Chapter 4

The memory of Charley' s face, demure yet cunning, still burned. I shook my head, trying to dislodge the image, but it clung like a bad smell. I reached for the small, ornate frame on the counter, polishing the glass with my thumb. Inside was a photo of Emma, her gap-toothed smile radiating pure joy. She was my anchor, my reason.

"Alice?"

I looked up. It was Brenda, one of my loyal morning regulars, a woman who had seen me through countless silent battles. She pointed to the half-eaten pastry on my plate. "You didn't touch your croissant again. Is everything alright?"

I forced a smile. "Just not feeling it today, Brenda."

She chuckled. "Still not a fan of raspberry, huh? I remember you saying that when you first opened. Always thought it was odd, since most women love a good raspberry danish."

My smile faltered. My hand froze on Emma's photo. Raspberry danishes. My mother's favorite. And Dax's.

My mother, a woman of gentle strength, loved them. My father, boisterous and loving, would always bring them home on Saturdays, a peace offering after a week of frantic business. Our kitchen would fill with the sweet, tart aroma, a scent of home and happiness. We were a family, whole and unbreakable. Or so I believed.

It was during my mother's final days, when she was fading so fast, that she whispered her last wish. "A raspberry danish, darling. Just one more, for old times' sake."

My father, his eyes swimming with tears, had rushed out. He was desperate to fulfill her smallest desire. I still remember his frantic call from the road, his voice choked with grief. "She's gone, Alysa. Your mother... she's gone."

The next call was from the police. My father's car, mangled beyond recognition, on a winding country road. He had swerved, lost control. They found the danish, still in its white paper bag, stained crimson with his blood.

In a single, brutal day, I lost them both. The world had gone silent, leaving me adrift in a sea of grief and shock.

Brenda, seeing the distant look in my eyes, reached across the counter and gently touched my arm. "Oh, Alice. You went somewhere dark, didn't you?"

I nodded, unable to speak. The memories were a visceral punch to the gut. The smell of raspberry, once a comfort, now a harbinger of unspeakable loss.

"It sounds like you've been through so much," Brenda said softly. "It's a wonder you' re even standing here, running this beautiful place." She paused, her gaze thoughtful. "And your little Emma... she looks so much like her father. He must be very proud."

I flinched, biting back a sharp retort. Emma's father. Dax. The man who had walked through the ashes of my life and built his own empire on the ruins.

"He's not involved," I managed, the words tight and clipped.

Brenda nodded slowly. "I see. Well, he's certainly missing out on something special. You know, sometimes I wonder about your past, Alice. You carry yourself like royalty, even when you're scrubbing floors. And then there are the rumors... about your husband." She lowered her voice conspiratorially. "That he was some big tech mogul, and you just up and left him. Disappeared into thin air, they say."

My blood ran cold. The rumors. They had followed me, even here. Five years. It wasn't enough.

"People talk," I said, trying to sound dismissive. "They always will."

Brenda smiled kindly. "They do. But no one here believes the bad stuff, Alice. We see the good in you. We see how hard you work, how much you love Emma." She squeezed my arm gently. "It must have been so hard, being alone, with everything you lost."

Her words, simple and kind, cracked something open inside me. My eyes pricked with tears, unexpected and unwanted. No one had spoken to me with such raw empathy in so long.

I remembered the early days with Dax, after my parents' funeral. He was my protector, my savior. He had orchestrated the entire funeral, sold off my father's failing company, promising to rebuild it under his own name, to honor his memory. He had insisted we marry immediately, to consolidate our assets, to face the world as a united front.

"Alysa," he had said, holding my hand, his eyes earnest, "your father gave me a chance, a family. Now, I'll give you one. I'll take care of you. Forever." He even transferred a significant portion of his nascent tech company's stock into my name, a grand gesture of commitment.

I had clung to his promises like a drowning woman to a life raft. He was my world. I dedicated myself to him, to his vision. I was the devoted wife, always there, always supportive, always believing. I overlooked his long hours, his frequent business trips, his occasional mood swings. He was building an empire, after all. He was working for us.

He loved me, or so I thought. He would publicly declare his undying devotion in interviews, praise my intelligence and unwavering support. He would surprise me with lavish gifts, whisk me away on spontaneous trips. He called me his muse, his anchor, the reason for his success.

I was swept away by it all. I buried the grief for my parents, the anger at life's cruelty, under a mountain of engineered happiness. I was Mrs. Dax Roth, the wife of a self-made tech icon. And I was gloriously, blissfully in love.

Until my 30th birthday.

I was at home, waiting for him, candles lit, a small, intimate dinner prepared. He was late, as usual. But this time, a news alert flashed across my phone. A gossip site. A grainy photo. Dax. And Charley. Holding hands. Leaving a private jet in the south of France. My heart stopped.

I called him. He answered, his voice smooth, untroubled. "Alysa, darling! Happy birthday! I'm so sorry, a last-minute business deal came up, I'm stuck in transit. I'll be home as soon as I can, I promise." He sounded tired, but loving. He even made a joke about the surprise I was planning.

Just then, the doorbell rang. It was Charley. She stood there, a wide, innocent smile on her face, holding a small, beautifully wrapped gift. "Happy birthday, Alysa!" she chirped. "Dax asked me to drop this off. He said he was so sorry he couldn't be here."

I stared at her, the phone still pressed to my ear, Dax's voice still echoing in my mind. The betrayal hit me like a physical blow. It wasn't just him. It was her too. My friend. The woman I had brought into our lives. They had orchestrated this lie, together. They had known.

The gift in her hand felt like a mocking gesture. The phone in mine felt heavy, hot. My world, the happy, perfect world I had built around Dax, imploded. The pain was immediate, sharp, and absolute. I was married to a liar, and my best friend was his accomplice. My happy birthday was a lie. My love, a joke.