Every folded onesie. Every pacifier. Every soft animal blanket. Every memory I thought we would build was packed into boxes. And then, I added the things Denver gave me—the anniversary necklaces, the journals, even the framed photo of us on our honeymoon in Italy where he whispered, “You’re my everything.”
All lies.
I carried the boxes out to the fire pit behind the house, lit a match, and watched the past burn.
Ash curled up into the air like ghosts escaping. As I stood there, the wind catching my hair, I remembered the first time I met Denver.
Five years ago.
It was the night I was told I was the rightful heiress to the Montera Group. Everything I knew about my life had unraveled in a single breath. But Denver was there. Calm, warm, persuasive. My family said it was fate—he was the son of a partner corporation, a perfect face for the merger.
And me? I was foolishly in love. At first sight, even. He made me feel seen.
At least in the beginning. But love from a man like Denver came with conditions. Expectations. Manipulation.
And betrayal.
After the flames died down, I returned inside to clean. I opened Denver’s closet to arrange his things, still like a perfect wife.
That’s when I saw it. A box tucked behind his jackets. I pulled it out, curious. It was heavier than I expected.
When I opened it, my heart stopped.
A photo album. And not just any album—prenup photos. Of Denver. And Patricia.
I stared at the glossy images, each one a dagger. Patricia in a white gown. Denver in a black tuxedo. Her smiling at him like a woman in love. Him holding her like a man who had already moved on.
The dates were recent. Just days before the accident. My mouth went dry. My legs threatened to give out beneath me. But I didn’t scream. I didn’t cry. I simply closed the box, and walked it outside.
I told myself I’d already mourned enough.
When I came back in, the scent of garlic and butter wafted through the house. Patricia was in the kitchen, flipping shrimp on the pan like she belonged there. My mother, Paula, and my father, David, were seated at the dining table. Denver was setting out wine glasses, smiling like everything was perfectly normal.
I paused at the doorway.
Patricia turned and beamed at me. “Just in time. I made shrimp pasta. It’s one of Denver’s favorites—and Mom’s.”
We sat down. The plate was set in front of me, steaming, garnished with parsley.
I just stared at it.