Chapter 2
The cross-country train ride back to my hometown dragged on for seven long hours.
I sat in a cramped coach seat, staring at the live comments scrolling steadily upward, feeding me the truth I'd been kept in the dark about for years.
[Your name is Leah Turner, thirty-two years old. In this novel, you're painted as a shameless gold-digger, obsessed with status and money. You married James Carter six years ago, only to be tossed out with nothing.]
[You have no children of your own, and you're destined to die childless. The original plot has you overdose on pills on James and Rachel's wedding day. The moment you're gone, Rachel steps into your place without a second thought.]
[No one cries for you. No one remembers you.]
Childless.
I stared at that word, my chest tight, my breath catching in my throat. I'd always wondered why I could never have kids.
[It wasn't that you couldn't conceive. You were pregnant twice. You lost the first baby at three months, the second at two. Mary slipped drugs into your food every single day—slow, subtle, just enough to make you miscarry without anyone noticing.]
[After your second miscarriage, your uterus was permanently damaged. You'll never have kids again. The State General Hospital still has your medical records—File No. HY-2019-03742. They're kept on file for fifteen years.]
The train rumbled into a tunnel, and the carriage was plunged into darkness.
The pale glow of my phone screen reflected in the window, casting a cold light over my face.
My two babies—gone before I could even hold them, killed by the woman who'd pretended to be family.
I remembered the first miscarriage. James was on a business trip. Mary showed up at the hospital with a warm cup of chamomile tea and said, flatly, "You're young. You'll get another chance." I'd believed her, naive and desperate to fit in.
The second time, I lay on a hospital gurney, signing consent forms, while the doctor looked at me with pity. "Your uterine lining is dangerously thin," he said. "It's almost impossible for you to ever conceive again."
James stood outside the operating room, taking a work call. When he hung up, he glanced at me and said, coldly, "Let's just stop trying."
His tone was the same as it had been today, when he'd brushed off Rachel's suggestion: dismissive, unfeeling, like my pain meant absolutely nothing.
Another comment flashed across the screen: [You still have time to dig up the truth. But right now—go to your grandmother. She's the only one who ever truly cared about you.]
The train pulled into a tiny rural station, stopping for just three minutes.
A vendor boarded, yelling about hot instant noodles and beef jerky, his voice echoing down the cramped aisle.
I tightened my grip on the twenty-thousand-dollar bank card, my nails digging into my palm—pain to ground me, to remind me this was all real.
I made it to the hometown hospital at two in the morning.
My mom was dozing on a plastic bench, her hair a mess, eyes red and puffy. She lifted her head the second she saw me, tears streaming down her face. "Your grandma's been waiting for you. She wouldn't close her eyes until she saw you."
The hospital room reeked of antiseptic, sharp and overpowering.
My grandma lay in the bed, frail and tiny, her skin paper-thin, an IV line taped to the back of her bony hand. She looked so small, so fragile—nothing like the strong, feisty woman who'd raised me.
"Leah..." Her eyes lit up the moment she saw me, a faint smile pulling at her lips.
I knelt beside the bed, taking her cold, fragile hand in mine.
"You're divorced?" she asked, her voice barely a whisper.
"Yeah," I whispered back, my throat tight with emotion.
"Good." Her fingers squeezed mine weakly, as if summoning up all her strength. "The Carters... they were never good enough for you. Leah, I've picked someone out for you. Someone honest. Someone who'll treat you right."
"Who?" I asked, my voice cracking with tears.
"Jack Evans. He's Samuel Young's grandson—your grandpa's old army buddy. He's forty, lost his wife two years ago, and raises his little girl all by himself.
"He drives a semi-truck, hauls freight cross-country for a living. He's rough around the edges, calloused hands from years on the road, but he's good. Honest. Steady. He'll never hurt you."
My grandma broke into a harsh coughing fit, and my mom hurried over with a cup of water, gently helping her sip from it.
When the coughing stopped, she looked at me again, her eyes firm with determination. "Leah, marry him. I've always had a good eye for people. He's your second chance."
Three days later, my grandma passed away, peacefully, in her sleep.
On the day of her funeral, relatives from all over town showed up—whispering, staring, sizing me up like I was a charity case. I heard their murmurs, sharp and unkind, as I stood beside her casket.
"Heard the Carters kicked her out to the curb?" someone said. "Left with nothing. Six years of her life, down the drain," another chimed in. "She's getting older... who'd want her now?"
I knelt before Grandma's casket, bowing my head three times—a final goodbye, a promise to honor her wish.
As I stood up, a new comment drifted across my phone screen: [Jack Evans' phone number is in the small cloth pouch under Grandma's pillow. She left it for you.]
I found the pouch right away—small, cloth, worn from years of use. Inside was a crumpled slip of paper, a phone number scribbled in ballpoint pen, the ink slightly faded.
I dialed it without a second's hesitation. My hand didn't shake.
The line rang six times before someone picked up.
A deep, gruff male voice came through, rumbling over the low roar of a truck engine in the background—rough, tired, but steady. "Who's this?"
"This is Leah Turner... Samuel Young's granddaughter. Grandma mentioned you to me."
There was a short pause, the engine's hum the only sound. "Your grandma passed away, didn't she?"
"Yeah," I said, my voice quiet, but steady.
He fell silent for a few seconds, like he was paying his respects. "I'm hauling a load toward Riverside City right now. I'll be in town the day after tomorrow. Wait for me."
He hung up without another word—no pleasantries, no questions, just a promise.
A final comment scrolled across my screen, bright and unrelenting: [He's on his way. And so is your million-dollar future—waiting for you to reach out and take it.]