Chapter 2: The Nightmares That Won’t Let Go

The night I watched Chloe die, my dreams became a prison.

They wrapped around me like barbed wire: Chloe falling again and again, her scream cut short, then nothing but awful silence. I woke up gasping, clutching the sheets like I could still catch her. Rain battered the windows, but inside, everything was suffocating and still.

When I finally surfaced, I was soaked in cold sweat, my hands and feet numb.

I shivered so hard my teeth rattled. The sheets clung to me, damp, and the hospital’s heating system couldn’t drive away the chill that burrowed deep in my bones.

The nurse’s sneakers squeaked on the linoleum, and the faint smell of lemon disinfectant clung to the air as staff rushed in, switching on the lamp and draping a thin blanket over me.

Maribel, the young nurse, pressed a cool hand to my forehead, her voice gentle. “Hey, it’s alright, sweetheart. Just a bad dream, that’s all.” Mr. Greene, the older attendant, fiddled with the thermostat, muttering, “Old place like this, never gets warm when you need it.”

But my heart wouldn’t slow down.

I pressed my palm to my chest, desperate to calm the wild beating. The world spun, like I’d jumped off a tire swing and landed wrong.

Chloe’s words from the day before wouldn’t leave me alone.

She’d told me, "Rachel, I found a way home. The system says our mission ended two years ago. If our bodies die here, we leave the plot and go back."

The word ‘home’ felt heavier than ever. It clung to me, static and electric. I tried to make sense of it, but all I could see was Chloe’s face, lit up with hope for the first time in forever.

Her eyes shone like they used to back in Milwaukee—my wild best friend, the girl who’d talk me into rooftop fireworks on the Fourth of July. For a second, we could pretend none of this ever happened.

Hope sparked inside me—a flicker I thought I’d lost.

But soon, I closed myself off again. I didn’t know if any of it was real, or just another one of Chloe’s desperate dreams.

I watched her, searching for cracks in her armor. We’d both learned to hide our pain, to fake smiles when we needed to. I kept my doubts locked away behind a practiced grin.

Two years ago, everything changed for us.

That was when the rules blurred, when the system’s messages stopped feeling like gospel. After that, nothing felt safe anymore.

Chloe and I had landed in this world together.

I remember the white-hot flash, the dizziness. One minute, we were splitting boxed wine in Chloe’s living room; the next, we woke up wearing someone else’s face, in a version of the Midwest that was almost right but not quite.

The system said if we finished the plot, we’d go home.

We clung to that, because what else could we do? No one wants to stay trapped in a story that doesn’t belong to them.

To finish our mission, Chloe and I each married—she to Derek, the governor’s son, and I to Marcus, the third son—becoming the capital’s favorite wives.

The press ate it up. There were magazine covers, charity galas, Christmas cards with smiles that never quite reached our eyes. Sometimes Chloe and I would catch each other’s gaze across a crowded room, fighting the urge to laugh or just break down.

We stood by those two men through everything. We took the hits, celebrated the wins, until finally, one became governor and the other a renowned State Senator.

It felt like we’d run a race where the finish line kept moving. Every time we thought we were done, the story threw another twist at us.

It was supposed to be a happy ending, but the system insisted there was still one last hurdle.

Chloe and I were lost, but we kept up the act.

We wore our roles like masks, but after a while, the masks started to feel welded on.

At least Chloe and Marcus had the real thing, and their days together were easy, like Sunday afternoons and apple pie.

Their home always smelled like cinnamon, laughter bouncing off the walls. Sometimes I envied Chloe—she loved Marcus without holding back. At least one of us found something real in this mess.

And Derek, even after becoming governor, was never cruel to me.

He was decent in that stiff, Midwestern way—remembered my birthday, sent flowers, stood up for me at events. There was always a sense of duty, a carefulness that sometimes felt like a locked door.

At the Governor’s Mansion, I played the First Lady.

The mansion was all polished wood floors and fresh-cut flowers in the foyer, portraits of old governors peering down from the walls. The distant hum of Fox News drifted from the kitchen TV. I hosted parties, smiled for the cameras, cut ribbons for charity.

Derek’s birth mother, the former First Lady, never got the love she deserved. The late governor favored his second wife and her youngest son.

Everyone in town gossiped—about inheritances, who got what, who was left out. Some things never change, not in any world.

The only thing the late governor ever left Derek was the title of heir—no affection, not even a kind word.

People told stories: how the old man wouldn’t even say Derek’s name, left him waiting outside for hours. Derek never spoke of it, but sometimes I’d catch him staring at that portrait, jaw clenched tight.

As the youngest son grew, Derek’s place became less secure.

State senators whispered in back rooms. His only real allies were his mother, Marcus, and—against all odds—me.

At his lowest, even with his mother still alive, besides Marcus, I was all he had left.

We formed a strange little alliance. There were nights on the back porch, sipping whiskey, barely talking. He’d ask what I missed about home. I’d talk about Wisconsin snow days or late-night Culver’s runs.

Eventually, Derek became governor.

His first move was to make me First Lady.

He stood before the press, voice steady, and made it clear I was staying at his side. It was more than a title—it felt like a promise, even if it was only for show.

After that, he kept his distance from the matchmakers. No matter how the state’s elite tried to throw their daughters at him, Derek didn’t budge.

Rumors flew. Some said he was haunted by a ghost. Others whispered about secret scandals. But he never let anyone disrespect me.

He looked out for me, made sure no one crossed a line.

He’d pull me aside if a donor got grabby, made sure I got the first dance at every gala. Little things, but they mattered.

He hated how his father treated his mother and swore he’d never be that kind of husband or father.

He’d say it quietly, thumb tracing circles over my knuckles. I wanted to believe him.

But in the end, he still broke his promise.

Maybe we all do, when the story demands it.

After all the battles, our peace lasted just a year.

Twelve months where it almost felt like we could settle in. But stories like this never let you rest.

A year after Derek took office, Anna—his and Marcus’s childhood friend, the one they never quite let go of, sent away years ago for a political marriage—returned under the pale glow of the moon.