Chapter 1: Deathbed Betrayal

All my life, I tried to live up to the kind of virtue the mayor bragged about every Founders' Day.

As a kid in Maple Heights, I still remember the annual Founders' Day parade—how the air smelled like popcorn and cotton candy, the sticky warmth of my father’s hand as he lifted me up so I could see the mayor riding down Main Street in a cherry-red Mustang convertible. Kids chased after Tootsie Rolls tossed from the floats, laughter ringing out above the marching band. Even then, I thought virtue was more than just a word; it was a badge of honor—one the mayor might pin on me someday. Or so I believed.

It wasn’t until I lay dying that I learned my husband was still alive.

The radiator hissed by my bedside, mingling with the distant clatter of a nurse’s shoes and a TV down the hall playing reruns. My mouth tasted of cough syrup, the wallpaper faded, the air tinged with bleach and the hush that always settles before someone passes. Then, like a voice from miles away, I heard my mother-in-law quietly instruct the housekeeper:

"Natalie is gone. Go send a letter to the young master—have him bring my good grandson and daughter-in-law back to the house in a few days."

Her voice was so cool, so matter-of-fact, it sliced right through my fevered fog. My nails dug into the bedsheet, my chest tightening as betrayal flooded me. My thoughts spun in a desperate spiral—What are they talking about? Marcus—alive? Is this a fever dream?

I tried to force myself upright, to scream, to claw back some truth, but my body betrayed me. I died choking on questions and rage.

The last thing I saw was the faded photograph of Marcus on my nightstand. I left this world with a question that haunted me into the next.

When I opened my eyes again, I was back on the very day the news of my husband’s death arrived.