Chapter 1

For eight years, I gave up everything to protect my son from his deadly peanut allergy. This meant three months of crushing loneliness every winter while he and his father, Greg, lived in a separate "allergy-free zone." I called it lonely; my doctors called it seasonal depression.

But the allergy was a lie. I overheard them through the apartment door-Greg, my son Josh, and Brittany, his high school sweetheart. They were feeding my son his allergen on purpose.

"Just a little bit to keep the allergy strong," Greg coached him. It was their ticket for a secret life.

When Josh was later hospitalized for a reaction, he cried for Brittany, not me. "Mommy's always sad," he whimpered, as she swept in to play the hero.

Then I discovered the pills Greg gave me for my "depression" were actually powerful sedatives. He wasn't just lying; he was drugging me to keep me docile and confused.

The final blow was our marriage certificate-a worthless fake. He had built my entire world on a foundation of deceit. So I walked out, leaving him to the mess he created, ready to reclaim the life he stole from me.

Chapter 1

Kiana Valenzuela POV:

The cold always felt heavier in winter. It wasn't just the outside air; it was inside me, a chill that seeped into my bones the moment Greg and Josh left. Three months. Every year. Three months of silence.

My body ached. It was a dull, constant throb behind my eyes, a tightness in my chest that made it hard to breathe. The doctors called it seasonal depression. I called it lonely.

The house felt too big, too empty without their noise. Josh's laughter, Greg's heavy footsteps, even the clatter of dishes – all gone. Just the hum of the refrigerator and the ticking of the clock.

I went through the motions. Woke up. Drank coffee. Stared at the walls. Cooked meals for one that I never finished. Cleaned rooms that stayed perfectly clean. It was a ritual of emptiness.

I counted the days. Each sunrise brought me closer to their return. I imagined Josh running into my arms, Greg's strong embrace. That hope was the only thing keeping me upright.

Today felt different. An instinct pulled me to their separate apartment, the "allergy-free zone." Maybe I could leave a care package. Maybe just see them from a distance. As I neared the door, I heard muffled voices. Not just Greg and Josh. A woman. Laughter.

Then I heard her voice clearly. Brittany. Greg's high school sweetheart. My stomach dropped. I heard Josh call out, "Brittany, can we watch another movie?" Her response, warm and playful, cut through me.

This wasn't an allergy. This was a lie. A calculated, cruel lie. The pieces clicked, cold and sharp, into place. My Greg. My son. With her.

Then I heard it. "Josh, no more peanut butter for now, okay? Your dad said we need to make sure Kiana doesn't find out. Just a little bit to keep the allergy strong."

Peanut butter. Josh's deadly allergen. The world tilted. They were using his life-threatening condition. As a ticket. To be with her.

I stumbled back, my heart pounding against my ribs like a trapped bird. The pristine white walls of the hallway blurred. I couldn't breathe.

I made it back to my desolate house. The silence screamed. The warmth I' d been holding onto, the love, the hope-it all froze. I wasn't just sad anymore. I was cold. I was numb.

Josh came home later that afternoon, Greg trailing behind him. "Mom, I missed you!" he chirped, but his eyes darted away when he hugged me. It was too quick, not real.

"Did you miss my food, too?" I asked, my voice flat, almost a whisper. I looked straight at him. "Or did Brittany feed you better?"

Josh stiffened. His small face clouded. "Brittany makes the best cookies," he mumbled, looking at his shoes. His loyalty was already divided. It was chilling.

I watched him. A silent war raged inside me. "Josh," I said, my voice dangerously calm. "Do you want a candy bar? The one with the peanuts."

His eyes widened. He loved those. He knew they were forbidden. His whole life, I'd guarded him from them. He looked at me, then at Greg, who had just walked into the living room.

Greg's eyes narrowed. "Kiana, what are you doing?" he snapped, his voice sharp. "You know he can't have that."

Josh hesitated for a second, then reached a small hand out towards the candy bar I held. His little fingers brushed against the wrapper. My breath caught.

"Stop!" Greg roared. He snatched the candy bar from my hand. "Are you insane? You know how dangerous this is for him!"

I flinched at his sudden anger. My own anger, a cold, hard knot in my gut, started to unwind. "Dangerous?" I echoed, my voice rising. "Funny how it' s only dangerous when I offer it."

For eight years, his peanut allergy had been my universe. Every label read. Every restaurant vetted. Every friend's house pre-checked. I' d given up my career, my social life, everything, to keep him safe. I was the allergy expert, the shield.

I had lectured Greg countless times. "One speck, Greg. One speck can kill him." I had always been so careful, so vigilant. He was the careless one. He was the source.

"Who taught you to eat that, Josh?" I asked, my voice trembling now. I pointed at the imagined peanut butter. "Was it Brittany? Did she tell you it was a fun game?"

Greg stepped in front of Josh, shielding him. "Kiana, what are you talking about? Are you feeling okay? You're being irrational."

"Irrational?" I laughed, a hollow, bitter sound. "I heard you, Greg. I heard you tell Josh to keep eating peanut butter. To keep his 'allergy strong' for his visits with Brittany." My words were ice against his mask.

He paled, his jaw clenching. "You misheard," he said quickly, too quickly. "You're stressed. You're imagining things."

He grabbed Josh's hand. "Come on, son. Let's go get some dinner. Your mom isn't feeling well." He pulled Josh away, out of the house, leaving me standing alone in the echoing silence.

I didn't cook dinner. The kitchen stayed cold, the stove dark. He came back hours later, Josh asleep in his arms. He put Josh to bed, then came to find me.

"Kiana, honey, I know you've been down lately," he said, trying to put his arm around me. I pulled away. "But you can't just lash out like that. It scares Josh."

"Scares Josh?" I whispered. My throat felt raw. "Or scares you?"

He sighed, running a hand through his hair. "Look, I'm sorry if I was harsh earlier. I just worry about you when you get like this. We'll find something for dinner. I'll order in." He turned to the kitchen.

My head throbbed. The pain was more than just a headache. It was a physical manifestation of the betrayal, a searing heat behind my eyes and a crushing weight on my chest. I felt like I was being squeezed, pressed flat, until I disappeared.

I walked into the bathroom. The sharp edge of a broken ceramic shard from a forgotten planter called to me. I pressed it against my arm. A thin line of red welled up, stinging. It was a small, sharp pain, a distraction from the crushing, dull ache inside. It made me feel something, anything, other than numb.

I curled up on the cold bathroom floor, the tears finally coming, hot and furious. I cried until my eyes burned, until my body shuddered with exhaustion, until sleep claimed me.

When I woke, the room was still dark. The physical pain was still there, but muted. My mind, however, was terrifyingly clear. The "allergy," the isolation, my depression, the pity, the self-blame-it was all a carefully constructed stage. And I, the grieving wife, the lonely mother, had been the star of his cruel, elaborate show.