Chapter 1: The Anniversary Betrayal

On our wedding anniversary, while my friends cheered me on at a crowded Brooklyn bar, my lawyer husband called. His voice was ice: he wanted a divorce.

I was busy losing a drinking contest to a male model—ice cubes melting between his perfect teeth—when my phone buzzed with Nathan’s name.

I stared at my phone, tequila burning down my throat, before I managed a joke. "Wait, didn’t we already get divorced once? Is there a frequent flyer program I don’t know about?"

The private room burst into laughter. My girlfriends from college, all high-powered women in their thirties, clinked glasses and hollered.

"Girl, Rachel is a legend! You actually divorced that control freak!" Mia yelled, her Manhattan accent slicing through the chaos.

On the other end, Nathan Reeves went silent. I pictured him in his glass-walled office, probably loosening his Hermès tie with that sharp jerk he reserved for lost cases. "Rachel, come outside and find a quiet place. Let’s talk properly."

"There’s nothing to talk about. Go be with your first love." Bitterness laced my words, sharper than the lime wedge I’d just bitten.

His voice was tight, that controlled lawyer edge he used when a case went sideways. "If you don’t come back, we’re completely finished!"

I jabbed the red button harder than I meant to, hanging up. I never expected Mr. Cold-and-Collected would start blowing up my phone, but my iPhone kept lighting up on the sticky wood table—his contact photo from Martha’s Vineyard last summer mocking me every time.

I sneered and switched to airplane mode, waving the male model over. He was twenty-five, TikTok-famous, and his abs could do my laundry.

"Come here, sweetheart. Come to me." The words felt strange—liberating, too.

---

I used to believe Nathan Reeves and I were perfect for each other. Yale Law for him, Columbia Journalism for me. We met at a Tribeca rooftop party, bonded over craft cocktails and our ambition to conquer New York.

Then came the accident.

A screech, a crash echoing down the Manhattan block. I was hit hard, dragged half a block by a hit-and-run. My Starbucks went flying, caramel macchiato splattering the crosswalk like modern art.

Blood pooled beneath me, soaking my jeans and the crosswalk, mixing with the October rain. Passersby screamed, umbrellas tumbling as they scrambled for their phones.

"Quick, call 911!" A woman in scrubs—probably fresh off her shift at Mount Sinai—knelt beside me.

My stomach burned. The world blurred. Sirens, horns, a street saxophone—everything melted into noise. I reached for my phone, fingers fumbling, slick with blood, smearing red across the cracked screen as I tried to call Nathan. No answer. The phone slipped from my grip, glass shattering on asphalt.

Where was he? We’d had breakfast together just this morning.

Nathan never missed my calls. Not even during depositions, not even when the judge was glaring.

Faces above me dissolved into color and shape. I was lifted, shoved into an ambulance. Through the haze, I heard a voice that cut through everything.

"Send her first! She just had heart surgery—she’s in more danger!" That commanding courtroom voice—I’d know it anywhere.

Nathan?!

I forced my eyes open. Nathan was shielding the woman who’d hit me, his $3,000 suit jacket around her shoulders, stopping the EMTs from reaching me. He probably flashed his Yale class ring as he gestured, all authority.

"Nathan..." My whisper vanished in the chaos.

He didn’t hear. My special ringtone—his—buzzed in his pocket, but his focus was all on her. He held her hand, murmuring reassurances, never glancing back. Not even when EMTs shouted about a pregnant woman.

I saw the woman who’d hit me—she could’ve been my younger sister: same long dark hair, sharp cheekbones, but ten years younger.

Remembering that overheard phone call from weeks ago, my heart dropped, heavy as stone.