All Chapters of Fake To Fall : Chapter 31 - Chapter 40

IvyThe leaves had started to drift lazily from the trees, as if the world itself was exhaling after a long, hot summer. The retreat had thinned out, only a few couples still lingering in the golden haze of autumn mornings. The main lodge was quieter now. No more scheduled activities. No more fake smiles. Just real moments.Lake and Ivy sat on the porch swing of their cabin, bundled in a shared blanket, a thermos of cinnamon-spiced cider between them. The air was crisp enough to make them lean into each other for warmth. Her head rested lightly on his shoulder, and his hand gently stroked the top of hers, fingers tracing invisible shapes.For a long while, they didn’t speak. The silence was comfortable now—no more pretending, no more awkward tension, just the kind of silence that settles between people who have been through something together.“I never liked autumn,” Ivy said finally, her voice soft, almost a whisper.Lake looked down at her. “What changed?”She tilted her face up, ey

IvyIvy’s fingers trembled slightly as she held the hardback copy in her hands. The glossy cover reflected her reflection—older, wiser, with eyes that now carried the weight and wonder of someone who had lived through chaos and came out softer, not harder. The title shimmered in bold gold letters:How Pretending Helped Me Find Something RealBy Ivy MonroeShe exhaled deeply, sitting in the sunlit corner of her favorite café—the same one where she used to grade papers, sip overpriced lattes, and wonder if she was ever going to be enough for anyone or anything. The smell of espresso and cinnamon mixed with nostalgia, wrapping around her like a quiet reminder of how far she’d come.Now, across the room, a stranger sat reading her book. A woman with curly hair, glasses slipping down her nose, flipping through the pages like she was searching for herself inside them. Ivy’s cheeks flushed when the reader smiled at a line, lingered, then turned the page. Something about that quiet, private c

IvyThe first thing I noticed when I woke up was the quiet.Not the empty kind—the kind that presses against your ears and reminds you you’re alone—but the full, settled quiet. Like the world had exhaled and decided to stay that way for a moment. The kind of quiet that feels earned.The second thing I noticed was warmth.Solid. Human. Familiar in a way that made my chest tighten before my brain caught up.Lake.My husband.That word landed late. Like a delayed echo.Husband.I lay still, my face half-buried in the pillow, my hair a mess, my cheek warm where it rested against his bare shoulder. His arm was draped around my waist, loose but certain, like even in sleep he’d decided this was where I belonged. His breathing was slow and even, the rise and fall of his chest steady beneath my palm.I stared at the wooden ceiling of the cabin, the beams catching the early morning light, and let the word repeat itself in my head.Husband. Husband. Husband.It didn’t feel fake. That was the pr

IvyThe morning sunlight slipped through the cabin blinds in thin, golden streaks, casting lazy shadows across the wooden floors. I had woken before Lake, as usual, and now crouched on the edge of the bed, trying to sneak a quiet moment for myself before the outside world came knocking—or before Lake decided that "morning chaos" was code for “I’m awake and I have something to say.”He wasn’t in the room yet, but his phone lay face-up on the bedside table, buzzing faintly. Notifications: emails, texts, unread messages stacked like a tiny tower of obligations he would eventually ignore. I was about to reach over and grab mine when a glimpse of his screen caught my eye.A message, half-written, still open. Sent to someone I didn’t know.Lake Hart. My husband. Typing something that wasn’t for me.My stomach knotted. I shouldn’t have looked. I really shouldn’t. But curiosity is a dangerous companion, and I’d been sneaky long enough to know exactly how it feels when someone’s heart—or at le

LakeI woke to the soft, golden light of late morning spilling across the cabin. The beams of the old pine ceiling glowed like they were lit from inside, highlighting the grains of wood, the dust motes floating lazily through the air. The faint smell of pine mixed with coffee lingered in the corners, comforting in its way, yet paired with a subtle prickling tension in my chest I couldn’t shake.I turned on my side and looked at Ivy. She was still curled under the duvet, her hair a chaotic halo across the pillow. Even in sleep, she had this impossible presence—delicate, fragile, yet somehow untouchable. Her lips parted slightly, murmuring words I couldn’t hear, and I felt a swell of something deep and unnameable: protectiveness, affection, and something dangerously closer to love.We were married. I repeated the word in my head like a mantra, but it didn’t settle my thoughts. Married. Ivy. Us. Words that should have felt secure, final, comforting. And yet, there was a tension lurking b