Chapter 2: Poker Faces and Old Ghosts

A week later, Marcus came back from a business trip overseas. I was still in Maple Heights, our quiet neighborhood outside Savannah, sitting around my old oak dining table playing poker with three A-list celebrities. The lipstick mark on my cheek—my penalty for losing the last hand—stood out, bold magenta and unapologetic.

One of the celebs groaned as he tossed his cards, "If I lose again, I’m posting our group selfie on Instagram and tagging TMZ."

Marcus’s eyes were rimmed red when he walked in, like he’d flown straight through a thunderstorm. "Rachel, do you not love me anymore?" His voice was raw, cracked around the edges.

I barely looked up from my cards, but I gave him a crooked, reckless grin—the kind you give when you’re past caring what breaks next. "Marcus, it’s not that I don’t love you anymore."

"It’s that the Rachel who loved you is already gone."

"She died the moment you and your little assistant were kissing and tangled up in the break room, ignoring her calls for help."

The room went dead silent. Someone’s phone vibrated, but no one dared check it. For a second, I caught the faint whiff of espresso and roses—leftovers from my earlier pretense at a good day.