Five years later, I ran into Ethan again at Daisy's parent-teacher conference. The hallway was almost empty. I was kneeling by the classroom door, tying Daisy's shoelaces. When I looked up, a pair of custom-made, dark leather Oxford shoes stopped just three feet away. My hand instinctively pressed down on the thick silver cuff on my left wrist. Daisy grabbed the edge of my skirt and shrank back behind me. I patted her hand gently and stood up. He stood there, one hand slipped casually into his tailored suit pocket. His voice was low, laced with a familiar, controlled tension. "Cassie, you've been throwing this tantrum for five years. Haven't you had enough? Come home with me." The metal buckle of the cuff on my left wrist felt icy cold against my skin. Suddenly, the freezing air of that winter night five years ago seemed to wrap around me all over again. I didn't look at him. I zipped Daisy's coat all the way up to her chin, took her hand, and walked right past him. "Mommy, who was that man?" Daisy asked in her sweet, small voice. I paused for a second. I honestly didn't know how to introduce him.
The automatic lights in the hallway flickered out behind us. I squeezed Daisy's hand a little tighter and quickened my pace. My left hand subconsciously reached down, pulling the thick metal cuff further down my wrist before shoving my hand deep into my coat pocket. Once we got back to The Little Elephant Library, I sent Daisy over to the reading corner to play. "Cassie, that's the third one this week." Luna walked over and placed a termination notice on the counter in front of me. I picked up a red marker and drew a thick line through "Springfield Preschool" on our monthly schedule board. The reason listed was the exact same corporate jargon as the others: "Per higher management's directive, we are adjusting our external partnership list." "I had a friend look into it," Luna whispered, leaning in close. "All three of these preschools are heavily funded by CasStart Academy. That Ethan guy... he's the founder of CasStart, right? Is he trying to ruin you?" The tip of my marker froze on the paper. The red ink bled into a perfect, bleeding dot on the white page. I capped the marker with a sharp click. "Don't overthink it." I pushed my coffee cup aside and pulled out a stack of blank sketching paper. "Go ahead and prep the watercolor palettes for tomorrow. We still have a picture-book class in the morning." On the service road outside the library, a sleek black Maybach sat idling under the sycamore trees. Ethan leaned back against the driver's seat. Through the windshield, his eyes locked onto our two figures—one tall, one small—as we disappeared around the corner. He tapped his Bluetooth earpiece. "Mr. Vance, the background check you requested is still processing. The child's birth certificate is a bit tricky. There's no biological father listed in the state registry. We're still digging." Ethan's fingers tapped rhythmically against the leather steering wheel. "Don't stop. Keep digging." "I want to know exactly who has been hiding in her life for the past five years." He hung up. On the passenger seat lay a worn-out watercolor brush. The little girl had dropped it earlier. He picked it up, his thumb slowly brushing over the faded, chipped paint on the wooden handle. Nine o'clock at night. After her bath, Daisy crawled onto the bed, smelling of baby soap. She immediately grabbed my left hand. "Mommy, can I wear this bracelet? It's so pretty." Her tiny fingers picked at the heavy metal buckle, trying to undo it. I pulled my hand back gently. "Not this one, baby." "Why not?" "Because..." I ran my hand through her damp hair. "Because this is Mommy's lucky charm. If I take it off, the magic goes away." Daisy blinked her big eyes, pondered that for a moment, and accepted it. She rolled over and pulled a worn-out picture book from under her pillow. "Then tell me the story of the little elephant!" I smiled, taking the book from her. As my fingers brushed the bottom-right corner of the back cover, they felt a rough patch. It was a long strip of paper heavily blacked out with a sharpie. Deep, thick, and permanent. It had been scribbled over dozens of times. I stared at the black block for a long moment. Then, I opened the cover and began reading the story of the little elephant looking for its mother. The edges of the pages were yellowed and frayed. It was a hand-drawn storybook. Half an hour later, Daisy's breathing slowed into a steady rhythm. I closed the book, set it on the nightstand, and switched off the lamp. I sat down on the rug beside her bed. My right fingers traced the silver cuff on my left wrist. Over and over again. In the dark, the old picture book lay silently. Beneath that thick, ugly block of black marker, there was once a line written in elegant, passionate fountain pen ink: "To my Cassie. You are the beginning of all my inspiration."
The next morning, Luna carried out a cardboard box. "Cassie, do you still want this box of old brushes?" It was filled to the brim with heavily worn markers and chewed-up sketching pencils. "Keep them. Just put them at the very bottom of the cabinet." I recognized the teeth marks on those pencils. They belonged to Ethan when he was seven years old. Back then, my mother was running a free community art program for underprivileged kids. There was a little boy who always hid under the playground slide. He never spoke, never looked anyone in the eye, and always tightly clutched a broken piece of chalk in his fist. His parents were alcoholics and gamblers who beat him constantly. Every single day, my mother would bring a different picture book to that playground. She would sit just two feet away from him, open the book, and read the story aloud. She did this for three solid months. When she closed the ninetieth book, the boy finally looked up. His face was bruised, but his dark eyes were incredibly bright. "Ma'am... will you come back tomorrow?" Eventually, my mother foster-adopted him. She used her meager retirement savings to buy him high-quality art supplies. She supported him through local art contests all the way to national exhibitions. He eventually won a full-ride scholarship to college. During high school, he was like my shadow. I was quiet and didn't like to talk, so he used his sketchbook to record my life. He drew me eating cherry popsicles in the summer heat, crouching over my desk solving math problems, and leaning against the bus stop sign in the rain. There was one drawing I never forgot. The theme of his high school art final was "Home." While others drew houses or family portraits, he drew a single hand. My left hand. The wrist was bare and clean, and my fingers held a paint-stained brush. The teacher asked him how this represented "Home." He replied, "Wherever she is, that is home." On graduation day, he shoved a thick sketchbook into my hands. "This is every version of you I've ever drawn." He looked at me, his eyes shining with ambition and love. "No matter how far I go in life, Cassie, you will always be my very first stroke." After college, we naturally got married. He wanted to start an educational tech company for children. On the day he registered the business, he filled out the form with the name: CasStart Academy. In the beginning, I was the entire creative department. I designed the curriculum, the teaching methods, and the parent-child reading guides. I drew over a thousand drafts under the dim light of our rented apartment, night after night. He handled the funding and the marketing. We got our marriage license, and we were officially husband and wife. I picked up a palette knife and scraped away a layer of dried paint from the tray. The night we secured our Series A funding, during the celebratory dinner, an investor patted Ethan on the shoulder and joked, "Mr. Vance, you're young and successful. Just make sure people don't say you built your empire on your wife's back." The entire table burst into laughter. On the drive home, Ethan didn't say a word. One hand gripped the steering wheel while the knuckles of his other hand tapped hard against the car window. I looked at the tight, rigid line of his jaw. It was the exact same expression he wore when he was seven years old, when people pointed at him and called him "trash abandoned by his parents." That night, when we got home, he sat on the couch and patted the spot next to him. "Cassie, come here." When I sat down, he began playing with my paint-stained fingertips. "The company has reached a new stage. We need a more professional executive team. Starting tomorrow, I need you to hand over your role as Creative Director. You can step back and act as an advisor from behind the scenes." I stood by the kitchen island, holding a freshly washed apple. Water droplets dripped from my fingers, splashing onto the hardwood floor. My mind suddenly echoed with my mother's words before she passed: "He didn't have an easy path to get here, Cassie. Be patient with him." I set the apple on the counter. And I nodded. He pulled me into his arms, resting his chin on the top of my head. "Good girl. Go check the garage tomorrow. I bought a new Porsche Cayenne. It's registered in your name. Think of it as your reward." The day I signed the transfer papers, the sky was completely gray. I sat alone in my office, opening the folder on my computer labeled [CasStart Curriculum Core System]. Three hundred and seventy-two files. From the very first rough draft of the curriculum to the final version of our interactive reading model. I dragged them all into the shared company drive. When the progress bar hit 100%, a notification popped up on the screen: "Transfer Successful." I shut down my computer. I began clearing out my desk drawers. Almost every scrap of paper was covered in sketches I had drawn at three in the morning, filled with my handwritten notes. At the very bottom of the drawer lay a photo. It was a team photo taken in the office the day CasStart landed its first major government contract. I was standing right next to Ethan, holding the signed contract, smiling so hard my teeth showed. On the back of the photo, he had written: "Cassie, without you, there is no CasStart." I turned the photo over, leaving it face down on the empty desk. From that day on, my name vanished from all of CasStart's public materials. I became a ghost "advisor." Even in the annual company group photos, I stood at the very edge of the crowd, almost entirely cut out.
The next morning, I took Daisy to the library with me. I set her up with some crayons behind the front desk while I sat nearby, working on next week's lesson plan. "Cassie, someone's here to see you," Luna called out. I put down my palette knife and stepped out of the back room. The day I had handed over my work at CasStart, the sky had been just as gray as today. A new intern had knocked on my door back then. She wore thick black-rimmed glasses, had her hair in a messy ponytail, and was wearing a cheap, faded canvas jacket. Her name was Vivian. When she walked in, she was clutching a crumpled photocopy of a research paper I had published in an educational journal years prior. "Mrs. Vance, I chose this major because I read your research," she had said, bowing deeply to me. "Being able to learn from you is the greatest honor of my life." I snapped back to reality and handed a library card to a young mother standing at the desk. That faded canvas jacket was the reason I had let my guard down back then. I had looked up Vivian's file. Her father was disabled, her mother had run away, and she had survived entirely on financial aid and scholarships. I bought her a complete set of professional art supplies. I mentored her personally, step-by-step. Everything I had learned over seven grueling years, I broke down and handed to her on a silver platter. She was a quick study. One night, we were working late. We were the only two left in the office. She suddenly stopped drawing and stared blankly at her monitor. "Cassie, if someone starts with absolutely nothing... is the only way to get ahead to steal it from someone else?" I looked up at her. Her eyes were red, but she quickly looked down and forced a laugh. "I'm just joking. It's late. My brain is fried." At the time, I thought she was just feeling insecure about her background. I felt incredibly sorry for her. Only later did I realize. That was the night she had made her choice. Six months later, at the weekly board meeting. Ethan sat at the head of the table, flipping through the quarterly reports. "Vivian's style is highly marketable." "The interactive design of this new picture book series has massive commercial potential. We'll make this our primary launch next month." I sat a few seats down on his left. I smiled and added, "The interactive structure of that book is actually the advanced layout technique I taught her last week." Ethan didn't even look up. He took a sip of his coffee and moved on to the next agenda item. Over the next six months, every single stroke of genius I taught Vivian became a masterpiece published under her name alone. And Ethan began mentioning her at home more and more. "Vivian proposed a curriculum overhaul today. Her pitch was incredibly sharp—most importantly, it's exactly what the venture capitalists want to see." "Vivian stayed in the office until two AM last night. That kind of drive... it really reminds me of how you used to be." I was in the kitchen, slicing tomatoes for dinner. The knife froze in my hand. "Did you actually look at the core logic of her proposal?" I asked, turning around to face Ethan, who was leaning against the doorframe. "Isn't it the exact same parent-child reading model I designed years ago?" Ethan frowned. "Cassie, this company employs a team, not a shrine built to worship you." He walked over, looking down at me. "Vivian has a sharp business mind. Companies need fresh blood to survive. Just focus on being Mrs. Vance. Why are you trying to pick a fight with a junior employee? It's beneath you." He turned and walked away. On the cutting board, the bright red juice of the sliced tomatoes pooled like blood. At an industry dinner party a few months later, an investor who had had one too many drinks patted Ethan on the shoulder. "Mr. Vance, let's be honest. The only reason CasStart's curriculum is so successful is because of your wife, right? I read her early curriculum models. Absolutely brilliant." Ethan swirled the red wine in his glass and smiled smoothly. "Oh, not at all. It's a team effort. Cassie's health hasn't been great, so she stepped away from the business a long time ago." On the drive home, he didn't say a single word. He didn't speak to me after we got home, either. He took a shower, locked himself in his study, and kept the lights on all night. The very next day, he had HR remove my photo and bio from the "Founding Team" section of the company website. The official excuse was a "website redesign to streamline information." When someone on an industry forum posted: "The soul of CasStart is still the founder's wife, Cassie," Ethan had the PR department issue a formal statement that same afternoon: "The CasStart creative team is led entirely by our Chief Creative Officer, Ms. Vivian Ward. Mrs. Cassie Vance stepped down from all core operations two years ago." I saw the press release while sitting on the living room rug, hand-painting a bedtime story for the four-month-old baby growing inside my womb. Yet, that very evening, two insulated luxury delivery boxes arrived at the house. They were filled with expensive organic prenatals, gourmet health foods, and designer maternity wear that Ethan had ordered his assistant to fly in. I turned my phone face down on the rug. I picked up my brush and continued painting the little elephant in the book. It was the first book I was making for my baby, titled "Waiting for You." He's just trying to protect me from public gossip, I told myself. Everything will be fine once the baby is born.
Vivian became a frequent guest at our house. Every time she visited, she brought home-baked low-sugar treats and prenatal vitamins. I even showed her my unpublished curriculum drafts. When she left, she would stand at the doorway, her eyes red, holding my hand. "Cassie, you are so good to me. I don't think I can ever repay your kindness." I patted her hand, smiling. That night, I was sitting on the sofa, sewing a baby blanket. My phone buzzed. A former colleague from CasStart had sent me a screenshot. It was from Vivian's private Snapchat story. She had forgotten to block the newer employees. The photo didn't show her face. It was a silhouette of Ethan sitting at his desk, reviewing documents under the warm office light. The caption was just three words: "My only sun." I stared at those words on the screen. My hand shook, and the sewing needle pierced deep into my finger. Blood welled up instantly. I didn't reach for a tissue. I just pressed my bleeding finger against my rounded, four-month-old belly. When I was seven months pregnant, in the dead of a freezing winter night, I woke up. A sharp, tearing pain suddenly ripped through my abdomen. It felt like a cold blade was being twisted inside me. Warm, thick liquid instantly soaked through my pajamas. With trembling hands, I reached for my phone on the nightstand. I dialed his number. "The number you have dialed is currently switched off..." I gritted my teeth, sliding off the bed onto the cold hardwood floor. My blood dragged a long, horrifying smear across the wood. I called seventeen times. Every single call went straight to voicemail.
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