Chapter 3
When the bus arrived at the camp, I shoved the memories down and stepped off.
The camp had its own staff to handle the handover, which took the weight off my shoulders and finally gave me a chance to walk around town.
My friend Tessa Monroe came to pick me up. Her eyes immediately locked onto Mason, who was dribbling a basketball nearby.
"That's that woman's son, isn't it? He has her exact eyes."
I gave a slight nod.
Tessa looked at my indifferent face, and it only made her angrier.
She finally cursed out loud.
"That bastard is so cold-blooded. How the hell did you ever marry him?"
It wasn't that complicated, really.
After that first miscarriage, I was hospitalized.
I was young, terrified, and grieving my first child.
I was recovering alone, a thousand miles away from home, too ashamed to even tell my parents.
At my most helpless, when I needed a shoulder the most, Grant proposed to me.
I grabbed onto him like a drowning woman to a lifeline, desperately convincing myself that he hadn't meant to be so cruel.
And so, I married him.
After the wedding, Grant was always busy.
There was an endless stream of alcohol to drink and client dinners to attend.
Night after night, I sat alone with cold food, waiting for him to come home.
Day after day, I trapped myself in my own misery.
When I unexpectedly got pregnant a second time, my nerves were shot.
I was barely holding on.
And that was exactly when Grant cheated on me.
Her name was Vanessa Cole.
She wasn't a business partner or some high-society heiress.
She was a single mother raising Mason. The biological father's identity was a mystery, and he had never been in the picture.
Their meeting wasn't exactly glamorous.
In a private club lounge in Atlanta, Vanessa approached Grant with an eight-year-old Mason, begging for help.
Grant looked at that boy and saw himself.
Like a man possessed, he brought Mason into our home.
He lied right to my face.
"He's a friend's son. The kid is sick and needs a quiet place to stay for a while."
I believed him.
I was actually happy.
Because with Mason there, Grant started coming home more often.
Sometimes, Vanessa came with him.
He introduced her to me smoothly:
"This is Mason's mother. She's having a hard time raising him alone, and she just needs a temporary place to crash."
It made my skin crawl, but I overcompensated by taking even better care of Mason.
When he ran a fever in the middle of the night, I sat by his bed.
When he craved a specific snack, I dragged my heavily pregnant body out to buy it.
But a pure heart doesn't buy you one in return.
When I was seven months pregnant, Mason threw a tantrum because he didn't like the dinner I cooked. He picked up a heavy chair and hurled it right at my stomach.
Blood gushed out, staining the light-colored floor tiles red.
In a blind panic, I called Grant.
Vanessa answered the phone.
She said:
"Your husband and I just slept together. He's in the shower."
I froze. The blood turned to ice in my veins.
All the strength drained from my body.
Mason realized what he had done, yanked the front door open, and ran.
It was a passing neighbor who found me and called the ambulance.
Just as expected.
The baby was gone.
Smashed out of me by Vanessa's son.
And what was Grant doing?
He was fucking Vanessa.
I almost died on that operating table.
When I woke up, I completely lost my mind.
I smashed every single thing in that hospital room that could be broken.
I ripped out my IV lines, shredded my medical charts, and knocked over the medication carts.
With dark circles under my eyes and my hair a tangled mess, I roamed the corridors screaming for Mason.
I shrieked, demanding he pay for my child's life.
The doctors and nurses couldn't hold me down. Patients scrambled out of my way.
Then Grant appeared.
Without an ounce of mercy, he seized my wrists and used his entire body weight to pin me against the wall.
He looked at me and asked:
"Are you done throwing a tantrum, Claire?"