2

From that day on, I was branded. A villain, a traitor, and a snake who sold out her own best friend.

Even after I married Elliot and given birth to his son, that stain never washed away.

And it didn’t stop there. Elliot told Owen, whispering his version of the story into our son’s ears, slowly poisoning him against me.

Owen—a smart, intuitive little boy—picked it up like a sponge.

He believed it.

As I looked into Owen’s eyes now and saw it: only hatred. Raw. Pure. Undiluted hatred.

Like I was the monster under his bed.

“Bad mommy,” he said through gritted teeth. “You ruined Miss Lila’s whole life. If it weren’t for you, she’d be my mommy. Not you.”

The words punched the air from my lungs. I knew he preferred Lila. But nothing could’ve prepared me for hearing those words out loud.

My body trembled. “Who told you that?”

He crossed his arms, little lips pressed together in a stubborn pout. “I figured it out myself. I want Miss Lila to be my mommy.”

I turned to Elliot, eyes burning. There was no way a seven-year-old could connect dots he’d never even been shown. This was taught.

“Lola just… she thinks if none of that had happened,” he muttered, “I would’ve married her instead of you.”

The old me would’ve argued or demanded any answers.

But I couldn’t bring myself to ask anymore. I knew the answer to the question. It was always Lila and it will always be Lila.

I’d been Elliot’s girlfriend first. I was the one who introduced him to Lila. That was how they met.

Why would she thought Elliot would marry her instead of me?

…

But none of it mattered now.

What Owen thought of me as his mother didn’t matter anymore.

What Elliot thought of me as his wife? That was long dead.

I was done—done being cast as the villain in a story where I’d done nothing wrong.

I walked toward the front door, pausing only for a brief glance back at the space I once called home. My voice was calm and detached.

“Call my lawyer once you’ve signed the papers,” I said flatly. “I’ll be staying at my family's casino until everything is finalized.”

Elliot’s face shifted, the panic finally setting in.

He hadn’t expected me to actually leave. He probably thought this was another one of my “episodes.” That I’d be angry, cry, then forgive him after a couple of hollow apologies and a few meaningless gifts.

He rushed toward me, maybe to stop me or say something that might buy him more time.

But he didn’t get the chance.

Because the front door opened—like fate had perfect timing—and she stepped inside.

Lila.

The woman I told him I never wanted to see in our house again.

And here she was, wearing a smile like a crown, standing in the doorway like she already owned everything behind me.

“Leaving already, Olivia?” she asked sweetly.

Before I could answer, Owen darted past me and threw himself into her arms.

“Lila!” he beamed. “What are you doing here?”

I stared at them—at their little reunion, their perfectly choreographed play of warmth and familiarity.

And then, I remembered.

Christmas. Years ago, at Elliot’s parents’ estate.

It was the first holiday I’d spent with his family after our wedding—a chance, I thought, to finally prove myself. They’d never approved of our marriage, but I hoped Christmas could be a new start, a clean slate.

Instead, I found Lila already there.

Floating through the house like she belonged. Passing out wine, serving dishes and laughing with Elliot’s family as if she were the wife.

I tried that night—God, I tried. I smiled, complimented Elliot’s mother’s cooking, offered to help in the kitchen.

I bit my tongue, I stayed polite, I tried to blend.

But none of it mattered.

Because when Lila fell—suddenly, dramatically—right in the center of the dining room. A bowl of soup spilled, red wine staining her dress like blood.

Everyone turned on me without a second thought.

“Why do you always have to make everything about you?” Elliot’s mother hissed. “Lila was just trying to help. God, Olivia—I wish you hadn’t come. You ruin everything.”

No one asked me what happened or even noticed the burn on my arm from the scalding soup.

They just assumed and then judged.

And Lila did what she always did best—eyes wide, voice soft, laced with guilt-wrapped venom. “Don’t blame Olivia… my hands were just clumsy.”

Owen had seen it all. He saw me walk past her. Saw that I hadn’t touched her. But he still turned on me.

“Bad mommy,” he cried, wrapping his arms around Lila. “Why did you push Miss Lila?”

He lied. To protect his Miss Lila.

I’ll never forget what came next.

Elliot’s mother rushed to me, her fury sharp and instant. She slapped me—hard.

“Such a jinx,” she spat. “Wherever you go, disaster follows. I told you not to come, and now look. What have you done on this happy holiday.”

I tried to explain—again. Like I had a thousand times before. “I didn’t push Lila. She slipped. If anything, she threw herself to the floor.”

They scoffed.

“Right,” Elliot’s mother said, eyes narrowing. “So now Lila’s just performing for sympathy? For what? To ruin you? Why would she do that?”

And then came the final blow.

“You’re not welcome here. Leave. Now.”

Even Elliot’s father—once so civil to me—raised his voice. “We do not welcome lunatics under our roof. Learn how to behave, then maybe we’ll speak again.”

I remember the sting of the cold air as I ran outside, my hands trembling, my face burning from humiliation.

No one followed.

I stood outside alone in the snow while inside, through the frosted window, I saw the truth of what my place had always been.

Lila sat on the couch, playing her part perfectly.

Elliot’s mother dabbed cream onto her elbow like she was tending a fragile doll. Elliot was holding Owen in his lap. Owen, who looked up at her like she was his world.

They looked like a family.

I never had a place in that picture.