Ethan.
It couldn’t be. Ethan was dead.
My own mother-in-law had cried hysterically in front of that closed casket. She’d told me his body had been destroyed by the fire.
She had been the one who threw me out right after the funeral, accusing me of being the bad-luck wife who caused the death of her beloved son.
“Hey, what are you doing?” a sharp reprimand from the woman in seat 1B jolted me. The woman was beautiful, young, and radiated an aura of dazzling wealth. She looked at me with disgust, seeing my trembling hands holding the tray over the man’s lap.
The shock in my chest turned into something hot and wild.
If this was a dream, I wanted to wake up. But if this was real, the rage I had suppressed for five years suddenly boiled over, burning away my common sense.
I had to know. I had to be sure.
Unconsciously—or perhaps half-consciously—I tilted the tray.
Hot black coffee poured straight into his expensive trousers, right onto his thigh. “Ah! That’s hot!” the man screamed reflexively, jumping up from his seat while swatting at his pants.
His face went red, contorting in pain and shock.
His eyes widened and locked onto mine. And in that fatal second, his mouth moved faster than his brain.
“Chloe, are you crazy?!”
Silence. The entire business-class cabin went quiet.
That voice echoed in my ears.
Not “ma’am.” Not “miss.” But Chloe. He said my name with an intonation I knew by heart—the same tone he used when he’d ask me to make him instant ramen in the middle of the night. My brow furrowed as I stared at him sharply, my breath quickening.
“Do you know me?” I asked.
My voice came out hoarse and demanding. The man flinched.
He realized he’d made a huge mistake. His eyes darted nervously, glancing at the woman beside him, who was now standing with a furious expression.
He quickly changed his demeanor.
The cold mask slipped back into place. “What are you talking about? Your name is right there on your name tag,” he snapped harshly, pointing at my chest.
“Who can’t read?
What kind of service is this?”
“My husband could sue your airline,” the woman beside him—his wife—added sharply. “Honey, are you okay?” she gasped, immediately grabbing a napkin and dabbing at his pants in a panic.
She turned to me, her eyes blazing. “Are you blind or something?
My husband could get second-degree burns.
Call your manager. Now. I want you fired.”
I didn’t move.
My feet felt nailed to the cabin floor.
My eyes were locked on the man’s face. He avoided my gaze, busying himself with the coffee stain, pretending to be occupied so he wouldn’t have to look at me.
“I’m sorry. I’ll get a wet towel,” I mumbled stiffly.
I knelt down, pretending I wanted to help clean the stain on his pants, even though the woman swatted my hand away harshly.
“Don’t touch my husband. Go away.”
But as his sleeve rode up slightly from his frantic movements, my eyes caught something. On his right wrist was a long crescent-shaped burn scar.
The same scar he’d gotten five and a half years ago when we were trying to cook in our cramped rental apartment and hot oil splattered onto his hand.
I remembered vividly how I blew on the wound while crying because we didn’t have money for proper ointment. This man had the exact same scar.
I looked up into his eyes, which now radiated pure fear. He was not a stranger.
He was not a ghost.
My husband, who had supposedly died five years ago, was now sitting in a VIP seat, wearing a suit that cost what I used to make in a year, defended by his polished new wife. My blood boiled. My hands were shaking so violently that I had to grip the edge of the galley sink when I finally escaped to the back to keep from collapsing.
My breathing was short and shallow, as if the oxygen supply in the cabin had suddenly thinned.
The image of the man in seat 1A kept replaying in my head like a nauseating broken record:
That scar. That voice.
That look of panic. “Chloe, you look pale.
Are you feeling all right?” Angela, the lead flight attendant who had asked me to serve the VIP section, appeared beside me.
Her face was full of concern. “I… I’m just a little dizzy, ma’am. Probably from the turbulence earlier,” I lied.
My voice sounded distant, as if it didn’t belong to me.
“Well, sit down for a bit. I’ll handle the front for a while.
Go have some hot tea,” she said sympathetically before pulling the curtain back to the business-class cabin. I sank onto the crew’s jump seat and closed my eyes.
Instantly, my mind dragged me back to the past—to that dark, wet, grim day five years ago.
The rain had been pouring down heavily that day, as if the sky itself were weeping for me. I stood in a public cemetery in a worn, soaking-wet black dress. In front of me, a mound of fresh red earth was still damp.
A simple wooden marker was stuck in it, reading:
ETHAN MILLER
Beloved Son
There had been no body for me to see one last time.
The casket was closed, sealed, and nailed tight. “Don’t open it.
His face is destroyed. Do you want to be traumatized for life?” my mother-in-law had snapped at me in the hospital corridor.
Her shrill voice had echoed off the sterile walls, making me shrink.
She’d said the accident on the interstate had caused Ethan’s car to explode and that his body was burned beyond recognition. I’d been a foolish wife, sick with a high fever in our rental apartment at the time. All I could do was wail and cry, believing every word that came out of her mouth.
But my tears hadn’t even dried when she did something crueler than death itself.
Returning from the funeral, I’d found my suitcases already on the porch of our tiny rental apartment. A trash bag filled with my clothes was scattered on the steps, soaked by the rain.
“Starting today, right this second, you get out,” my mother-in-law had declared from the doorway. She stared at me with a look of pure hatred I had never seen before.
There were no tears left on her face—only raw dislike.
“Martha, Ethan was just buried. This is our home,” I’d sobbed, trying to reach for her hand. “Our home?” she’d scoffed.
She slapped my hand away so hard I stumbled.
“This apartment is leased in my son’s name. Since my son is gone because of the bad luck you brought, you have no rights here anymore.
The insurance, the savings, the car—it’s all mine as his biological mother. You’re just a useless wife who couldn’t even give Ethan a child before he died young.”
Those words had stabbed my chest harder than any knife.
I was kicked out like a stray cat on the day of my own husband’s funeral—without a single dollar, without a place to go.
I’d been homeless for three days, sleeping at a bus station before finally getting a job washing dishes at a diner. I suffered. I starved.
I even thought about ending everything.
I was that desperate. Now, back in the tiny galley of a jet somewhere above the U.S., my eyes opened to the cold cabin wall of the airplane.
The sadness that had been crushing my chest slowly morphed into something darker. That man—Ethan—he was alive.
He wasn’t burned to a crisp.
He was sitting comfortably in a seat worth thousands of dollars, sipping expensive coffee, being doted on by a new wife who looked like a porcelain doll. While I had nearly starved to death mourning him. What kind of lie was this?
What sick charade were they playing?
I stood up. My dizziness was replaced by a surge of adrenaline.
I had to confirm one more thing. I needed proof.
With quick, silent steps, I grabbed the company tablet lying on the crew’s work counter.
My fingers flew across the screen as I opened the passenger manifest app. My heart pounded as I scrolled down, looking for the passenger in seat 1A. There it was, clear as day.
Name: ALEXANDER CROFT
Status: Platinum Member
Not Ethan Miller.
My knees went weak, but I forced my eyes to keep reading. Maybe I was wrong.
Maybe it was just a lookalike who happened to have the same scar. It’s a big country.
A big world.
I tapped on his passenger profile for more details. Date of birth: May 12, 1990. Exactly the same as Ethan’s birthday.
But that still wasn’t enough.
It could have been a coincidence. I scrolled further down, looking for the emergency contact field.
VIP passengers usually filled this out. My eyes widened as I read the very last line.
It felt like an invisible hand was slapping me across the face.
Emergency contact: MARTHA MILLER. The tablet nearly slipped from my hands. The puzzle was solved.
There was no more doubt.
Alexander was Ethan. And Martha—the woman who had thrown me out using her son’s death as a weapon—she knew everything.
They had done this together. They faked Ethan’s death, cashed in the insurance, threw me away like trash, and then built a new life with a new identity.
Tears streamed down my face—not from sadness, but from a rage so sharp it felt like glass.
They were living in luxury built on my suffering. Laughing over my grief. Suddenly, the galley curtain was yanked open.
I flinched and quickly turned off the tablet screen.
A man stood there, his face tense, jaw clenched. Ethan—or as he now called himself, Alexander.
He was standing two feet in front of me. He’d followed me to the galley.
He stared at me intently, then hissed softly, his voice low and dangerous.
“We need to talk. Now.”
PART TWO
The air in the cramped aircraft galley suddenly felt suffocating. We were only a step apart.
The scent of expensive cologne—a mix of musk and sandalwood—rose from him, replacing the smell of sweat and cheap aftershave that used to cling to him when he came home from work.
The man standing before me looked so different. But his eyes—those dark brown eyes—still belonged to Ethan.
“We need to talk,” he repeated, his low tone heavy with emphasis. I swallowed hard, trying to gather what little courage I had left.
My hands clenched into fists at my sides, my nails digging into my palms until it hurt.
“Talk about what, Ethan?” I whispered, my voice trembling—half tears, half fury. “That you’re still alive? That the grave I cried over for five years is empty?
Or about that woman next to you?”
The man didn’t flinch.
There was no guilt on his face. Instead, a cynical smirk tugged at his lips—an expression I had never seen during our five years of marriage.
The Ethan I knew had been gentle, almost timid. Not this cold man who looked at me as if I were dirt on his expensive shoes.
“Listen carefully, miss,” he hissed, leaning closer until I was forced to step back, bumping into a service cart.
“My name is Alexander Croft. I don’t know who Ethan is, and I don’t care about your little drama.”
My breath hitched. He delivered the denial so smoothly it was clear he’d practiced this line a thousand times, maybe in front of some mirror in a fancy Los Angeles penthouse.
“Don’t lie,” I shot back, my voice rising.
“I saw the scar on your wrist. I saw your emergency contact info.
Your mother’s name is there. Do you think I’m stupid?”
His strong hand suddenly gripped my wrist—tight, painful.
“Shh.” His eyes blazed with fierce intensity.
“Lower your voice. Do you want me to report you to the airline for harassing a VIP passenger, intentionally spilling hot coffee, and now making crazy accusations?”
He released my wrist roughly, making me stumble. “Maybe you’re stressed from your job,” he continued coolly, straightening his suit jacket.
“Or maybe you’ve got…issues.
If you approach me or my wife again, or dare to look at us with those wild eyes, I’ll make sure you lose this uniform today. Understood?”
Without waiting for an answer, he turned around.
The curtain swished shut, and his broad back disappeared into the business-class cabin—back to being the perfect husband to another woman. I sank to the floor.
My legs had completely given out.
He was gaslighting me, twisting reality to make me doubt my own mind. He wanted me to believe I was the crazy one for seeing a ghost. “Chloe!
Oh my god, why are you sitting on the floor?” Angela came back into the galley, her face pale with concern.
I quickly wiped away the tears that had escaped. “I’m fine, Angela.
I just slipped a little. My shoes are slick,” I said, forcing a smile that hurt my face.
No.
I couldn’t fall apart now. If I cried or made a scene, he would win. He’d have a reason to get me fired and throw me away again—just like five years ago.
I had to be smart.
The rest of the flight was pure torture. I had to return to the cabin, hand out hot towels, collect trash, and smile with a neutral expression.
I watched Ethan—no, Alexander—laughing with his new wife. Occasionally, she fed him pieces of fruit.
The sight burned my eyes, but I kept my face calm.
By the time the plane’s wheels finally touched the tarmac at Los Angeles International Airport, I had already formed a wild plan. As soon as the aircraft door opened and the VIP passengers were allowed to disembark first, I asked my senior for a quick restroom break. In reality, I slipped away to grab my purse, took off my uniform scarf, and pulled on a large black hoodie I always carried to cover my identity on the way home.
I jogged through the arrivals terminal, keeping a safe distance of about twenty yards behind the couple who had tried to bury me in the past.
My heart pounded like a war drum. I felt like an amateur detective in a crime movie—except the stakes were my own life.
If Ethan saw me tailing him, he would surely do something drastic. They walked toward the private car pickup area, not the taxi stand, not the airport shuttle—a special zone where gleaming black luxury cars were lined up.
I hid behind a large concrete pillar, peeking out with bated breath.
A brand-new white Cadillac Escalade pulled up in front of them. A uniformed chauffeur stepped out and opened the door respectfully. Ethan and his new wife smiled broadly.
But it wasn’t the luxury SUV that froze my blood.
It was the figure sitting in the middle row seat, who now lowered the car window with the touch of a button. That face.
The face that five years ago had pointed at me while screaming cruel words. The face that had said she didn’t have money for Ethan’s memorial.
The face that had claimed she was all alone and sickly.
My mother-in-law, Martha Miller. She was sitting there wearing an expensive modern lace dress. A string of large pearls hung around her neck.
Her face was vibrant, fully made up, her smile wide as she greeted her supposedly dead son.
“Oh, my beautiful daughter-in-law and my handsome son are here,” she cooed. That voice—the same sharp voice that had thrown me out into the rain—now sounded delighted.
Ethan climbed into the car and hugged his mother. The three of them laughed together like a perfect happy family as if we were in some twisted American soap opera.
My world spun.
So she knew all along. She wasn’t a victim. She was the director.
As the luxury car slowly pulled away from the curb, I saw the license plate.
It was a custom vanity plate. The last three letters were “ETH.”
My hand trembled as I reached for my phone in my hoodie pocket.
I hadn’t managed to take a picture of them, but I memorized that plate number. My tears dried up instantly.
The sadness was replaced by something cold and sharp.
They thought they had gotten rid of me. They thought the old Chloe—the foolish, obedient one—still existed. They were dead wrong.
I reached into my pocket and pulled out a business card from an old friend—a lawyer I had helped on a flight a year ago.
He’d told me, “If you ever need legal help or need to teach some bad people a serious lesson, call me.”
I stared at the disappearing Escalade with a hardened gaze. “Welcome back, Ethan,” I whispered into the hot Los Angeles air.
“The game has just begun.”
My studio apartment was tiny, maybe 150 square feet. The cream-colored walls were peeling in the corners from dampness.
There was no air conditioning, just an old fan that rattled loudly as it tried to fight the California heat.
I sat cross-legged on my thin foam mattress, my laptop glowing brightly in the dark room—a stark contrast to the luxury of the business-class cabin and the leather seats of the Escalade that had carried my husband away. That name kept throbbing in my head. ALEXANDER CROFT.
My cold fingers typed the name into the search bar.
Enter. Thousands of results appeared in a fraction of a second.
That face—Ethan’s face, now renamed—filled my screen. Alexander Croft, CEO of Croft Enterprises.
A young, successful entrepreneur who had supposedly built a real estate empire in five years.
I wasn’t stupid. I clicked on a prominent business news article from a major American outlet, published two years ago. My eyes scanned every word, hunting for a crack in the story.
It said that Alexander Croft started his business from scratch in mid-2020 with “courage and a family investment.”
June 2020.
Tears fell without my permission, splashing onto the laptop’s touchpad. June 2020 was the month Ethan had been declared dead.
While I was clinging to his wet headstone. While I slept on a storefront stoop because his mother had thrown me out.
While I was eating leftover scraps from a co-worker’s lunch, Ethan was busy building his new life as Alexander.
He was busy shedding his old skin. “Monsters,” I whispered hoarsely. “You are all monsters.”
I vividly remembered Ethan’s life insurance policy.
It had been worth half a million dollars.
He’d once told me it was to secure my future if anything happened to him. But when he “died,” his mother had handled everything.
She said I had no right to the money because my name wasn’t on some updated family document. She said the money had been used to pay off Ethan’s “massive gambling debts.”
Lies.
All of it.
That death benefit—the blood money from his fake death—had become capital for this luxurious new life. They stole my future. They stole my tears.
And they built a palace on the grave of my marriage.
Not yet finished torturing myself, I opened social media. The article mentioned Alexander’s wife, Olivia Vance, the only daughter of a renowned hotel magnate in the U.S.
I searched for Olivia’s social media account. It wasn’t private.
Of course not.
The rich loved to flaunt their lives. Her profile looked like a lifestyle magazine. Vacation photos from Europe, designer handbags that could buy a small house, and, of course, intimate photos with Ethan.
I scrolled further and further.
The more I scrolled, the more it hurt. It felt like slicing my own skin with a razor blade, but I couldn’t stop.
I had to know how rotten this betrayal was. My hand stopped on a photo posted five years ago.
The date made my stomach twist.
July 20, 2020. Exactly forty days after Ethan’s “death.” It should have been the day of his memorial. A day when I was still wearing black, sitting alone on the floor of my tiny apartment, praying for his soul because Martha claimed she had no money for a proper service.
But in that photo, Ethan was wearing a silk shirt, holding a glass of wine, smiling broadly while wrapping his arm around Olivia.
And beside them, seated elegantly and holding a plate of cake, was Martha. She was beaming.
There was no trace of sadness. None.
I read Olivia’s caption:
“Late post.
Celebrating my love Alex’s first successful contract and my dearest mother-in-law’s good health. New beginnings.”
A celebration. What were they celebrating?
Their success in deceiving the world.
Their success in throwing me away like garbage. My chest tightened so much I felt physically sick.
My mind drifted back to that day—July 20, five years ago. I remembered going to Martha’s house, begging for a twenty-dollar loan to buy groceries because my dishwasher pay hadn’t come through yet.
She hadn’t even opened the gate.
She’d yelled from behind her tall brick wall, “Get away from here! Don’t bring your bad luck to this old widow’s house. I don’t have any money!”
Behind that wall, they had been having a party—with wine and cake.
I covered my mouth to stifle a hysterical scream so I wouldn’t wake my neighbors.
My body shook violently. I wasn’t just betrayed.
I’d been ground into the dirt. They weren’t acting like family.
They were acting like predators.
My phone suddenly vibrated loudly on the bed. I jumped. The wall clock showed 2:00 a.m.
Who would be messaging me at that hour?
With trembling fingers, I grabbed my phone. A message from an unknown number.
No profile picture. I opened it.
Just one short sentence that made my blood run cold:
“Pretty flight attendant, enjoy the life you have now.
Don’t dig your own grave by meddling in the affairs of the dead. We’re watching you.”
Beneath the text was a photo. A photo of my apartment door taken from the outside hallway.
The shot was dark, but the number on my door was clearly visible.
The timestamp told me it had been taken just seconds ago. The phone slid from my hand onto the mattress.
They were here. Outside.
Right now.
In a blind panic, I jumped from the bed. My foot caught on the fan cord, and the old appliance crashed to the floor. I lunged for the door, checking that the deadbolt and chain lock were secured.
Not enough.
I dragged my plastic dresser across the floor, pushing it with all my trembling strength until it blocked the door. Panting, I backed away until my spine hit the cold wall.
My eyes stayed fixed on the flimsy wooden door, as if on the other side Ethan and his mother were standing there, smiling, holding shovels. “Oh God… what do I do?” I whispered hoarsely, sliding down until I was sitting, hugging my knees in the corner of the room.
I turned off the main light, leaving only a dim lamp in the far corner.
Somehow, the semi-darkness felt safer. That night, the terror came not just from the threatening message, but from memories that rose like quicksand. I remembered my first night after Martha threw me out five years ago.
The rain hadn’t stopped.
I’d taken shelter under the awning of a closed shop. My stomach cramped with hunger.
I hadn’t eaten all day. I’d had one crumpled dollar in my pocket—the only thing I’d managed to keep when she’d dragged me out.
I’d picked up a piece of bread someone had thrown in the trash because I was so hungry.
“Ethan, how could you?” I had whimpered back then, thinking my husband was resting peacefully somewhere better while I suffered. How foolish I’d been. While I was picking food out of a trash can, Ethan had probably already been enjoying a steak dinner with his new life.
While I was sleeping curled up in a bus station, getting kicked out by security who thought I was just another vagrant, his mother had probably been sleeping on a plush hotel mattress, celebrating.
My tears fell again. Not from sadness this time, but from a heavy, suffocating despair.
I felt small. So small.
Who was I?
Just a contract flight attendant renting a tiny room in a narrow alley. My salary was enough to eat and save a little, but not enough to fight a man like “Alexander Croft” and his money. They had money, power, and the boldness to fake a death.
If they could deceive the government and an insurance company, how hard would it be to get rid of one woman like me?
“Maybe I should just stop,” a cowardly voice inside me whispered. “Delete the photo.
Forget everything. Pretend you don’t know.
The important thing is that you’re alive.”
My hand reached for my phone, ready to delete the picture of the license plate I’d taken at the airport.
My index finger trembled over the delete icon. A new notification appeared. Another message from the same number.
I almost dropped the phone again.
This time, it wasn’t a threat. It was a picture of an online bank transfer receipt.
The amount: $10,000. The description read: “Condolences.
Go far away, resign, and move out of state—or we’ll ruin your life for real.”
I stared at the numbers.
$10,000. To the old Chloe, this would have been a huge amount of money. Enough to start a small business somewhere cheaper.
Enough to walk away, to leave Los Angeles behind.
But then my eyes caught the sender’s name on the digital slip. Not “Alexander.”
Not “Martha.”
The sender was “Miller Prosperity Group.”
Miller.
Ethan was using his real last name for a shell company. Suddenly, the fear that had been choking me began to recede, replaced by a wave of disgust.
They thought I was someone they could just pay off.
They thought my dignity and five years of suffering could be bought for $10,000. They had seriously misjudged me. For the past five years, I hadn’t just learned how to serve coffee on a plane.
I’d learned how to survive.
The harshness of the streets had killed the old, tearful Chloe. I put the phone down.
I wasn’t going to delete anything. But I couldn’t move alone either.
I needed a shield.
I needed a sword. My mind drifted to a brief encounter six months ago on a flight from Tokyo to Los Angeles. A male passenger had left his passport in his seat.
I ran after him all the way to the jet bridge to return it.
The man—a young lawyer with sharp, friendly eyes—had given me his business card as a thank-you. “I’m Leo, a specialist in criminal law and family disputes,” he’d said.
“If you, my brave flight attendant, ever get into legal trouble or have some bad people who need a lesson, call me. Free of charge for my passport savior.”
I stood up, turned on the overhead light, and rummaged through the messy drawer of my vanity.
Receipts, hair ties, and loose change spilled everywhere.
“Where is it? Where is that card?” I muttered frantically. My heart raced.
I knew they were watching me.
I had to act before dawn. In the very back corner of the drawer, tucked between an old savings passbook, the matte-black business card lay waiting.
The name was printed in raised gold foil:
LEO GRANT & PARTNERS LAW FIRM
I snatched the card like a person dying of thirst grabbing water. Without a second thought—even though the clock showed 3:00 a.m.—I dialed the personal number listed.
The line rang once.
Twice. Three times. I was about to hang up when a groggy voice—thick with sleep—answered.
“Hello… who is this at this hour?”
I took a deep breath, swallowing the bitterness in my throat.
“Hello, Leo. This is Chloe.
The flight attendant who found your passport.”
My voice was shaky but determined. “Your offer to teach some bad people a lesson… is it still valid?”
PART THREE
There was a moment of silence on the other end of the line, followed by the sound of sheets rustling.
When Leo spoke again, his voice was fully awake, sharp.
“Chloe. Of course I remember you. Who’s bothering you?
A difficult passenger?”
“No,” I replied, my eyes fixed on the door, still blocked by my dresser.
“A ghost. I’m being terrorized by a ghost from the past who turns out to be very much alive.
And he… he’s a millionaire who just transferred me hush money.”
“Wait,” Leo cut in quickly, his voice now all business. “Don’t say anything else on a regular call.
Don’t touch that money.
Lock your door. Send me your location on an encrypted messaging app. I’m on my way.
Now.”
The call ended.
I stared at the dark phone screen. My knees felt weak, but this time from relief.
I wasn’t alone anymore. But as I was about to send my location, my eyes caught something on the floor near the window, where the curtain was slightly parted by the warm night breeze.
A thick brown envelope lay there, as if it had been slipped under the door or through a vent while I’d been asleep—before the threatening messages started.
With a trembling hand, I picked up the envelope. There was no sender’s name, just rough handwriting in red marker:
FOR THE WIDOW OF ETHAN MILLER. I tore the envelope open.
Inside was a hospital lab report dated five years ago, two days before Ethan “died.” It showed a medical diagnosis under the name Ethan Miller.
The words made all the blood drain from my face. One brutal term in the medical conclusion seemed to glow under the weak light:
NON-OBSTRUCTIVE AZOOSPERMIA
Patient: Ethan Miller
My world collapsed for the second time that night.
For all five years of our marriage, every time I got my period, Martha would look at me with disgust. She’d dragged me to painful folk healers, forced me to drink bitter herbal concoctions that made me vomit, and spewed toxic words at every family gathering.
“Useless woman.
What’s the point of being a wife if you can’t give us a grandchild? Look at Ethan’s cousin; she already has two kids. You’re just embarrassing the family.”
I swallowed all those insults.
I believed I was the flawed one.
I’d even apologized to Ethan, crying at night, for failing to give him a child. And what had Ethan done?
He’d just hug me and say, with a hint of disappointment, “Be patient, honey. Maybe it’s just not our time yet.”
He knew.
They both knew.
Ethan was the one who was sterile. But they’d let me bear the shame. “You monsters,” I whispered through gritted teeth, crumpling the paper in my fist.
A sharp knock on the door made me jump.
“Chloe! It’s Leo.
Open the door!” a baritone voice called urgently from the hallway. I peered through the peephole.
Leo stood there in a wet leather jacket and a cap pulled low.
It was really him. I quickly moved the dresser aside and unlocked the door. Leo stepped inside swiftly, relocking it behind him and scanning the room with alert eyes.
“Are you safe?” he asked curtly, breathing a little fast from the sprint up the stairs.
I nodded numbly, then handed him the brown envelope and showed him the transfer receipt on my phone. Leo took the evidence, sat on the edge of my bed, and studied it in silence.
His calm face slowly hardened. His jaw tightened when he saw the $10,000 transfer.
“This isn’t just some domestic dispute, Chloe,” Leo murmured, his eyes flashing.
“This is a multi-layered felony. Faking a death, insurance fraud, identity theft, witness intimidation, attempted bribery—and that’s just from what I see so far.”
He looked at me seriously. “Who slipped you this medical report?”
“I don’t know,” I answered hoarsely.
“Someone else is watching this building besides Ethan’s people.”
Leo tapped the lab report with his finger.
“Whoever sent this is an enemy within Ethan’s circle. This is our ace, Chloe.
With this paper, we know another motive for why he faked his death. Maybe it wasn’t just about the insurance money.
Maybe he was running from the shame and family pressure of his infertility.”
Leo took out his tablet, his fingers moving quickly over the screen.
“Let’s see who we’re really up against, Mr. Alexander Croft,” he muttered. The room was quiet for a moment, filled only by the faint sound of distant traffic outside and Leo’s typing.
I sat hugging my knees, the hatred in my chest frozen into a cold resolve.
I wasn’t going to run. I wasn’t going to move out of state.
“Chloe,” Leo said suddenly, his tone strange—a mix of shock and irony. “Come look at this.”
I moved closer, looking at the tablet screen he held out.
He’d opened the Instagram profile of Ethan’s new wife, Olivia.
“Three hours ago,” Leo pointed. On the screen was a photo of Olivia smiling happily, holding a pregnancy test with two clear pink lines. Beside her, Ethan—A.K.A.
Alexander—had his arm around her waist, kissing her cheek.
The caption read:
“So grateful. Baby number two is on the way.
Big brother Jacob is getting a little sibling. Thank you, hubby, for completing my life.
#blessed #family”
I stared in disbelief.
My brain scrambled to process the conflicting information. “Wait,” I whispered, pointing to a photo of a toddler, about three years old, in a previous post. “That’s their first child.”
“Exactly,” Leo replied, a dangerous, crooked smile forming.
“His name is Jacob.
Born three years ago. And now his wife is pregnant again.”
I looked at Leo, then down at the crumpled lab report in my hand.
Non-obstructive azoospermia. Zero sperm count.
Zero.
“Leo,” I choked out, “if this paper is real, and Ethan has been permanently sterile for at least five years, then those children…”
“…are not his biological children,” Leo finished coldly. A chilling silence filled my tiny apartment. “There are two possibilities,” Leo analyzed quickly, his legal instincts kicking in.
“One, there’s been some miraculous cure, which is extremely unlikely for a case this severe.
Two, Olivia used a sperm donor and they kept it secret to maintain their image.”
“Or,” I said slowly, a darker thought crossing my mind, “Olivia cheated, and poor, self-absorbed Ethan is being played by his new wife the same way he played me.”
Leo let out a humorless laugh. “Whatever the scenario, Chloe, we just found a crack in their perfect façade.
Money, power, image, and now family. He built his life on lies—and the foundation of his marriage is apparently rotten too.”
Leo stood up, grabbing his jacket.
“Pack your essentials.
Laptop, documents, a few changes of clothes. You’re not sleeping here tonight. They know where you live.
You’re coming to a safe house owned by my firm.”
“Where are we going after that?” I asked as I shoved clothes into a backpack.
Leo looked at me steadily. “We’re not running, Chloe.
We’re going on the offensive.”
He held up the lab report. “Tomorrow, we verify this document with the hospital that issued it.
If it’s real, then congratulations.
You’re not just holding proof of Ethan’s crimes—you’re holding the key to shattering his ego.”
As I stepped out of my apartment into the pre-dawn rain, I glanced at my phone one last time. On the screen was the photo of Ethan kissing Olivia’s pregnant belly. “Enjoy your fake happiness while you can,” I thought.
“Because I’m about to introduce you to very real consequences.”
But as we walked toward Leo’s car parked at the end of the dark alley, my eyes caught the silhouette of someone standing under a streetlight, watching us.
The person wore a rain poncho, their face obscured. In one hand, something glinted in the lamplight—a camera with a long telephoto lens.
PART FOUR
The safe house apartment owned by Leo’s law firm was in an exclusive downtown Los Angeles high-rise. The layered security—keycards, a front desk that actually checked IDs, cameras everywhere—allowed me to finally breathe.
I’d been hiding there for three days, slowly reassembling the pieces of my shattered mind.
There was no more weeping Chloe curled up in the corner of a damp room. In the floor-to-ceiling mirror, I saw a new woman. My hair, usually tied in a simple flight attendant bun, now flowed in soft waves, professionally styled by a mobile salon Leo had arranged.
I was wearing a rented high-end emerald-green silk gown that hugged my body perfectly, paired with a designer handbag that cost as much as a used car.
“Are you ready?” Leo appeared in the doorway, watching my reflection. There was a flicker of admiration in his eyes before he masked it with professional calm.
“Ready,” I said firmly. “Is the schedule confirmed?”
“One hundred percent,” he replied.
“Olivia has a weekly treatment at a Beverly Hills spa every Thursday at 10 a.m.
Today she’ll be alone. No bodyguard—her husband is busy cleaning up the mess you made at the airport.”
I smirked. Rumor had it Ethan was frantically trying to figure out who’d sent a funeral wreath to his office the day before—a little psychological warfare Leo and I had arranged.
“Remember, Chloe,” Leo said seriously, handing me the key to a sleek European sedan, “no emotion, no confrontation.
Become the best friend she never knew she needed. Get inside her circle.
Make her trust you. And then we find out who the biological father of her children is.”
I nodded, taking the key.
“I’ll be the sweetest snake, Leo.
Don’t worry.”
The scent of lavender and soft instrumental music greeted me as I stepped into the spa lobby. This was where millionaire wives and LA socialites came to spend their husbands’ money and complain about their stress. I sat in the VIP waiting area, pretending to read a fashion magazine while occasionally checking my phone.
The glass door opened.
A young pregnant woman in a designer maternity dress walked in. Olivia Vance.
She looked tired, a small frown creasing her perfect face. “Excuse me, how could this happen?” she complained to the receptionist.
“I specifically booked my therapist, Maria.
Why was she replaced? My skin is really sensitive.”
Her voice was slightly high-pitched and spoiled. “I’m so sorry, Mrs.
Croft,” the receptionist said nervously.
“But Maria called in sick unexpectedly. We tried to reach you—”
“This is ruining my mood,” Olivia huffed, tossing her Hermès bag onto the sofa next to me.
This was my chance. I closed the magazine slowly and turned to her with a sympathetic smile.
“It’s so hard to find a therapist you click with, isn’t it?” I said lightly.
“When you have to switch, it feels like your whole body ends up more sore than before.”
Olivia looked at me, a little surprised that someone had responded. Her gaze flicked over my dress, bag, shoes, weighing and measuring. When she decided I was one of her own “kind,” her expression softened.
“Totally,” she sighed.
“It’s so annoying. Especially being pregnant like this.
My body aches all over and my husband is always busy with work.”
“That’s the life of a successful businessman,” I said gently. “They’re always busy.
My husband is the same way.
I used to complain, but eventually I realized that taking care of myself is more important than waiting around for him to come home.”
Olivia’s eyes lit up. “Wow. That is so true.
You totally get me.
Oh—I’m Olivia, by the way.”
She extended a soft, manicured hand adorned with a diamond ring bought with my husband’s death insurance money. I shook it warmly.
“Kate,” I said smoothly. “Just call me Kate.”
I’d picked a simple name so it wouldn’t trigger any memories if Ethan heard it later.
“Nice to meet you, Kate.
You’re so pretty. Your skin is amazing. Where do you go for treatments?”
The conversation flowed easily from there.
It turned out Olivia was the type of woman who was lonely in the middle of her own luxury.
She needed a friend, needed validation. I slipped into that role with ease.
I praised her taste. I listened to her complain about her mother-in-law—yes, she complained about Martha, who apparently interfered constantly in her household.
I offered calm, independent-woman advice.
Two hours passed in a blur. We finished our treatments together, and Olivia looked much happier than when she’d arrived. “Kate, I swear, talking to you is so refreshing,” she gushed as we walked toward valet parking.
“My other socialite friends just want to show off their new bags.
Nobody wants to talk about real family problems.”
“Let’s get coffee sometime,” I suggested, smiling. Suddenly, Olivia tapped her forehead.
“Oh, wait. I have an event this weekend.
Kate, you have to come.”
She reached into her bag and pulled out a physical invitation with a maroon velvet cover and gold foil lettering.
“It’s for my fifth wedding anniversary with Alex. It’s at the Beverly Hilton’s grand ballroom. Please come.
I really need a friend to talk to so I don’t get bored out of my mind listening to men talk about stocks.”
My hand trembled slightly as I took the invitation.
Fifth wedding anniversary. My eyes immediately found the date printed on the card.
January 25th. The date seared into my mind.
January 25th, five years ago, was the day I’d been forced to sign a document waiving all rights to marital assets in front of Martha’s lawyer after she’d threatened to accuse me of stealing her jewelry.
That day had been my destruction. And it turned out that on that very same day, Ethan and Olivia had formalized their secret marriage—or whatever they chose to call their union under his new identity. “Wow, this must be a lavish affair,” I said, keeping my tone light.
“But won’t I be intruding?
I mean, would your husband mind a stranger being there?”
“Oh, Alex does whatever I say,” Olivia laughed. “Besides, he’s been super stressed lately.
He said some crazy person from his past is harassing him. So I want to make him happy at this party.”
A “crazy person.”
I kept my smile firmly in place.
“Of course I’ll be there, Olivia,” I said warmly.
“I can’t wait to meet the amazing husband who made a beautiful woman like you fall in love.”
Olivia gave me a quick hug and air-kissed both my cheeks, then got into her Escalade—the same car I’d seen at the airport. As the car pulled away, my smile faded. I stared at the velvet invitation in my hand.
This wasn’t just a party invitation.
It was a ticket into the lion’s den. I took out my phone and typed a short coded message to Leo:
“Ticket in hand.
Prepare the best dress and the special gift we discussed last night. We’re going to blow this party wide open.”
I turned to walk to my car, but after just two steps, something in a nearby shop window caught my eye.
In the glass reflection, behind me, a man in a baseball cap stood partially hidden behind a streetlight.
He lowered a camera with a long lens. The same man from outside my old apartment. But this time, he wasn’t hiding.
He gave me a stiff, deliberate wave, as if saying hello.
And in his free left hand, he held a small flight attendant doll with a red cord tied tightly around its neck. The sight of the strangled doll didn’t make me step back.
If anything, it hardened my resolve. Leo immediately set to work on securing street CCTV footage to track the stalker while I focused on the main mission: the party celebrating five years of lies.
PART FIVE
That night, the Beverly Hilton glittered with golden light.
Luxury cars lined up at the entrance, unloading guests draped in diamonds and silk. I stepped out of Leo’s black sedan in a blood-red evening gown with an elegant open back—a color I’d chosen deliberately to symbolize danger, courage, and vengeance. “Remember,” Leo’s voice buzzed faintly in the invisible earpiece tucked in my right ear.
“Don’t drink anything you haven’t seen poured.”
“Understood,” I whispered back.
I walked into the grand ballroom. The air inside was chilled by the powerful air conditioning, but the atmosphere was thick with curated warmth—the kind of fake friendliness that fuels networking.
In the center of the room stood a massive, six-foot-tall wedding cake, topped with a sugar sculpture of a couple dancing. How ironic.
My eyes swept the room.
It didn’t take long to find them. On a small elevated stage decorated with thousands of white roses, Ethan—”Alexander”—stood proudly in a black tuxedo. Beside him, Olivia glowed in a lavish maternity gown.
On the other side, Martha sat on a carved wooden chair like some queen mother.
They smiled, shook hands, and posed for photos with guests and lifestyle reporters, flaunting the happiness they’d built on my pain. I took a deep breath, put on the sweetest smile I could manage, and stepped through the crowd toward them.
“Kate, you finally made it!” Olivia exclaimed when she saw me in the receiving line. Her voice was loud enough to make Ethan and Martha turn simultaneously.
Time seemed to slow.
The moment Ethan’s eyes met mine was the most satisfying moment of my life. His face, flushed from laughing with his business partners, instantly went as pale as paper. The champagne flute in his right hand tilted, spilling onto the expensive carpet.
Beside him, Martha’s jaw dropped.
Her eyes bulged. Her wrinkled hand trembled as she gripped the arm of her chair.
To them, I was a ghost. The ghost of the poor woman they’d thrown away—now standing in front of them in a gown worth thousands.
“Good evening, Olivia.
You look absolutely stunning,” I greeted her warmly, ignoring the two frozen statues beside her. “Thank you, Kate. Let me introduce you to my husband, Alex, and my mother-in-law, Martha,” Olivia said happily, oblivious to the tension.
I extended my hand to Ethan.
“Good evening, Mr. Croft.
I’m a new friend of your wife’s.”
Ethan didn’t move. His breathing was heavy.
Cold sweat dotted his forehead.
He didn’t dare shake my hand. “Honey, why are you just standing there?” Olivia chided playfully. “Shake her hand.
Don’t be rude.”
With stiff movements, Ethan took my hand.
His palm was icy and damp. I squeezed his hand a little harder than necessary, my manicured nails pressing lightly into his skin.
“A pleasure to meet you, sir,” I said with meaning, my eyes locked on his. “You look a lot like my late husband.
The only difference is that my husband was a heartless poor man, and you’re a loving, successful businessman.”
Ethan’s jaw clenched.
He pulled his hand away. “Thank you,” he muttered through gritted teeth. I turned to Martha.
The older woman quickly looked away, refusing to meet my gaze.
Her lips moved silently, maybe praying. “Mrs.
Miller, are you feeling all right?” I asked politely. “Your face reminds me of my old mother-in-law.
It’s a shame, though.
She was very forgetful. Always forgot about her big mistakes.”
Olivia laughed lightly. “Oh, Kate, you’re so funny.
Mom really does always forget where she puts her glasses.”
“Please enjoy the food,” Ethan cut in quickly, his voice tight.
He glanced at the security guards. I gave him a small, knowing smile and stepped away from the stage.
He wanted to have me thrown out. I could see it.
But he couldn’t—not without causing a scene in front of hundreds of guests and reporters.
He was a prisoner of his own image. I walked to the buffet table and picked up a glass of mineral water. “Target is getting agitated, Chloe,” Leo’s voice came through the earpiece.
“He just messaged his head of security.
They’re going to try escorting you out through the side kitchen door.”
“Let them try,” I replied softly, pretending to dab my lips with a napkin. “It’s time for the first gift.”
I took my phone from my clutch.
A file was ready to be sent to Ethan’s personal number. Leo had already set his phone so the notification would sound at maximum volume, even if it was on silent.
Send.
Three seconds later, up on the stage, a loud notification tone rang from Ethan’s pocket. Ping. He flinched, irritated, and pulled out his phone.
From across the room, I watched his expression change.
From tense. To horrified.
He was looking at a photo: his five-year-old sperm analysis report side by side with the photo of him kissing Olivia’s pregnant belly. Underneath, a caption Leo and I had crafted:
“A sterile man with two kids.
A miracle… or something else?”
Ethan looked up, eyes wild, searching for me in the crowd.
I raised my glass of water toward him in a silent toast and smiled. He swayed. He almost fell, grabbing a nearby pillar to steady himself.
Olivia looked confused, asking what was wrong, but he brushed her off.
The ballroom lights dimmed. The orchestra stopped playing.
An MC walked onto the stage with a booming voice. “Ladies and gentlemen, may I have your attention on the main screen.
As the highlight of our evening, Mr.
Alexander Croft has prepared a special video presentation of his five-year journey of love with Mrs. Olivia Croft. Let’s all watch their love story.”
The massive LED screen behind the stage lit up.
Ethan’s eyes widened.
He shouted, “No, don’t play it! Stop!” and ran toward the sound operator, forgetting his poise.
He thought I’d replaced the video. He thought his secrets were about to be exposed.
He was wrong.
I hadn’t touched the video. Not yet. The original video played—romantic clips of their trips to Paris, London, the Maldives.
The guests applauded, puzzled by Ethan’s outburst.
“What’s wrong with Alex?” I heard someone whisper nearby. “He’s acting strange.”
I smiled faintly.
This was psychological warfare. I wanted him paranoid.
I wanted him to humiliate himself in front of everyone without me lifting a finger.
When the lights came back on, a male waiter approached me. His head was bowed, cap low. “Ma’am,” he whispered, slipping a folded piece of paper into my hand, “someone is waiting for you on the rooftop.
He says he has proof of who the real father of Mrs.
Croft’s children is. Come alone, or the secret disappears forever.”
I looked up, but the waiter had already vanished quickly through the kitchen door.
“Leo, did you hear that?” I murmured. “I heard.
It’s a trap, Chloe.
Don’t go up there,” Leo said firmly. I crumpled the note in my fist. Curiosity and danger wrestled inside me.
If I could find out who the real father was, I could destroy Ethan completely—from his public image all the way down to his private life.
But if I went up there, I might not come back. I glanced at Ethan on stage, trying to calm his mother.
Then my eyes shifted to the emergency exit that led to the rooftop stairs. “I have to take this risk, Leo,” I whispered.
Then I switched off my earpiece.
PART SIX
The night wind on the rooftop was fierce, whipping my hair and tugging at my red dress. The city lights of Los Angeles glittered far below, cars moving like tiny streams of light. The cold air bit into my skin, but the cold sweat down my back was worse.
Under the dim glow of the helipad lights, a man in a cap stood with his back to me, smoking.
White smoke curled into the sky. “Who are you?” I called out, trying to keep my voice steady.
My right hand clutched my clutch—inside was the tiny camera Leo had hidden there. The man turned.
Half his face was marred by a terrible burn scar, the skin puckered and twisted.
But I recognized his eyes. “Rick,” I breathed. He had been Ethan’s driver when we were still poor—or more accurately, a driver for the company where Ethan used to work.
He used to drive Ethan home in battered sedans, chatting about life and gas prices.
“Long time no see, Mrs. Miller,” he said, his voice rough as sandpaper.
“Or should I call you the foolish widow? Just like me—the foolish driver who was used and then thrown away.”
Rick flicked his cigarette butt away and pulled a thick envelope from his worn jacket.
“You want to know who the father of Olivia’s kids is?” he asked.
He pointed to his own ruined face. “The answer is looking at you. Olivia was lonely.
Ethan—Alexander—was busy building his image.
I was the one who comforted her in the back seat of their fancy cars, at the villa, wherever. Until I demanded he take responsibility when she got pregnant the first time.”
His jaw clenched.
“And what did Mr. Croft do?
He had people set my apartment on fire.
This face…” He gestured to the scar. “This is his gift to me.”
I stood there, stunned. This story was far more twisted than I’d imagined.
Ethan knew he was sterile.
He knew his wife was cheating with the driver. But he’d raised the children as his own to maintain the image of a perfect family—and tried to silence Rick by burning him alive.
“Take this,” Rick said, tossing the envelope at my feet. “An off-the-books DNA test I stole from a hospital safe.
And videos.
Enough to show the truth. Destroy him, Chloe. Destroy that man.”
Before I could bend down to pick up the envelope, the emergency door behind me was kicked open with a loud bang.
Three large men in suits rushed out, followed by Ethan, strolling casually while adjusting his cufflinks.
His face was no longer panicked as it had been downstairs. It was cold.
Controlled. “Well, look at this,” he drawled.
“A little rooftop reunion for people I left in the past.”
He glanced at Rick.
“I had a feeling there was a rat running around. So you’re still alive after all.”
Rick took a step back, fear flickering in his eyes. Ethan turned to me.
“And you, Chloe,” he said, his gaze dark.
“Still teaming up with nobodies.”
He stepped forward and deliberately crushed the envelope under his expensive leather shoe. “You think you’re clever?
Showing up at my party, sending me that lab report, scaring my wife? Did you forget who I am?”
“I know exactly who you are,” I said, lifting my chin even though my knees were shaking.
“You’re Ethan Miller, a man who faked his own death for insurance money and to escape his gambling debts.
You’re a sterile man who let his wife get pregnant by his driver to cover up his shame.”
“Enough!” Ethan shouted, his face turning a deep shade of purple. He lunged forward, grabbing my throat with one hand. His grip was strong.
My air vanished.
My feet left the ground slightly as I struggled, clawing at his wrist. “You ruined everything,” Ethan hissed, his face inches from mine.
“For five years I built this perfect life. My mother was happy.
I was respected.
The money flowed. Why couldn’t you just stay gone? Why did you have to show up again?”
“Let… go…” I gasped.
My vision darkened at the edges.
“Tonight, you disappear for real,” he said quietly. He dragged me toward the edge of the rooftop.
The safety railing was only waist-high. Below, the streetlights looked like tiny dots.
A fall from here would be fatal.
The police would call it a tragedy, maybe even a suicide—an ex-wife who couldn’t move on. I did the one thing he didn’t expect. I smiled.
Broadly.
Ethan hesitated, confused. “Why are you smiling?” he snarled.
“You’ve lost it.”
“Because,” I croaked, “your party invitation mentioned a live stream of your love story, didn’t it?”
Ethan froze. Suddenly, a roar rose from below—not the wind, but hundreds of people screaming.
The noise of chaos in the grand ballroom five floors beneath us.
Leo. Downstairs, on the giant LED screen, the romantic video from Paris had been cut two minutes earlier. It had been replaced by a live feed from the button camera hidden in my clutch, which lay on the rooftop floor.
The tiny microphone was clearly recording every word of Ethan’s tirade.
Hundreds of guests, reporters, business partners—Olivia and Martha—had just watched the most shocking scene of their lives. They’d heard Ethan admit to faking his death.
Heard him admit he was sterile. Saw him try to kill me.
The phone in Ethan’s pocket buzzed wildly—calls, messages, alerts.
He let go of my neck in shock. I collapsed onto the cold concrete, coughing and gasping for air. Ethan staggered backward, looking from the edge of the building to his phone.
His face turned as pale as the white frosting on that cake downstairs.
He realized what had just happened. His mask was shattered.
The emergency door burst open again. This time it wasn’t his men.
Leo stepped through, holding a firearm in a firm but controlled grip, flanked by a squad of armed police officers.
“Ethan Miller!” the police commander shouted. “Hands in the air! You are surrounded on suspicion of attempted murder, identity fraud, and major financial crimes.”
Ethan looked at the officers.
Then at me.
Then at Rick, who was watching with grim satisfaction. He was cornered.
From below, I could hear ambulance sirens and shouting. Someone must have called 911 from the ballroom the moment the rooftop feed appeared on the big screen.
“It’s over, Ethan,” I rasped.
He stared at me, his expression twisting. Then, suddenly, he started laughing. A sharp, unhinged laugh.
He didn’t raise his hands.
Instead, he backed up and climbed onto the ledge. “You’ll never put me in a cage,” he shouted into the night.
“I won’t go back to being poor. I refuse!”
“Don’t!” I screamed instinctively.
Ethan looked at me one last time.
His eyes held a strange mix of hatred and something like regret. “See you on the other side, my dear wife,” he said. And with a swift movement, he leaned back and let himself fall.
His body dropped into the darkness, swallowed up by the night and the city.
Screams erupted from below. The wail of police cars and ambulances grew louder, blending into a tragic symphony that marked the end of his carefully constructed lie.
PART SEVEN
On the hotel grounds, a crowd gathered behind yellow police tape, their phones raised as they tried to record everything. From behind the thick glass of the lobby, I watched the white tarp that now covered what was left of Ethan’s body.
There were no tears.
No tightness in my chest. Strangely, all I felt was a vast emptiness, like a tumor had been removed from my soul. “It’s over, Chloe,” Leo said quietly beside me.
He draped his suit jacket over my bare shoulders, shielding me from the harsh air conditioning.
“The police just confirmed it. He died instantly.”
I nodded slowly.
Ethan had chosen his final shortcut. He would rather die than face the justice system and the fallout.
“What about his mother?” I asked, my voice flat.
Leo sighed. “Massive stroke,” he said. “A blood vessel in her brain burst when she saw her son jump.
She survived, but she’s completely paralyzed.
The doctors say she may never speak or move again. She’ll be fully conscious—but trapped in her own body.”
He looked at me.
“All of Ethan’s major assets are being seized by the authorities. With his reputation destroyed and no one to care for her, she’ll probably end up in a state-run nursing facility.”
Martha, the woman whose words had once been as sharp as blades, was now silenced by her own body.
“And Olivia?” I asked quietly.
“Taken in for questioning,” Leo replied. “The DNA test Rick provided is enough to prove adultery and confirm the children’s biological father. Her powerful family has already begun distancing themselves from her.
She lost her social standing overnight.”
I looked down at my hands.
I felt no triumph. Just a cool, steady calm.
“Let’s go home,” Leo said gently, touching my back. “There are no more ghosts here.”
SIX MONTHS LATER
LAX was buzzing that morning.
The sound of rolling suitcases on polished floors, the steady stream of TSA announcements, and the smell of chain coffee shops filled the air.
This was my world. The place where I had finally found myself again. I walked tall through the departure terminal.
My lead flight attendant’s uniform in a deep maroon shade fit me perfectly.
A golden pin shaped like wings was fastened to my left breast, signifying my new position as a senior flight instructor for the airline. “Good morning, Ms.
Evans,” a line of junior flight attendants greeted me, standing neatly in formation. They looked at me with respect and a hint of awe.
“Morning,” I said with a small smile.
“Remember, a smile is our strength, but firmness is our shield. Never let a passenger underestimate you.”
They nodded. I smiled to myself.
I had once been a woman begging for love from her husband and her mother-in-law.
Now, I was a woman standing on her own two feet—respected for my skills, not for who my husband was. After finishing the briefing, I sat at my favorite coffee shop near the gates, waiting for boarding time.
My phone vibrated. A text from an unknown number—but the profile photo showed a nurse in scrubs.
“Good morning, Ms.
Evans. Sorry to bother you. The patient Martha Miller has been crying and agitated since yesterday.
Her eyes keep turning toward the door as if she’s waiting for someone.
We found your number written on a crumpled piece of paper under her pillow. Would you consider visiting?
She seems to be in great distress.”
I stared at the message for a long moment. I pictured Martha—the woman who’d once flaunted her jewelry—now lying in a bed in a state-run nursing home, unable to even shoo away a fly, waiting for a visit from the daughter-in-law she’d thrown out.
My fingers moved over the screen.
“I’m sorry, nurse, you must have the wrong number,” I typed. “My mother-in-law passed away five years ago. Please do not contact this number again.”
Block contact.
I set the phone on the table, feeling lighter.
I wasn’t being cruel. I was being fair to myself.
I had forgiven her in my heart. But forgiveness didn’t mean returning to the same place where I’d been hurt.
Let her live out her remaining days with the memory of her own choices.
“Black coffee, a little raw sugar, just the way you like it,” a familiar voice said. I looked up. Leo stood there, smiling broadly, holding two paper cups.
He wasn’t in his stiff lawyer suit today, but in a casual button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up.
He looked relaxed. And, I had to admit, handsome.
“Leo? Where are you headed?” I asked, surprised.
“On vacation,” he said cheerfully, taking the seat across from me.
“I just won a big case. I need some time off. And I heard the most impressive flight instructor at this airline was back on duty today.”
I laughed softly, warmth rising in my cheeks.
“So you deliberately booked a ticket on my flight?”
“I’d follow you anywhere, Chloe,” he said, holding my gaze.
“As long as you’ll let me.”
The final boarding call for my flight echoed through the terminal. I stood up, smoothing my skirt.
Leo stood with me and grabbed my cabin bag. “Allow me, Captain,” he joked lightly.
We walked side by side toward the gate.
Outside the giant glass windows, the airplane waited, ready to cut through the sky. The sky above Los Angeles was a brilliant, cloudless blue. My past was buried with Ethan’s broken body and his lies.
My future stretched out as wide as that American sky—bright, open, and entirely my own.
Just as I was about to step onto the jet bridge, something caught my eye. Through the glass of the international arrivals terminal, in the distance, a man in a cap stood looking straight at me.
Rick. He raised his hand in a brief salute.
He was still free.
He still carried the secret that Ethan’s death hadn’t been entirely his own choice—that when Ethan had hesitated on the edge of that rooftop, there’d been a slight push. A nudge from someone standing in the shadows. A push the camera hadn’t caught.
I gave Rick a faint smile and a small nod.
That secret would go to the grave with us. Because sometimes, justice needs a little help from imperfect hands.
I turned, linked my arm with Leo’s, and stepped onto the plane. The door sealed shut behind me, locking the old story away for good.
A new chapter had begun.
