Chapter 2

The words kept drifting past, cold, detached, and effortless, like someone casually leaving comments while reading a trashy novel.

And I was the "throwaway ex-wife" in that story, destined to end up a cripple.

I didn't know how long I sat there in front of that headstone. Eventually, the rain let up. I stood, my legs caked in mud and my knees completely numb.

I glanced down at the inscription: [In loving memory of James.]

What a joke.

I stared at that headstone for a long time. Then I wiped my face, unable to tell the rain from the tears.

When I got home, I dug out that scrap of paper James'd left behind. [071502.]

Was the 30 thousand dollars hush money? Or was it my severance package?

I went to the bank to check the balance. It was 30 grand on the dot. Not a penny more, not a penny less. Apparently, three years of "wedded bliss" had a very specific price tag.

Standing in front of the ATM, staring at those digits, my stomach suddenly did a somersault. I bolted to the trash can outside the bank and lost my lunch. I kept retching until there was nothing left but bile.

A middle-aged woman passing by shot me a look. "Sweetie, you aren't pregnant, are you?"

I froze. Pregnant?

I counted the days. My period didn't come last month, but I'd chalked it up to exhaustion, grief, and skipping meals.

I went to the hospital and signed in for an appointment. They drew blood, took a urine sample, and I waited for the results.

The doctor slapped the results onto the desk. "You're expecting. About six weeks along. Get some rest and don't overexert yourself."

I stood in the hospital corridor holding that lab report, slowly sliding down the wall until I was sitting on the floor.

Six weeks. That meant when he "died," he either knew or he didn't. Either way, it didn't change a thing.

He chose to fake his death, vanish from my life, and head back to Oceanview City to marry his precious heiress. He left me with 30 grand and a baby.

I touched my belly. It felt like nothing. It was flat and silent.

"Fine then," I whispered to myself.

The comment said I'd eventually go to Oceanview City to make a scene and get my leg broken. Well, I wasn't going then.

I had never been one for grand ambitions, but I did have one saving grace. I know when to fold 'em.

I wasn't going to accept the fate he laid out for me. I was going to live the life I chose for myself.

*****

For the next month, I didn't do anything out of the ordinary. I just lived like usual.

I'd get up at 3:30 AM to prep the dough, and by 5 AM, the diner was open.

I sold pancakes, hash browns, and coffee. After closing up at noon, I'd take a nap, then head to the market in the afternoon to grab supplies for the next day.

With James gone, I couldn't handle the workload alone, so I cut back the menu to just breakfast burritos and coffee. Business took a bit of a hit, but it was enough to keep me afloat.

The comments would pop up from time to time.

I started to notice a pattern. The comments weren't there all the time. It only showed up when something major happened in the story.

Most of the time, it was just random chatter, like people leaving comments while binge-watching a show.

For instance, when I went to "visit" James' grave.

[Ugh, Sarah is at the grave crying again. It's getting old. James is living it up in Oceanview City, having steak dinners, and she's out here sobbing? Give me a break.]

[Seriously, this part is so cringe. She's such a pathetic simp.]

I glanced at those comments as I set the two breakfast burritos and a cup of coffee down in front of the headstone.

"James, it's getting chilly," I said. "Bundle up." Then I turned and walked away.

I wasn't putting on a show for anyone. It was just habit. Three years of marriage wasn't something one could switch off overnight.

Every morning when I woke up, I'd still reach for the other side of the bed. It was always empty and always cold.

But I'd stopped crying.

What was the point? The comments already told me James was faking it. He was alive and kicking in Oceanview City.

Was I bitter? You bet.

But mostly, I was spooked. The comments said I'd go to the city to make a scene and end up with broken legs. That wasn't just someone ranting; it was the "plot." This weird system was showing me my "predetermined ending."

I glanced down at my legs. They were perfectly fine, sturdy legs. And I planned on keeping them that way.