1 The last trip before we were supposed to sign our marriage license ended in the tall grass behind a rest stop, with a hand clamped over my mouth and the world turning into a blurred nightmare of violence. When Brooks and my sister, Lauren, finally found me, I was shivering, curled into a ball of pain. But as Brooks lifted me into his arms, I heard him murmur something in French to Lauren—a language they assumed I didn’t speak. “Did you get enough footage for the segment?” his voice was cool, professional. “Yeah,” Lauren replied, her tone equally detached. “I’ve got what I need.” “Is this… is this fair to Jo, though?” there was a flicker of hesitation in her voice, but it was thin. Brooks’s voice hardened, sounding more like a CEO than a fiancé. “The guy was an actor, Lauren. He didn’t actually go through with it; we just needed the optics of a struggle. As long as I don’t care about her being ‘tainted,’ why should it matter? This story is your ticket. You win a Peabody or a Pulitzer for this, and that’s what counts.” I lay in his arms, a different kind of cold seeping into my marrow. The bruises on my ribs throbbed, but they were nothing compared to the sudden hollow in my chest. “What… what are you saying?” I whispered, my voice cracking. Brooks didn’t miss a beat. He wiped a tear from my eye with a thumb that felt like sandpaper. His voice returned to that practiced, honeyed warmth. “We’re talking about your case, honey. We’re going to let Lauren break the story. It’s the only way to make sure the monster who did this really pays.” He thought I was still trapped behind a language barrier. He went right back to whispering to her in French, discussing “exposure” and “narrative arcs.” What he didn’t know was that I had spent the last year secretly taking French classes. I wanted to surprise them—to finally feel like I belonged in their sophisticated, high-achieving world. Instead, the first conversation I understood was the sound of them selling my soul. I forced myself to stand, stumbling after them as we arrived at the news station where Lauren worked. I felt like a ghost haunting my own life. Lauren was already in her element. Dressed in a sharp, somber blazer, she stood before the cameras, her eyes glistening with rehearsed tears. “My sister’s trauma is a tragedy,” she told the reporters. “But as a journalist, I have a duty. I will report this story with every ounce of integrity I possess to ensure justice is served.” She covered her face, a perfect picture of the grieving sister. Brooks stood beside her, looking into the lens with a face of grim determination. “My fiancée is a survivor,” he said. “I ask the public to respect her privacy as she heals. And I ask you to support the incredible work Lauren is doing to bring these issues to light.” The room erupted in applause. I leaned against the wall in the hallway, my stomach turning. They were offering up my dignity on an altar of ambition. My “assault” was a prop. I couldn’t take it. I pushed through the double doors, my eyes red and my breath shallow. Every head in the room turned toward me. Brooks looked shocked. “Jo? What are you doing here? You should be in the hospital. Your wounds—” He reached for me, but I shoved his hand away with every bit of strength I had left. “Stop it! Stop the lying! I heard you! I heard everything!” The room went silent. Brooks froze, his mask slipping for a fraction of a second. “How… how could you possibly understand French?” I had spent months as the “clueless” one, the sweet, quiet sister who just smiled while they spoke over my head. Every time I had asked what they were talking about, they’d dismissed me with a “nothing important, sweetie.” I had worked so hard to be part of their “we.” And all I found was a “them” that didn’t include me. Lauren rushed down from the podium, trying to grab my shoulders. “Jo, honey, don’t misunderstand. We’re doing this for you. We’re trying to help…” We had grown up together in the foster system. She was the one who fought for me. She became a journalist so she could find the parents who abandoned us. “I can handle being alone,” she used to say, “but I won’t let you grow up without a family.” The sister I worshipped was a lie. I pushed her back, hard. She stumbled, and Brooks caught her instantly, his protective instinct flaring—for her. “What is wrong with you?” he barked at me. “After everything your sister has done for you? She raised you! She’s sacrificed everything! So what if she gets a career boost out of this? We’re staying by you, aren’t we? We aren’t calling you ‘damaged goods’!” “But I’m calling you both ‘trash’!” I screamed, my voice failing me. The day he proposed, Brooks had cried, promising I’d never shed another tear. Now, he was the one holding the knife. Seeing them stand there together, their bodies inclined toward one another, made the world tilt. I didn’t have anything left. My vision darkened, and as I collapsed, my last thought was simple: I’m done with both of you. When I woke up, the hospital room was a sea of flashbulbs. Lauren was sitting by my bed, microphone in hand. The strobing lights burned my retinas. Brooks leaned over me, his voice a soft, coercive purr. “The press is here, Jo. Just answer a few questions. It’ll be over soon, and then we can go home.” I looked down. There were thirty-four stitches holding my skin together. My internal organs felt like they’d been put through a meat grinder. And they wanted me to perform for a camera. I grabbed a glass pitcher from the bedside table and hurled it at the door. It shattered, glass spraying the reporters. “Get out! Get the hell out! I’m not saying a word!” Lauren waved the crew back, then sat on the edge of my bed. “We’re doing this for the greater good, Jo. Trust me. The report will make sure everyone knows what that man did…” I couldn’t believe it. My sister, the person who was supposed to be my shield, was asking me to reopen my wounds for the public to dissect. I ripped the IV out of my arm, blood blossoming on the sheets, and shoved her away. She tumbled back into a medical cart, her white silk blouse staining red as glass vials shattered around her. “Lauren!” Brooks screamed. He didn’t even look at me. He lunged for her. “Are you okay? Are you hurt?” He checked her for cuts, then turned to me with a look of pure loathing. “This is enough! She’s trying to help you, and you’re acting like a goddamn animal! You should be grateful she’s even giving you the time of day!” Years ago, when I’d nicked my finger with a kitchen knife, Brooks had turned pale and spent an hour bandaging it. Now, I was covered in stitches and bruises, and he only had eyes for Lauren’s scratched arm. He lifted her into his arms and carried her out to find a doctor. I was left alone on the floor, a broken doll in a room full of cameras. The segment aired. It was a sensation. But the sympathy I expected never came. The internet comments were a cesspool: “Look at what she was wearing. Who goes into the woods like that?” “She looked like she was enjoying the attention during the interview. Suspicious.” “If you put yourself in that situation, you get what you get.” The harassment was constant. My phone buzzed with death threats and vile insults. I felt like I was holding a live wire. Meanwhile, Lauren and Brooks were at a televised gala, accepting an award for “Courageous Journalism.” “Lauren Reed is a credit to the profession,” the presenter said. “And Brooks Harrison’s sponsorship of this investigation shows true leadership.” They were bathed in golden light. I was curled in a ball in a darkened room, afraid to move. Then the “shipping” started. “Brooks has been anonymously funding Lauren’s investigative work for five years. That’s so romantic!” “Is she the secret bride he’s been talking about? The girl in the engagement photos looks just like her!” Five years. The “anonymous donor” Lauren used to gush about—the one who helped her find our “roots”—was Brooks. They hadn’t just used my trauma. They had used my entire life as a stepping stone. I checked myself out of the hospital and went to Lauren’s old apartment to get the few things I’d left there. When I opened the door, a three-year-old girl with blonde curls ran into my legs. “Mommy!” she squealed. I froze. A nanny hurried over, looking embarrassed. “Oh, I’m so sorry! You look just like her mother. I’m sorry, sweetie, this isn’t Mommy.” I looked up. On the mantel was a framed portrait: Brooks, Lauren, and this little girl. A perfect family. The blood drained from my face. Lauren walked out of the bedroom in a silk robe, picking up the child. “Hailey, what did I tell you about—” She saw me. The color left her face, too. “What is this?” my voice was a ghost of a sound. Brooks walked out behind her, drying his hair with a towel. He stopped dead. “Jo, look. Let me explain,” he started, his voice frantic. “The kid… she was an accident. Three years ago, I… I thought she was you. It was a mistake. We’ve kept her tucked away so it wouldn’t hurt our relationship.” We had lost a baby once. Brooks had spent hours with his head on my stomach, naming him, talking to him. “Our baby is going to be as beautiful as you,” he’d said. Now, he was holding a child he’d had with my sister, looking at her with that same adoration. This apartment was a replica of our house. Same sofa. Same art. Only the family in the photos was different. “When?” I asked. Brooks looked away. “Three years ago. When Lauren went to Europe for that ‘story.’” The trip where she supposedly found our parents. I had waited by the phone for weeks, hoping for a family to come home to. Instead, she was in a hotel room with my husband-to-be, conceiving a child while I stayed home and prayed for her success. The rage finally broke through the numbness. I swung my hand and slapped her across the face. “Ow!” Lauren cried out, clutching her cheek. Brooks grabbed my wrist, his grip bruising. “Joanna, enough! Ever since the incident, you’ve been a freaking lunatic! You’re being unreasonable!” I stared at him, unable to breathe. He had orchestrated the event that broke me, and now he was calling me crazy for being broken. My stitches felt like they were ripping. Lauren’s daughter, seeing her mother cry, stepped forward and shoved me. “Go away, mean lady!” I instinctively put my hand out to steady myself, and the child began to wail. Brooks’s eyes turned murderous. “You’re attacking a child now? A helpless little girl? If you have a problem, take it out on me!” He shoved me. Hard. I fell back, my heels catching on the rug, and I tumbled down the three steps into the sunken living room. I hit the floor with a wet thud. I didn’t cry. I just watched him pull Lauren and Hailey into his arms, a protective wall of a man guarding his “real” family. The last thread of my heart snapped. “Brooks,” I said, my voice eerily calm. “We’re done.” He scoffed, though his eyes showed a flicker of fear. “You won’t leave. I’m the only man you’ve ever loved. Lauren is the only family you have. You’re not going anywhere. And I don’t respond well to threats, Jo.” He was so certain. He thought he’d built a cage I couldn’t escape. “I mean it—” “Brooks! The baby!” Lauren screamed. “She’s burning up! I think she’s having a seizure!” Brooks panicked. He ran right past me, nearly stepping on my hand, as he scooped up the child and ran for the door. I tried to stand, but a sudden, hot gush of fluid ran down my legs. “It’s a shame,” the doctor said, looking at the ultrasound. “The fetus survived the initial trauma of the assault, but the secondary fall was too much. The placental abruption was total.” I lay in a cold clinic bed, staring at the ceiling. I hadn’t even known I was pregnant. I had lost a life I didn’t know I had, and the man who killed it was the father. My phone vibrated. “You’re a monster. Lauren is trying to help you and you tried to kill her kid?” “I bet she’s just jealous. Trying to play the victim so she can steal her sister’s life. Disgusting.” The world was screaming at me. My phone was a weapon. Then, a call from Brooks. I answered it, my voice hollow. “Brooks…” “Where the hell are you, Joanna?” he screamed. “Hailey’s fever won’t break! She’s terrified because of what you did!” “I’m in the hospital,” I whispered. “I just had a mis—” “Don’t lie to me to get out of trouble! The doctors at the main hospital said you were fine! We’re at the hospital, Jo. You aren’t here.” I looked around the small, dingy clinic where a stranger had dropped me off. I didn’t bother to explain. “You need to accept Lauren and the baby,” Brooks said, his voice dropping into that cold, commanding tone. “Go home and think about what you’ve done. I expect you to be ‘adult’ about this when I see you next.” He hung up. I stared at the wall until midnight. Then, a shadow fell across the door of my room. A man walked in. He was holding a flashlight. I recognized him instantly. It was the “actor” from the woods. He was shaking, his eyes wild. “They told me this wouldn’t go public! Now my face is everywhere! The cops are looking for me because of that bitch sister of yours!” He raised a heavy brick. I scrambled back, but I was too weak. The first blow caught me on the back of the neck. Everything went white. Blood poured into my eyes. I fumbled for my phone, desperately hitting the speed dial for Brooks, then Lauren. The person you are calling is unavailable… My thumb accidentally swiped the home security app. The camera in our bedroom was live. On the screen, Brooks and Lauren were in our bed. Brooks’s bare back was to the camera. “The fever was nothing,” Lauren whispered, her voice breathless. “She’s fine.” “If Jo can’t accept her,” Brooks said, his voice muffled against her neck, “then I’ll just give the marriage license to you. We’ll give Hailey a real home. Jo… she always does what I say. She’ll never leave me.” He leaned down and kissed her, deep and slow. In the clinic, the “actor” roared in frustration. “You ruined my life! You lying bitch!” The brick came down again. And the world finally went black. Brooks Harrison buttoned his white shirt, stepping out of the bedroom. He glanced at his phone and saw a string of missed calls from Joanna. His heart skipped a beat, a sudden, inexplicable dread washing over him. He was about to call her back when his phone rang. It was an unknown number. “Is this Mr. Harrison? This is the county morgue… sorry, I mean, the emergency surgical unit. We have a Joanna Reed here. She’s been brutally assaulted. You need to get here now.”
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