Chapter 1
Night after night, I tangled with Brantley Hawthorne in our sheets. I was Claire Summers, his wife of two years, the keeper of his secrets and the calm to his storm.
Then, on our second anniversary, he didn't come home.
The call came in the morning, his voice smooth and light.
"Darling, I stopped by that little bakery you love. Picked up your favorite almond croissants. Let me make it up to you tonight."
I'd barely set the phone down when the alerts began to flash. Every gossip site and every newsfeed blared the same blazing headline.
[Brantley Hawthorne Rushes to Ex Vivian Reed's Side After Horrific Crash. Old Flame Ignited Once More?]
Before the board could finish reading, his ice-cold voicemail popped up. "Vivian needs me. Handle the board. You know what to do."
So I did. Under the heated glare of the directors, I buried the headlines, called in every media favor we had, and spun the story into corporate static, nothing but harmless background noise.
As the last furious executive stormed out, a silhouette appeared in my office doorway.
Lucas Hawthorne, Brantley's half-brother, leaned casually against the frame, a sly grin touching his lips.
"Well, well...Claire, darling," he drawled, amusement dancing in his tone. "Feel like changing sides?"
I opened my mouth to refuse, but then words flickered in my vision, luminous and ghostly, like captions from an unseen screen.
[SAY YES. Lucas is your child's true father.]
[PARTNER WITH HIM NOW. Brantley is about to persuade you to donate skin for Vivian's recovery.]
I scoffed at the messages.
I must be hallucinating from exhaustion.
I'd always been frail, and getting pregnant had never been easy for me.
Besides, Brantley and I had been inseparable every night. There was no way this baby could be Lucas's.
"Move aside," I said coldly, turning away without another word.
Back in my office, the pop-up messages had vanished.
I buried myself in the stack of files on my desk.
The next second, Brantley called again. "Claire, get over to the hospital now."
My heart skipped a beat, and I gripped my phone tighter. "What happened?"
"Just come, you'll know when you get here. Thirty minutes, no excuses," he said. And with that, he hung up.
On the way, those floating messages kept popping up in my mind, no matter how hard I tried to ignore them.
When I got to the hospital, I saw Brantley slumped on a bench, his hands buried in his hair, his suit all wrinkled. He looked completely shattered.
I walked over and, trying to sound reassuring, said softly, "Brantley, she'll be just fine."
He looked up, his eyes rimmed with red, tears slipping down his cheeks.
It was the first time I'd ever seen him cry, and it felt like someone had grabbed my heart and squeezed hard.
He grabbed my hand. His grip was so strong it hurt my fingers.
"Claire, it's all my fault... If I hadn't insisted on getting those pastries from Sweet Haven Bakery, none of this would've happened," he choked out.
Sweet Haven Bakery was my favorite treat.
On the winter night we first met, he waited in line for two hours just to hand me a box of warm donuts at my door.
His words instantly filled me with guilt.
[What a piece of work! He was all over Vivian on the street when the accident happened, and now he's making it sound like it's your fault?]
[He's lying through his teeth. Your feelings are just a tool to him.]
The pop-up messages stabbed through me, snapping me back to reality in an instant.
Brantley said, "Claire, you're looking pale. Here, have some water. Take a sip and steady yourself."
He pushed the glass into my hand, his fingers curling inward slightly, a tell he always had when he felt guilty, not that he'd ever notice.
[Don't drink that! It's laced with heavy sedatives.]
My hand trembled. I lowered my head, hiding the ice in my eyes.
Gently setting the glass aside, I said, "Brantley, I rushed over so fast I rubbed my heel raw. Could you grab me a Band-Aid?"
"Of course. Wait right here," he replied, a little too eagerly. As he stood, his eyes flicked toward the glass.
The moment he was gone, I got up and poured the water into the potted plant by the window.
[Wait, what? Why didn't she drink it?]
[That's not how this scene goes! She's supposed to pass out so they can take her skin.]
[Is this a glitch? Something's seriously off about Claire...]
When he returned, I pressed a hand to my forehead, swaying slightly, softening my voice to a fragile whisper. "Brantley, I'm so dizzy..."
As soon as the words left my lips, my legs buckled, and I slid right off the chair, putting on my best helpless act.
He caught me in his arms. A whiff of unfamiliar perfume hit me. It was the same brand Vivian was endorsing now. My heart sank at the scent.
He carried me into a prepped room, as though everything had been arranged from the start.
The doctor hesitated, glancing at Brantley. "Mr. Hawthorne, are you certain about using Mrs. Hawthorne's skin for the graft? This is highly—"
Brantley cut him off coldly. "I'm sure. Use the strongest anesthetic. I don't want her feeling any pain."
A flicker of unease passed through Brantley's expression. It felt as if he'd just shattered something precious with his own hands.
"She'll understand," he told himself. "She always does. Claire was always the reasonable one."
Only when his footsteps faded did I finally open my eyes.
I bit down on my lip until the metallic taste of blood filled my mouth.