Part 1My Daughter Died While You Were Cheating

I fell for my best friend’s rival.

The day I finally confessed, my best friend’s eyes went red, her face shifting through a kaleidoscope of shock and betrayal. In the end, she forced out a tight, biting, “Congratulations.”

But afterward, she turned all her focus on Reid. She sparred with him academically, then ruthlessly sabotaged him in the corporate world. I thought she resented him for stealing the top spot in my life, the one she’d always coveted.

It wasn't until our fifth year of marriage that she and Reid slept together.

I screamed. I cried. I begged. But they only escalated their cruelty. Eventually, I was exhausted. I chose to walk away and grant them their twisted peace.

Years later, I returned home for a Stanton University alumni event. A strange little boy tumbled into my arms, his face a startling, miniature replica of Reid’s.

Our former class president laughed upon seeing us.

“Is this yours and Reid’s kid? I always knew you two had a spark, even back then.” He chuckled conspiratorially. “I used to joke that even though you were always bottom of the class, you had a best friend who was number two, and a boyfriend who was number one!”

I was about to correct him when my old best friend, Blair, rushed over, grabbing the boy and clutching him tight.

“Finn! Why did you run off? You scared Mommy half to death!”

Reid was right behind her. He froze the moment his eyes landed on my face.

“Sierra, you’re alive?”

* * *

Blair’s head snapped up, her expression a mask of pure, visceral shock.

To them, I had been lost at sea five years ago. Drowned.

I offered them a slow, distant smile. “My luck held out. I just swallowed a lot of saltwater.”

Blair, ever the quick study, regained her composure instantly. She shook the little boy in her arms gently.

“Finn, this is Aunt Sierra. You should call her Godmother.”

We'd once promised that if we married, we'd catch each other’s bouquets, and if we had children, we’d be the godmothers.

The boy, Finn, shyly whispered, “Godmother.”

I didn’t acknowledge it. Turning to the class president, I simply said I had an appointment and prepared to leave.

The president, sensing the toxic atmosphere hanging over the three of us, was eager to see me go. Reid, however, was determined to follow.

“Sierra, where are you headed? I can drive you.”

Blair’s lip twitched almost imperceptibly, but she said, “Yes, it’s not safe for you alone. You don’t even drive.”

I inwardly scoffed. After all these years, she still saw me as the helpless, flighty girl.

But a free ride was a free ride.

On the way, Reid kept peppering me with questions about my life. I kept my answers clipped and minimal.

I told him I was rescued and survived. I told him I’d been living overseas, selling my art. I was back now because a long-time buyer wanted to meet in person.

Reid’s voice suddenly climbed an octave.

“Man or woman? Are you sure they’re trustworthy? You need to keep your guard up.”

I didn't spare his feelings. “Friends I’ve known for years aren’t trustworthy. A husband I shared a bed with isn’t trustworthy. How, then, can I judge a stranger?”

Reid fell silent. Blair’s face turned an ugly shade of gray.

When we arrived at my place, I got out, collected my bags, and then turned back toward the car, stopping beside the little boy, Finn. He had Reid’s eyes and Blair’s mouth.

The moment I reached a hand toward him, Blair reacted, pulling Finn tight into her chest, her eyes wide with terror.

“What are you doing? You want my child to pay for your revenge? He’s innocent!”

Reid warned my name, his voice low and dangerous.

I simply reached out and plucked a small, hard fruit stone from Finn’s lips.

“I was afraid he’d end up like my child—choked and suffocated, with adults right there, too blind to save him.”

Their faces went white. The silence was absolute.

Back inside my home, I checked my messages. Mr. Albright had confirmed our meeting. He genuinely admired my work; over the years, he’d observed every new piece I created, even if he didn’t buy it.

I was back for him, yes. But I was also here to finish a much older, darker piece of business.

I met Mr. Albright in a quiet, upscale coffee shop. He looked to be in his late fifties, with a kind, reserved face.

“Ms. Wyatt,” he said warmly. “I see so many stories in your paintings. They make me deeply curious about you.” He paused, looking around the nearly empty shop. “Would I be privileged enough to hear some of them?”

I nodded.