THREE YEARS AGO

I tried to hold back the tears as I walked away from Belvina, but the weight of it all was too much. My chest felt hollow, aching in a way I couldn't describe, but I forced my feet forward, desperate to escape before the dam inside me broke. I wished I could tell her that this wasn't a vacation—that I wasn't running away to clear my head or "find myself." No, this was a trip to bury the truth, to wallow in my misery in some distant place where no one could pity me, where no one could see the cracks beneath the surface.

I looked back once, and through the blur of tears, I saw her—Belvina, standing there with her face twisted in sorrow. She waved, her hand trembling slightly. I could barely make out Adrian behind her, his expression a mix of concern and sadness, offering me a small, weak smile before he too lifted his hand in a slow wave.

I quickly turned away, afraid that if I lingered any longer, I would break down right there, unable to stop the flood of emotion threatening to overtake me. I couldn't do this. I wasn't strong enough to face what lay ahead. I wasn't strong enough to face anything anymore.

But my feet kept moving. One step after another, as if they had a mind of their own, taking me further away from them, from this city that had once held every promise of a fresh start. Every inch I put between myself and the people who loved me felt like a small victory, but I knew the truth. This place—Beverly Hills, this home—had become a prison. Every corner tainted with the ghosts of memories that could never be erased.

For weeks, I had been pretending. Smiling through the pain, laughing when all I wanted to do was scream. I wanted to prove to everyone that I had moved on from the horrors the Sanchesters had inflicted on me. But it was all a mask—a carefully constructed façade meant to avoid their pity. Because I couldn't bear the thought of them looking at me like I was broken. Fragile. Something that needed fixing.

And yet, the pity was still there, always hovering just beneath the surface of their concern. The way they'd stare at me like I was a fragile thing, too delicate to be touched.

I didn't know who to trust anymore. I looked at Belvina sometimes, my closest friend in the world, and wondered if she too would turn on me. Would she stab me in the back, like so many others had done before her? The thought sickened me, but it was there—gnawing at the edges of my mind, questioning every word, every gesture. How could I believe anyone now? How could I allow myself to be close to someone again without the fear that they, too, would betray me?

Maybe if I kept to myself, I thought. Maybe if I disappeared entirely—moved to another country, changed my name, cut everyone off—I could find some version of myself that wasn't broken.

But I knew deep down I wasn't going to get better. Not now. Not with this child growing inside me. The weight of it settled in my chest like a stone, heavy and unrelenting. I had become a vessel for a monster's legacy—a reminder of everything I had lost, everything I had let slip through my fingers because I was too foolish, too weak to see what I was walking into.

The universe hated me. I was convinced of that now. It had taken everything from me—my dignity, my peace, my sense of self—and now, it was forcing me to carry this child as a punishment for my stupidity. For trusting Tristan Sanchester. For falling in love with him when I should have exposed him for what he truly was from the start. If I had only been strong enough to file that lawsuit, maybe I could have kept my life intact. Maybe I would have kept myself intact.

The moment I found out I was pregnant, I spiraled. Panic overtook me, like a wave crashing over me, and I couldn't breathe. I knew what the world would do if they found out. I knew how the media would tear me apart. I couldn't let them know. Not yet. Not now.

I called Vina immediately after I found out, but I could barely talk through the tears. She was angry at first—hurt, confused. She didn't understand why I had shut her out. But I couldn't explain it to her. Not then. Not yet.

We agreed to rent an apartment together. I stayed in a hotel for a couple of days before we found one we could both agree on, and in those days of searching for the "perfect" place, I could almost pretend like I was moving forward. But how could I live with myself when I hadn't told her the truth? How could I live knowing she would eventually find out?

I knew I couldn't tell her about the pregnancy. It was too much. Too painful.

So, I told her I was going on vacation—a long vacation to clear my head. She didn't ask questions. She only nodded, telling me it was a good idea—that I deserved some time away to heal.

And here I was, waiting at the airport, the weight of my lies pressing down on me, each second feeling heavier than the last.

I walked through the check-in line, trying to ignore the knot in my stomach. The security guards gave me wary glances as I passed, their eyes flicking to my swollen, red face. But I forced a smile and walked on, heading toward my gate, the hum of the airport's bustle surrounding me like a shield.

But as I moved closer to the plane, the fear hit me—more real and more visceral than anything I had felt in a long time. A part of me wanted to turn around and go back to Belvina, to fall into the safety of her arms and beg her not to let me go. But I couldn't do that. I couldn't go back to the people I had failed. I couldn't go back to California. To Beverly Hills. To the lies. To the destruction.

I needed to heal.

But how could I heal with a child growing inside me? How could I possibly move on, move forward, when I was carrying a piece of the worst part of my life? A piece of the man who had torn everything I ever cared about apart?

I didn't have the answer. And I wasn't sure I ever would.

I found my seat next to the window, exactly as I'd wanted. The familiar weight of loneliness pressed against my chest as I sank into the seat, staring blankly at the vast expanse of darkness outside. If Belvina were here, she'd be next to me, of course. We would've fought for this seat, making our usual silent agreements to switch places every hour, each of us claiming the window to watch the clouds shift, to chase fleeting sunrises or sunsets from the sky. It had been our thing—our little ritual. But now, there was only emptiness beside me. And the sky outside wasn't the comforting blanket of possibility it used to be. It was dark, cold, a reflection of everything I felt inside.

I stared at the void beyond the glass. The night swallowed everything in its path, and I let it, letting the darkness mirror the hollow space that had settled deep in me. Nothing could fill it. Nothing would ever fill it.

The tears burned my eyes, threatening to spill, but I held them back. The last thing I wanted was for anyone to see how broken I was. How shattered I had become.

I watched the shadowed landscape below, not really seeing it, just feeling its emptiness like a weight on my chest. The steady hum of the plane and the muffled voices of other passengers seemed distant, unreal. Inside, I was suffocating.

Then the crying started. A baby. A small, high-pitched wail that cut through the suffocating silence, making my heart tighten in my chest. It was only a sound, a simple noise, but it was enough to tear open wounds I wasn't ready to face.

How could I be a mother? How could I carry this child?

I wasn't ready. I wasn't whole. All I had was pain, rage, and a deep, gnawing resentment toward a world that had stolen my peace. The thought of loving this child, of becoming a mother—how could I? Did I even want to?

The baby's cry rose, louder now, pulling me out of the fog that had wrapped itself around my mind. My hands began to shake. The tears I'd been fighting so hard to hold back surged, and suddenly, the weight in my chest grew unbearable, suffocating.

I couldn't breathe.

I needed to get away.

Without thinking, I pushed myself out of the seat and rushed down the aisle. I didn't care who saw me. I didn't care if anyone noticed the panic in my eyes. I just had to get away from the noise, from everything that was closing in on me.

I stumbled into the restroom, relief flooding me when I saw it was empty. The door clicked shut behind me, and I locked it instinctively. My knees buckled, and I sank to the floor, leaning back against the cool tiles.

The tears came then—too fast, too much, flooding down my cheeks, burning my skin. I tried to stifle the sound, to keep my sobs quiet, but the force of them was too much. My body shook with it, wracked by sobs I couldn't control, couldn't stop.

I pressed my palms against my face, but nothing could stop it. The flood of emotions—fear, confusion, anger—was too much. I was a mess. A broken mess.

I can't do this, I thought, the words barely a whisper in my mind, but they were there, clear and undeniable. I can't do it.

I wasn't ready to be a mother. I wasn't ready to raise a child, not with this weight in my chest, not with this shattered version of myself. I was scared, scared of failing, scared of the future, scared of the emptiness that seemed to stretch before me, endless and consuming.

And worst of all—I was scared of becoming the kind of mother who couldn't love her child.