But Andrew didn’t know me anymore.
Maybe he never really did.
The city roared around me, full of strangers and steel and neon promises. I drove south, leaving everything I knew behind. My thoughts raced, faster than the wheels under me. But in all that noise, one thing started to make sense.
I needed out.
Not just out of the house or the firm. Out of this entire existence.
Out of the life where I lived beneath Andrew’s shadow. Where my talent was measured only by how well it propped up his ego. Where my silence was a duty and my loyalty a weapon turned against me.
I passed Culver City. Then Inglewood. The freeway signs stretched across the sky like fate whispering options.
Bakersfield. Barstow. Las Vegas.
Vegas.
I hadn’t thought about it in years. Not since our honeymoon back when Andrew still looked at me like I mattered. When I still believed in forever.
The city had felt like freedom then, pulsing with life, wild and unstructured. Neon lights. Endless possibilities. A reset button disguised in chaos.
Maybe that’s what I needed now.
A new name. A new state. A version of me untouched by him.
I tapped my fingers on the wheel as the idea took root. Vegas wasn’t just a fantasy anymore. It was a real option. A plan.
I wouldn’t take anything he could use against me. Not the car. Not the house. Not the furniture we picked out together while pretending we were happy. I’d vanish clean. Quiet. Careful.
Before making any move , I had to protect what mattered to me.
I pulled off the freeway and into a dimly lit gas station. I killed the engine. The silence that followed was thick like it was waiting for something. But this time, it didn’t break me. It steadied me.
I reached into my purse and pulled out the flash drive I’d hidden behind an old photo strip. A backup of every design I’d ever created. Projects Andrew had taken credit for. Ideas I brought to life that he presented as his own. Time stamped. Tracked.Untouchable. They were mine. The receipts he didn’t know I had.
I pulled out my notebook next and started writing.
Checklist:
1.Call my lawyer the one I met through a client, not the one we both used. Discreet. Brutal.
2.Freeze all joint accounts.
3.Transfer my shares from the firm quietly, legally, permanently.
4.Change my number.
5.Disappear.
I stared at the list. Then added one more.
6. Come back stronger.
Because I would and when I did, I wouldn’t be the woman who wore white dresses and waited to be chosen. I’d be the woman who rebuilt herself from scorched earth and didn’t ask for permission.
My phone buzzed again.
Vanessa.
Of course.
I didn’t open it. I blocked her number.
They thought they’d broken me. That I’d seen the pictures, heard the voices, and disappeared like some wounded bird.
They didn’t know I hadn’t run.
I was just getting started and they were going to regret ever crossing me .
I turned the key, started the car, and rolled back onto the highway. I wasn’t ready to hit Vegas yet. Tonight, I needed sleep. A cheap motel. A quiet room with a lock. Tomorrow would come fast and I’d need a clear head.
The woman Andrew married was gone.
The woman replacing her?
She didn’t want revenge.
She wanted legacy.
And she was ready to fight for it.
The day dawned golden and calm, the kind of morning that made Harlem feel like the warm center of the universe. The Story House stood tall and quiet in the early light, its windows reflecting the promise of something new. Inside, the air shimmered with anticipation. There were no official events scheduled, no guests expected—but something was coming. Skye could feel it. She sat at the back table, tracing her fingers over the ribbon binding a letter she hadn’t yet opened. It had come in anonymously, like the others. But something about this one felt different. Her name was on the envelope in perfect block letters: “To Skye. For what you gave me without knowing.” River entered the room, carrying a tray with two mugs of tea and a freshly baked scone from the café next door. His smile was soft, tired in a way that only love and sleepless nights could explain. “You haven’t opened it yet?” he asked, nodding to the letter. “Not yet,” Skye said. “I’m scared it’ll change something.” He ki
The morning after the rain, Harlem buzzed with its usual rhythm, but inside The Story House, something had shifted. The air was quieter. Heavier. As if the very walls were holding their breath. Skye sat alone in her office, her fingers tracing the spine of a leather-bound journal that had been left anonymously in the drop box. It wasn’t a donation—she could tell. It was personal. Raw. She could feel the story pressing out from within its pages like steam from a kettle. The note taped to the front simply read: “For the ones who never got to speak.” She opened it carefully. Inside were letters—dozens of them. Unsent, unaddressed, written in smudged ink and trembling handwriting. Some dated back five years. Others were recent. Some were addressed to mothers. Others to daughters. Lovers. Teachers. Abusers. To “the man who sat next to me on the train.” To “the father who never came back.” To “me, when I was fifteen.” Skye’s breath caught on the third letter. It was addressed: “To the
The rain came without warning. It wasn’t the kind of gentle drizzle that softened the world into poetry. It was heavy and relentless, like the sky itself had decided it couldn’t hold back anymore. The streets of Harlem shimmered under the downpour, pedestrians scattering beneath awnings, taxis honking louder than usual, and neon lights reflecting in kaleidoscopic puddles. Inside The Story House, it was warm, dry, and alive with quiet motion. Marla sat cross-legged on the floor of the reading room, surrounded by kids with crayons and open journals. River stood by the front desk, flipping through a delivery manifest, while Skye paced in the hallway near the sound studio, phone pressed tightly to her ear. Her voice was low, urgent. “No, that’s not what we agreed on. We said full funding for the mentorship program, not just pilot support.” Whoever was on the other end gave a long-winded excuse. Skye’s jaw tightened. “I understand the hesitation,” she said finally, “but this isn’t a do
The workshop room buzzed with quiet anticipation. It was Saturday morning, the first snowfall still fresh on the streets outside, and yet more than twenty young women had gathered in the warm light of The Story House’s creative wing. Skye stood at the front of the room, chalk in hand, heart pounding. “Let’s start with something simple,” she said, her voice steady. “I want you to write a letter to the girl you were five years ago.” Pens scratched against paper. Heads bowed. The silence wasn’t empty—it was rich with vulnerability. Skye walked slowly among them, glancing over shoulders with gentle respect. Some girls had tears in their eyes. Others clenched their jaws as they wrote. No one looked away. No one gave up. By the end of the hour, every piece of paper had something raw on it. Something real. And for the first time since The Story House opened, Skye read hers aloud. “To the girl who thought love only came with bruises, You were wrong. You’re about to meet people who love
The first snow came early that year. Skye woke to find the lake dusted in white, frost clinging to the bare branches outside the bedroom window. For a moment, it didn’t feel real—like the world had been paused, repainted in hushed tones. She slipped out of bed, careful not to wake River, and padded downstairs with a blanket wrapped around her shoulders. The Story House was quiet this weekend—no workshops, no events. Just stillness. Skye made coffee, then curled up on the couch with her journal. She stared at the fire crackling in the hearth and let herself breathe. This—quiet mornings, snow, peace—was a luxury she never used to trust. Sometimes she still didn’t. Because healing wasn’t linear. Some days still ached. Some nights still clawed at her ribs. But there were also days like this one, when everything inside her felt stitched together, not perfect—but whole. Marla padded into the room wearing fuzzy socks and holding a book. “Mom,” she said sleepily, “Can we read?” Skye n
The first time Skye heard the girl’s voice, it stopped her cold. She was walking past the recording studio in The Story House, arms full of books, when a low, trembling melody floated through the slightly ajar door. It wasn’t perfect—raw in places, uneven in others—but it had the kind of ache that made your soul tilt. Skye paused. Inside, a teenage girl sat hunched over a mic, headphones too big for her head. Her name was Cora. Fourteen. Foster system veteran. Newly placed with a grandmother she barely knew. She rarely spoke above a whisper. But now she was singing. When the track ended, the sound engineer gave her a quiet thumbs-up. Cora nodded, pulling the headphones off with shaking hands. Skye knocked gently and stepped inside. “You wrote that?” Cora blinked, startled. “I didn’t know anyone was listening.” “I wasn’t supposed to be,” Skye admitted, “but I’m really glad I was.” Cora looked down. “It’s stupid.” “It’s beautiful,” Skye corrected. Silence. Then Cora asked, “H