LOGINMaxwell POVI hadn’t realized how long it had been since I came home sober until my mother noticed it before I did.The house greeted me with its usual quiet warmth—soft lights, familiar scents, the low hum of evening settling into the walls. For the first time in months, my steps were steady. My mind was clear. And for the first time in longer than I cared to admit, I wasn’t reaching for the burn of alcohol to dull my thoughts.“Max?” my mother’s voice floated from the sitting room.I turned the corner to find Rebecca seated on the couch, a book resting unopened in her lap. She looked up at me, her brows knitting together in a way that told me she was already cataloging everything that was different.“You’re home early,” she said slowly. “And… you look happy.”I smiled before I could stop myself. It felt strange, foreign, like a muscle I hadn’t used in years. “I am,” I replied, and the honesty in my voice startled even me.She stood, crossing the room in a few measured steps. Her han
Amelia POVI woke with Maxwell’s name lodged in my chest like a splinter I couldn’t pull free. It wasn’t the kind of thought that drifted lazily and disappeared with morning light. It stayed, persistent, pressing against every quiet moment as if demanding to be acknowledged. I lay still beside Ethan, listening to his even breathing, and wondered how something so simple as an afternoon had managed to unravel me so thoroughly.All morning, I moved through the house on autopilot. I made breakfast, answered emails, folded laundry, and smiled when I was supposed to. Yet every task felt like a performance, my mind wandering back to the gallery, the park, the way laughter had slipped out of me without permission. I hated myself for it. Craving another man’s presence while my fiancé stood beside me felt like a betrayal I couldn’t excuse.I told myself it was harmless. A moment. A distraction. People could enjoy conversation without it meaning anything. Still, the ache lingered, curling in my
Amelia POVWe leave the gallery laughing.The sound startles me at first—my own laughter, light and unguarded, spilling out of me like something long forgotten. It echoes briefly against the marble steps as we walk outside, fading into the hum of the city. Maxwell glances at me as if he’s surprised too, like he didn’t expect this version of me to exist.“I didn’t think you’d like that last section,” he says, shoving his hands into his coat pockets. “You looked like you wanted to argue with the artist.”“I did,” I admit. “Pain doesn’t always need to be loud to be honest. Some people confuse chaos for depth.”He grins, wide and genuine, and something warm unfurls in my chest. “She used to say the same thing.”There it is again. That soft pull. That invisible thread tightening around my ribs whenever he says she.We walk for a while, not really heading anywhere specific. The city feels different like this—slower, almost kind. Eventually, he stops near a quiet street lined with trees, the
Amelia POVI arrive at the gallery just as the sun begins to soften, light spilling through tall glass panels and washing the white walls in gold. The place hums with quiet elegance—low voices, clinking glasses, slow footsteps that echo like restrained thoughts. I blend in easily, black dress, neutral smile, hair pinned back in a way that suggests intention rather than effort. No one looks twice at me, and that is exactly how I want it.Art has always unsettled me. Too honest. Too revealing. Every piece here feels like a confession left out in the open. I move from painting to painting, pretending to read plaques while my attention stretches outward, searching. I feel him before I see him, the same way you feel a shift in air when a door opens behind you.Maxwell stands near a large abstract piece, hands in his pockets, posture relaxed but alert. He looks thinner than the last time I saw him, sharper around the edges, like a man who has learned how to disappear without leaving a trace
Amelia POVI have learned to walk like I do not hear footsteps that echo half a beat too late, to smile at strangers even when their eyes linger as if they are searching for something they misplaced years ago. Los Angeles sunlight does not hide shadows; it sharpens them. I feel them stretch behind me every time I leave the house with Ethan, every time I take the boy to school, every time I stand at the market pretending to compare oranges while my skin prickles with awareness.I know I am being followed.Not in the obvious way people imagine—no dark coats or careless tails—but in the patient way of people who know what they are doing. Cars that reappear on different streets. Faces that look away a second too slow. Phones lifted, lowered. I pretend not to notice because whoever they are, they want to see what I do when I think I am alone.So I give them nothing.Still, something else has been gnawing at me, something older than fear. People call me Amelia.Not everyone. Just enough for
Margaret POVI stared at my daughter like I was seeing her for the first time.Lisa stood before me, calm despite the storm she had just unleashed, her posture straight, her eyes sharp with a resolve that did not come from impulse but from instinct. Pride—pure, unfiltered pride—swelled in my chest, cutting through the fear clawing at my ribs.“You did well,” I said slowly, deliberately. “Very well.”Her jaw tightened. “I didn’t do it for praise, Mother.”“I know,” I replied. “That’s why it matters.”Five years.Five long, infuriating years we had mourned Amelia like a ghost, buried her like a mistake, erased her like a liability. We burned evidence, rewrote timelines, silenced whispers. I watched flames eat through what remained of her life and believed—no, accepted—that she was gone.And now she was alive.Not just alive.Thriving.Living behind guarded gates. Holding a child’s hand. Smiling.I closed my eyes briefly, steadying myself. “Tell me everything again,” I said. “Every detai







