Maya's POVI felt Daniel's presence behind me in the hallway, heavy as storm clouds. For once, I didn't turn around. Let him watch my back, for a change. The box in my arms - filled with design journals and old sketches - felt like armor against his silence.Three years of marriage, and only now did I understand what real power felt like: the ability to walk away. Each breath came easier than the last, like my lungs were finally remembering how to work properly.My shoes whispered against hardwood floors that had never felt like home. Each step carried me further from the girl who used to flinch at raised voices, closer to someone new. Someone real. I passed the living room where we'd hosted countless dinner parties, the kitchen where I'd learned to make myself small, the study where he'd locked away my designs. Memories ghosted through the halls, but they felt distant now, like watching scenes from someone else's life.Thunder rolled outside as I reached the front door. Through sheet
MayaThe key clicked in the lock, and I pushed the door open with my hip, balancing a box labeled "Kitchen Shit" in my arms. The apartment smelled of fresh paint and new beginnings."Home sweet home," I murmured to myself, setting the box down on the bare hardwood floor.The space wasn't much—a modest one-bedroom with high ceilings and windows that actually opened—but it was mine. No marble countertops. No designer furniture. No husband dictating which corner I could exist in. Just four walls that didn't feel like they were closing in on me."Is that the last one?" Olivia called from the kitchen, where she was unpacking my mismatched collection of mugs and plates."Two more in the car." I stretched, feeling the satisfying pop in my lower back. "Who knew freedom would be so fucking heavy?"Olivia appeared in the doorway, wiping her hands on her jeans. Her usually perfect hair was pulled into a messy ponytail, and she'd swapped her Thorne Designs blazer for an old t-shirt. "Worth every p
I yawned as the elevator climbed to my floor, my body heavy with exhaustion after a long day at Thorne Designs. Two weeks into my new job, and I was still getting used to the rhythm of actual work—meetings that mattered, deadlines that weren't arbitrary punishments, colleagues who valued my input. Freedom was fucking exhausting, but in the best possible way.My thoughts drifted to this morning's awkward encounter in the elevator. Emma, the head designer, had asked about my collection concepts while three other designers pretended not to listen. I could feel their eyes on me, assessing, wondering. The whispers had followed me all day—hushed conversations that died the moment I walked into a room."That's her... Daniel Russo's wife...""I heard he locked her up...""Alex hired her personally..."That last one stung the most. I'd earned this position, dammit. My fingers had been permanently stained with graphite for days before my interview, perfecting every design in my portfolio. But to
I made my way carefully through the wreckage, avoiding stepping on broken glass and torn fabric. Olivia kept talking, her voice a lifeline as I cataloged the damage. The bathroom mirror was shattered. My bed had been stripped, the mattress slashed. Even the cheap set of plates I'd bought at a discount store had been smashed against the kitchen floor.A knock at the door made me jump."That's probably the police," I told Olivia, making my way back to the entrance.But it wasn't the police.Alex stood in the hallway, concern etched across his features, his normally perfect suit slightly rumpled as if he'd rushed over. For a moment, we just stared at each other."Olivia called me," he said finally, answering my unspoken question.I pressed the phone back to my ear. "You called Alex?""Of course I did." Olivia's voice was unapologetic. "You need someone there now, not in forty minutes when I can fight through traffic. Plus, he's got resources."“You didn’t think to tell me?”Behind Alex, t
Alex stood by the door, watching me with an unreadable expression. "You shouldn't stay here tonight.""I'm not leaving." The words came out harsher than intended. "This is my home.""Maya..." His voice softened. "The locks are compromised. The place is a mess. At least let me call someone to secure the door properly."I sighed, looking around at the devastation. He was right, but the thought of leaving—of letting Daniel win—made my blood boil."Fine. Call someone for the locks. But I'm staying."His lips pressed into a thin line, but he nodded, pulling out his phone. While he arranged for an emergency locksmith, I began picking up the larger pieces of debris, needing to do something with my hands. I gathered the torn pages of my journals, carefully stacking what remained. Some designs could be salvaged. Others were gone forever.After he finished his call, Alex hesitated, then removed his suit jacket and rolled up his sleeves. "Where do you want to start?"I blinked at him, surprised.
The alarm shrieked like a banshee, dragging me from what little sleep I'd managed to find. My eyes felt like they'd been rolled in sand, and my back ached from the awkward position I'd maintained all night—half-sitting against the headboard, knife clutched in my hand. I'd dozed off around four, only to jerk awake at every creak and groan the building made."Fuck this," I muttered, silencing the alarm and dragging myself to the bathroom.The face in the mirror looked like shit. Dark circles shadowed my eyes, and my skin had the sallow tinge of exhaustion. I splashed cold water on my face, willing the fog to clear from my brain.Coffee. I needed coffee.But the kitchen was still a disaster zone, broken dishes scattered across the counter. I hadn't gotten around to cleaning that part yet. Daniel had been thorough in his destruction, not leaving a single mug intact.My phone buzzed with a text from Olivia.On my way with coffee and bagels. Don't argue.I smiled despite everything. What did
The Thorne Designs building loomed ahead, all glass and chrome and promise. Two weeks ago, walking through those doors had felt like stepping into a new future. Now, it just felt like another battlefield."Good morning, Ms. Russo," the security guard nodded, his eyes widening slightly as he took in my appearance. I must have looked even worse than I thought.The elevator was mercifully empty. I leaned against the wall, gathering whatever energy I could for the day ahead. The doors opened to the design floor, and I straightened my spine, lifted my chin. I might feel like shit, but I'd be damned if I'd show it."Maya!" Emma Lawrence's assistant—not Alex's assistant, I mentally corrected myself—intercepted me before I could reach my desk. "You look... did you get caught in the rain?"I'd forgotten her name. Sarah? Samantha? Something with an S."Long night," I said, trying to move past her."Oh?" Her eyebrows shot up, a smile playing at her lips. "Wouldn't have anything to do with Mr. Tho
The morning dragged on. I threw myself into the accessory designs, determined to make even this demotion into something spectacular. But every time I looked up, I caught someone looking away quickly or whispering to a colleague.At the eleven o'clock design meeting, things got worse. Bernard ran through the collection updates, barely acknowledging my presence. When I tried to offer suggestions for improving the bracelet clasp design, he nodded vaguely and then attributed the same idea to Sophie when she repeated it five minutes later."Excellent modification, Sophie," he said, making a note. "That's exactly the kind of refinement we need."I bit my tongue so hard I tasted blood.After the meeting, I retreated to the break room, needing a moment alone. But as I approached, I heard voices from inside—Bernard and Phillip, one of the executive VPs."—liability at this point," Phillip was saying. "The client specifically mentioned concerns about her emotional stability.""She's talented," B
A knock at the door interrupted my thoughts. One of the staff, not bothering to wait for an answer before entering."Phone call for you, Fiona. Your mother."I followed her to the communal phone, accepting the receiver with a practiced neutral expression."Hello, Mother.""Fiona." Caroline's voice was tight, controlled. "How are you progressing?""Excellently. I'm journaling my feelings and embracing sobriety one day at a time."The sarcasm was thick enough to spread on toast, but Caroline ignored it, as she ignored anything unpleasant that couldn't be fixed with money or public relations."Good. We've arranged for you to stay at The Residence when you're released next week. It's a transitional living facility for people in recovery. Very discreet.""I thought I'd be coming home." I knew the answer even as I said it."That wouldn't be best for your recovery." The practiced line of someone who'd consulted experts for the right way to abandon their child. "Besides, your father and I are
I hurled the notebook across the room, my carefully maintained composure cracking. The soccer mom—Tracy? Stacy?—jumped in her bed, eyes wide with alarm."Sorry," I muttered. "Bad memory."She nodded with the instant forgiveness of the perpetually frightened and turned back to her recovery romance novel.I closed my eyes, but the memories kept coming. The day my parents brought Maya "home." The press conference, the tearful reunion carefully staged for maximum emotional impact. Me, standing to the side, watching Caroline Kingston touch Maya's face with a reverence she'd never shown me."Look at you," she'd whispered. "You have your grandmother's eyes. We thought we'd never see them again."I'd given interviews, playing the ecstatic sister. I'd shared my room, my clothes, my parents. I'd shown her the family business, introduced her to industry contacts I'd cultivated for years. All while watching Caroline and Robert orbit around her like she was the sun and I was just some distant, dis
FionaThe white walls of the rehab center wouldn't stop spinning. Thirty days sober and I still couldn't get my balance. The therapist said it would pass, but what the fuck did she know? She hadn't lost everything in one night.I studied my reflection in the bathroom mirror. They'd taken my makeup during the "contraband check," claiming the compact mirror was a "cutting risk." As if I'd slice my wrists with a cheap plastic mirror. If I wanted to die, I'd do it with style. Nothing half-assed for Fiona Kingston.Kingston. I traced the outline of my face, searching for traces of them in my features. Was my nose Robert's? My eyes Caroline's? I'd spent years finding family resemblance where there was none."You're making excellent progress, Fiona." Dr. Levine's voice echoed in my head, that patronizing tone she used when lying to make patients feel better. "These breakthrough revelations about your adoption are painful but necessary for healing."Breakthrough. Like I hadn't known since I w
I left without waiting for her response, clutching my earnings—just over six hundred dollars—and my remaining jewelry. Instead of heading directly to my truck, I ducked into the general store and waited near the window, watching the street. The SUV had disappeared, but my nerves remained on high alert.After fifteen minutes with no sign of the vehicle, I hurried to my truck and drove back to the cabin, taking two wrong turns just to make sure I wasn't followed.Back at the cabin, I tried to research "Vega technique" and "Lupe Vega" online, but the internet connection was spotty at best, and my searches yielded little useful information. A few obscure references to innovative glass bead techniques from the 1980s. A mention in an archived design magazine about "promising newcomer Lupe Vega." Nothing that definitively connected this designer to my Mami
I spent the afternoon gathering supplies, then worked through the night preparing pieces for the fair. I created six more complete jewelry sets, each built around those distinctive spiral beads. By dawn, I had enough inventory to fill a small display, if not a full booth.I arrived at the square precisely at eight, carrying a folding table I'd found in the cabin's shed and a wooden tray that displayed my pieces against dark velvet. A few other vendors were already setting up, arranging pottery or paintings or handwoven textiles. Eleanor pointed me to a corner spot beneath a massive oak tree, the dappled shade perfect for displaying jewelry without harsh glare."You have your own table. Good." Her tone was clipped, but not unfriendly. "Need anything else?""I'm all set, thanks."She nodded and moved on, but I noticed her watching me from time to time as I arranged my pieces. Something about her attention felt oddly specific, though I couldn't place why.I wondered if she recognized me.
Two weeks passed in a blur. I'd fallen into a routine that felt both new and achingly familiar. Wake with the sun. Coffee on the porch. Hike the overgrown trails that surrounded the cabin until my legs ached. Sketch whatever caught my eye—a particular twist of tree branch, the pattern of lichen on stone, the way light filtered through pine needles. Then work with glass until my fingers were raw and my back screamed from hunching over the flame.I'd cleaned out the workshop properly now, scrubbing years of dust and grime from every surface. I'd cataloged all the supplies, surprised by how much Mami Lulu had left behind. Hundreds of glass rods in every imaginable color. Tools in pristine condition, despite the years of neglect. A small kiln that, miraculously, still worked when I plugged it into the generator I'd bought during my first supply run to town.The cabin itself had transformed too. I'd scrubbed every surface, repaired what I could with my limited skills, and arranged my meage
I spent the next several hours continuing the cleaning I'd started yesterday—more sweeping, more scrubbing, removing sheets from the bedroom furniture I hadn't gotten to yet. After more fiddling with the water system, I finally located the main valve outside and, after several attempts, managed to get the old pipes to deliver rust-colored water that eventually ran clear. The electricity was another matter—apparently disconnected long ago—but I'd come prepared with battery-powered lanterns and the camping stove I'd used last night.By mid-afternoon, I was filthy, sweaty, and oddly satisfied. The bedroom was now reasonably clean to match the progress I'd made in the main room yesterday, the bathroom was functional if primitive, and I'd aired out more of the musty odor. My arms ached from scrubbing and carrying water, but the physical exhaustion felt good—clarifying, somehow.I dragged an old wooden chair onto the front porch and collapsed into it, watching as the sun began its descent t
MayaI woke with a start, disoriented by the unfamiliar shadows cast across rough-hewn beams. For a moment, panic seized me—where the hell was I? Then the scent registered: pine, wood smoke, and something else—something that tugged at memories buried so deep they felt more like dreams than lived experience.The cabin. My cabin.Sunlight filtered through the windows I'd wiped down yesterday, catching dust particles that still danced in the early morning light despite my cleaning efforts. The fire I'd built last night had died to embers, leaving a slight chill in the air. Now, in the revealing daylight, I saw my childhood home properly, the areas I hadn't managed to clean yet standing in stark contrast to the parts I'd already restored.It was smaller than I remembered. Childhood memories have a way of making everything seem larger, more expansive. But the essentials were exactly as they'd lived in my mind: the stone fireplace dominating one wall, the rough wooden table beneath the east
AlexI made it to my car before my composure cracked. Sitting behind the wheel, I slammed my palm against it hard enough to hurt, cursing under my breath. I'd handled that all wrong. Again.The look on Maya's face when I admitted hiring a PI—pure betrayal. Rage. Fear. All justified.I started the engine but didn't move, just sat there staring up at the lights of her apartment building. She'd tried to slap me. Again. I couldn't blame her."Not investigating you anymore." Christ. As if stopping was some kind of favor I'd done her. No wonder she'd exploded.The envelope of evidence sat on the passenger seat where I'd placed a second copy before heading up to her apartment. I'd known she might destroy the first one. Might not believe me. Might throw me out.I'd been right about all of it, and still managed to fuck up the execution completely.The dashboard clock read 8:47 PM. Not even nine, but I felt as if I'd aged a decade in the last forty minutes. I pulled away from the curb, forcing