The college reunion was the last place I expected to see him. Rhys Beaumont, my ex-husband, a man I hadn’t spoken to in three years. One of our mutual high school friends didn’t hesitate to launch the first volley of mockery. “Willow, this is a university alumni event,” Amber sneered, tossing back her blonde waves. “Didn’t you only go to, like, a local state college? Don’t you think you’re reaching a bit?” She leaned in, her voice dropping to a theatrical whisper that carried perfectly. “Honestly, girl, have some dignity. Rhys got married—are you really still chasing him?” I held my gaze steady and offered a level statement. “I’m here to pick up my husband.” Rhys looked up from across the room, his expression caught somewhere between pity and discomfort. He hesitated, then spoke, his voice low. “Willa, we haven’t been married in three years.” I knew that, of course. And I hadn’t actually said I was here to pick him up. 1 “Pathetic. Still trying to ride on his success even after the divorce.” Dustin Cole lit a cigarette, his eyes scanning me with casual contempt. “First time I’ve seen someone actively audition for the role of the side chick.” Dustin used to be Rhys’s best friend and, once, the second best person in my world. We were a trio in high school. But when my marriage with Rhys imploded, he’d sided with Rhys instantly. Why? Because the woman Rhys eventually cheated with—the woman Rhys eventually married—was the girl Dustin had always secretly loved. And Dustin, it turned out, had spent months helping Rhys keep their affair a secret. I’d been the only fool, blind and happily clueless until the very end. “Dustin, enough,” Rhys cut in sharply, his lips pressed into a thin line. Dustin bristled, flicking the cigarette butt away impatiently. “What? I’m just speaking the truth. A clueless mess like Willa could never compare to someone like Verity Shaw. She’s brilliant, sophisticated, everything you deserve. You let this idiot drag you down for years.” Rhys met my gaze, his voice firm, “Willa isn’t dumb.” Willa isn’t dumb. Coming from the mouth of Rhys Beaumont—the certified genius, the Ivy League grad, the tech mogul—it sounded almost ridiculous. A patronizing relic of a forgotten time. But sixteen-year-old me, the naive girl I once was, had believed it wholeheartedly. My mother and Rhys’s father formed a new family the summer I finished middle school. Rhys and I were the same age and ended up at the same ordinary high school. We even shared a homeroom. He was dead last in class rankings; I was firmly in the middle. Rhys hated me. He never spoke to me. I constantly saw him in trouble for fighting, followed by the inevitable disciplinary action. Then, it would be my mother’s turn to arrive at the principal’s office, head bowed, quietly accepting the humiliating lecture. One night, I went to the kitchen for water and saw her sitting alone on the sofa, silently weeping. “Willa,” she whispered, her voice laced with despair. “How can I make Rhys accept me?” I didn't know. All I knew was that after that night, the tentative truce between Rhys and me broke. Our relationship became a series of petty wars. I’d spike his juice with mustard, dump dirty water in his backpack, or slip laxatives into his lunch. Rhys had finally cornered me, his jaw clenched with fury. “What else you got? Listen up, Willa, if you don’t manage to kill me, I swear I will make your mother’s life a living hell!” We went on like that for nearly a year, locked in a toxic, bitter stalemate. I honestly thought I would hate Rhys Beaumont for the rest of my life. Yet somehow, he eventually became the only person in the world who truly loved me. 2 Our endless feud came to a violent stop after a single, defining night of trauma. Rhys’s father beat my mother so badly she ended up in the emergency room. As the paramedics wheeled her onto the gurney, his father was still shouting vile accusations. “I chased you for a year! All you are is a pretty face, completely useless, zero ambition, zero capability!” My mother was nearly forty, and she had spent the first half of her life pampered and protected by my own father. She was indeed, as he screamed, unskilled in the ways of the world. Rhys’s cold, arrogant expression shattered the moment he heard those words. He stared at me in shock, muttering under his breath, “It wasn’t your mom… she didn’t chase my dad…” Rhys had always hated my mother, convinced she was the aggressive interloper who broke up his original family and caused his own mother to leave. But it didn't matter anymore, because after that day, I didn't have a mother either. I went to the hospital with a bouquet of the white lilies my mother loved most, only to find out she had run. She hadn’t taken a single belonging. And she hadn’t taken me. Willa Reid had no home. I didn't know where to go. Wandering aimlessly on the street late that night, I was found by Rhys. His eyes were red-rimmed, full of a fierce, silent anger. I was so afraid he was going to hit me that I immediately curled into myself. In my fear, his arms wrapped around me in a warm, solid hug. For the first time, he spoke to me with genuine tenderness. “Willa, come home with me.” “From now on, I’m your whole world.” I reached for the hand he offered and gripped it tightly. And so, from the age of sixteen, Willa Reid’s world contained only Rhys Beaumont. 3 After my mother left, Rhys’s father’s temper became more erratic and violent. Fearing for my safety, Rhys took me and we moved out. Our lives continued, but the dynamic had fundamentally changed. I stopped acting out, and the severity in Rhys’s eyes softened. He began spending more and more time reading and studying. I couldn’t help but ask him about it. “You never liked books or classes before.” He looked at me, his gaze intensely serious. Finally, he gave my cheek a gentle, helpless squeeze. “Willa, I want to give you a better life.” I watched the flush creep up his neck and color the tips of his ears, and I nodded resolutely. Willa would never hold Rhys back. I threw myself into studying with a newfound fervor. But while Rhys climbed from dead last to the top of the class, ultimately becoming the state’s top scorer, I was still stuck stubbornly in the middle. Rhys tutored me until midnight. I would stare at the calculus problems and just shake my head. He’d sigh. “Willa, you really are such a fool.” “But,” he’d add, his tone softening as he kissed my forehead, “I love that sweet, clumsy way you are. You’re adorable.” As sleep overwhelmed me, the pen slipped from my exhausted fingers. I remember mumbling, half-awake: “Rhys, can you slow down? I’m going to lose you.” Rhys had replied that I never had to chase him; he would wait for me forever. He didn’t. Later, that sweet, clumsy way I was became the very thing he grew to despise. 4 “See? I told you she was dumb. You practically killed yourself tutoring her, and she still only managed to get into a pathetic local college, didn’t she?” Dustin played with his zippo lighter, seizing the opportunity to jump back into the conversation. I glanced around the room, trying to spot my actual husband, Ethan Wells. Ethan did attend this university, but he was in a different, non-academic college. He shouldn't be here. I figured he must have sent me the wrong address. I couldn’t be bothered to prolong the argument over old history. “My apologies for the intrusion,” I said, and turned to leave. I’d texted Ethan, but he hadn’t replied, and his phone went straight to voicemail. I decided to head home. Just as I reached the car, a hand shot out and clamped around my wrist. “Sweetheart, please forgive me.” Rhys lowered his eyes. His expression held an emotion I couldn't quite decipher. Sweetheart. That familiar, infuriating nickname. It used to make me blush, a fun, flirtatious jab between us. But later, that simple, intimate greeting became the signal that sent my life spiraling into ruin. “Rhys,” I yanked my hand free, my face an impassive mask. “Are you acting? Because I’m not playing this game anymore.” The tension was cut by a light, contemptuous chuckle. “Willa. Fancy seeing you here.” Verity Shaw clicked her heels as she approached, as arrogant and haughty as she always was. In the past, I would have been instantly intimidated by her sheer presence. I would have felt a surge of admiration, maybe even an uncomfortable rush of inadequacy. But after the years of mental anguish and emotional turmoil, all that history had settled into a hard, cold, unremarkable calm. “Willa, why don’t you just come home with Rhys and me?” Verity suggested, her smile condescending. “Your mother misses you very much, you know.” I couldn’t believe how easy it was to say, three years later. “I don’t have a mother.” My brother. My mother. They all chose Verity Shaw. And I had chosen to let them go. Verity grasped my wrist, then nonchalantly shifted her pose, ensuring I couldn’t miss the thick, vintage gold bangle she wore. It was Rhys’s mother’s heirloom. I had worn that bracelet for ten years. And ten years was the exact length of my relationship with Rhys. 5 Dustin was right: I was truly a fool. Despite Rhys’s superhuman effort to tutor me, I barely scraped by with acceptance to a state college. Rhys, on the other hand, was the state’s top scorer and went on to the Ivy League—a star at Columbia. We both stayed in the NYC area, not terribly far apart. Though we couldn’t be together all the time, our days were sweet, close, and blissful. It was the simplest kind of happiness, and a memory I would cherish forever. Rhys was handsome, brilliant, and constantly pursued. But he always gave me all the reassurance I needed. I would often visit him at Columbia. He was so famous on campus that every little rumor about him would spread like wildfire. Soon, comments started popping up on the forums: She doesn't deserve him. No talent, no connections, just a face. The idiot shouldn't even look at the great Rhys Beaumont. Rhys had already made our relationship official. These posts enraged him. He said they didn't know the real me. So, on one of his final Political Science exams—a course where he was already a borderline genius—he changed every instance of the word "Materialism" to "Willa-ism." He nearly flunked the course and was publicly reprimanded by the department for being "too obsessed." The incident became an infamous campus legend. Rhys was so terrified of anyone not knowing I was his girlfriend. And yet, when it came time for us to finally get married, he said, “Willa, let’s keep this a secret for now. Let’s elope.” “Just wait a few more years,” he’d pleaded. “I’ll get to the top, and then I’ll give you the grand, public wedding you deserve.” I agreed. Four years into our marriage, Rhys was a wildly successful industry leader. I never got the grand, heartfelt wedding I’d been promised. What I got instead was his infidelity. 6 On our fourth wedding anniversary, Rhys threw a massive fit. Why? Because I had supposedly lost the heirloom bangle he’d given me. He was furious, slamming the door and storming out of the house. It was the first time he had ever spoken to me with genuine malice. It was pouring rain that night. I searched everywhere we’d been. Then, I remembered the small apartment we’d shared in high school. Rhys had bought it and kept it. The walls were covered with thousands of photos of us from those early years. The instant I pushed the door open, I saw it. Rhys had another woman pinned beneath him, their bodies colliding with brutal, desperate intensity. I knew her. Verity Shaw. Rhys had mentioned her, but only sparingly. He first told me her father had shoved her onto his team and that she was probably going to be a nuisance. Later, he said Verity was brilliant, hyper-competent, and a certified genius. It was around that time that Rhys began to feel that I was the slow, difficult one. Our shared interests dwindled. Rhys’s standard reply became: “Can you stop asking? You wouldn’t understand even if I explained it.” “Willa, you’re just so slow.” But I genuinely felt happy that he had found a partner who finally matched his intellect. Now, Verity was wearing the heirloom bangle, her eyes full of cold triumph. I had been wracked with guilt, searching frantically like a desperate dog for a thing I thought I’d lost. But I hadn’t lost it. Rhys had simply given it away. She stood up slowly, leaning into Rhys’s side, and spoke with deliberate cruelty. “What are you so shocked about?” “We’ve done it in your bed in the city, in your shower, in front of your floor-to-ceiling windows. We just wanted to try the very first place you two ever did it.” A ringing deafness overtook my ears. All the strength drained from my body. Acting purely on instinct, I grabbed the photo frame from the nearby table and hurled it. Rhys immediately shielded her, his eyes blazing red. “Willa, are you insane?!” The man who had promised to be my whole world brutally shoved me to the floor. My hand landed on the shattered glass. The photo—our very first picture together, the one where he had me wrapped in his arms, showing me off proudly—was now in pieces. And the eyes of the man above me held nothing but cold annoyance. Before I could process the pain, another bomb dropped, shattering what little composure I had left. “Willa, stop your childish drama! You’re being suffocating—no wonder your mother abandoned you!” My mother. She had remarried. She had married Verity Shaw’s father and had spent the last ten years doting on Verity, showering her with the love I had always longed for. My decade of hopeful fantasy turned into a nightmare in a single, devastating moment. Rhys later demanded a divorce. I fought him, determined not to give them the satisfaction. But I was fighting a losing battle. Everyone I loved, everyone I trusted, had switched sides. My husband. My best friend. And my mother. 7 Rhys locked me in our penthouse in the city. For nearly a week, he unleashed all his resentment and fury. “I won’t sign the papers. You want to marry her? In your dreams.” At the time, the marriage certificate was the only card I had left. I was desperate, stubborn, and acting like a lunatic. A week later, a heavily pixelated video surfaced. The audio, however, was chillingly clear. “Big Brother, I love you, but please save some love for Willa.” That was a clip from a private video he’d insisted we shoot when he was traveling. He’d said he needed a ‘consolation’ when I wasn’t physically there. Rhys was always intensely private and formal, so his request for the video had both stunned and embarrassed me. Rhys and Verity knew how to manipulate the narrative. That single, out-of-context line—“Big Brother…”—was enough to launch a massive social media scandal. The final touches of the disaster were added by my own flesh and blood and my supposed best friend. My mother publicly claimed I was incestuous, that I had seduced Rhys and forced her out of her home. Dustin claimed Rhys only ever treated me like a little sister, that I was an ungrateful person who wormed my way into his bed, forcing him to marry me out of misplaced obligation. But the final, crushing blow came from Rhys himself. I lay on the bed, numbly watching my family and friends’ accusations spread online, when Verity came to see me. She told me that she had confessed her feelings to Rhys back in college. Rhys had turned her down.
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