the letter from Ria

Millicent's POVThe envelope arrives early on a Thursday morning, it’s mixed in with other bills and client correspondence.I almost miss it, the plain white, handwritten address, with no return information. But something about the handwriting stops me. Something familiar that I can't quite place.I open it in my studio, in between appointments, expecting nothing. The letter inside is three pages long and carefully written."Dear Millicent,I know you probably don't want to hear from me. I wouldn't want to hear from me either. But I've been watching your life unfold from a distance, through the articles, the interviews, and the photos of you looking happier than I ever saw you when we were friends, and I realized I owe you something I should have given you years ago.An explanation and an apology.Not because I deserve your forgiveness. I know I don't, but because you deserve to know the truth about what happened, and why."I sit down heavily, the paper trembling in my hands.It’s Ria

the health scare

Millicent's POVThe doctor's words don't make sense at first."Elevated markers... probably nothing... recommend a procedure... just to be safe..."I'm sitting in the pediatrician's office, the same office where Josh has had checkups since he was born, and the words are sliding past me like water off glass. Josh is on my lap, playing with a plastic dinosaur the nurse gave him, completely unaware that his mother's world is tilting sideways.The walls of the office are covered in cheerful posters about hand-washing and healthy eating. There's a mobile hanging from the ceiling, there’re colorful fish swimming in circles and everything just looks normal. Nothing looks like the end of the world, but the doctor's mouth is still moving, and the words are still wrong."Mrs. Hale? Do you have any questions?"Do I have.. I do actually. I have a thousand, a million maybe. None that I can articulate."What kind of procedure?" I manage."Minor surgery to remove a small growth. Almost certainly b

the anniversary

Millicent's POVIt’s two years already. It's been twenty-four months, seven hundred and thirty days, already since I walked through the mansion's massive front door with nothing but a battered suitcase, a sleeping child heavy in my arms, and a contract tucked into my bag that was supposed to be temporary.Twenty-four months since I stood in Damon's foyer, shivering despite the heating, terrified of the cold billionaire I'd married, and certain in the marrow of my bones that I'd made a terrible mistake.I remember that first night with a clarity that still stings. I remember the way Damon looked at me like I was an inconvenience to be tolerated, a piece of furniture he hadn't ordered but couldn't return. I remember the way the mansion felt like a mausoleum, vast and echoing, stripping away any sense of warmth. I remember the way I lay awake in an unfamiliar bed, staring at a ceiling I didn't recognize, wondering how long I could survive this arrangement before I crumbled completely.N

the photo

Millicent's POVI set up the camera on its tripod, the metal legs clicking against the stone, adjust the angle, and check the lighting for the fourth time because in my line of work, perfection depends on precision.The sun is dipping lower, casting long, dramatic shadows that I usually try to avoid, but today, I don't mind them.The mansion steps have been photographed countless times. They have been captured by newspapers documenting galas, by magazines doing architectural spreads, by the professional photographers Damon has hired over the years for official portraits. There’re stiff and formal, where everyone looks like a wax figure.But I've never photographed them myself. I've never turned my lens, my artistic eye, my personal perspective, on my own home, my own family, and on the people I love most. Today feels like the right day. The air is crisp, the light is golden, and for once, the world feels quiet enough to capture."Mommy, can I hold Mr. Hop?" Josh asks, swinging his ba

the future discussed

Millicent's POVThe conversation starts over breakfast, amidst the clinking of silverware and the smell of toasted bagels, and stretches lazily into the afternoon. Mike pours coffee from the French press, the dark liquid swirling, and Damon spreads some documents across the oak table.They aren't the usual business documents, no spreadsheets of profit margins or acquisition targets. These are something else entirely.Printouts about surrogacy agencies, adoption requirements, the legal complexities of multi-parent families in different jurisdictions.The morning light catches the papers as he arranges them, casting shadows across charts and bullet points and photographs of smiling children from agency brochures. It's the kind of research Damon does, thorough, exhaustive, leaving no question unasked. It's how he approaches a merger, and apparently, how he approaches expanding our family."I've been thinking," he says, which is how most of our major conversations begin. My eyes drop to

the ending that isn't

Millicent's POVMorning in the mansion. The light comes through the kitchen windows at a slant, painting everything in shades of gold. It's early, too early, really, for the chaos that's already unfolding, but the sun doesn't care about schedules, and neither does my son.Josh is at the kitchen table, eating cereal with more enthusiasm than accuracy. Milk splashes across the surface with each bite. Cheerios scatter like tiny refugees fleeing a disaster zone. His dinosaur pajamas are already stained, and the day has barely begun."Josh, try to keep the cereal in the bowl.""I AM keeping it in the bowl.""That Cheerio is on the floor.""That's not MY Cheerio. That's a FLOOR Cheerio."I don't have the energy to argue with four-year-old logic at 7 AM. He's inherited my stubbornness, which I'm told is karmic justice for everything I put my own mother through. The thought makes me smile despite myself.Mike is at the stove, attempting to make eggs. "Attempting" is the operative word, he's b