Chapter 2

The charity gala was Sabrina' s masterpiece of public relations. It was held at her family' s sprawling estate, a monument to old money and political power. The event was supposedly for a children' s hospital, but its real purpose was to cement Ethan' s image as a tragic, resilient hero, with Sabrina as his loving savior.

I was there, of course, dressed in a plain black uniform, serving champagne. Leo was with me. I couldn't leave him with a sitter, not when he was so anxious, and Sabrina had insisted it would look "charitable" to have him there, a prop in her perfect picture.

He was playing near the grand fountain in the garden, a safe distance from the crowds. I watched him every second I could, my eyes darting between him and the tray in my hands.

Ethan was on stage, basking in the applause after a moving speech about overcoming adversity. He didn't mention me or Leo, but he spoke of "loss" and "a past he couldn't grasp," all while holding Sabrina' s hand.

Then I heard the scream.

It wasn't loud, just a choked-off cry. I dropped my tray. The glasses shattered on the marble floor, but I didn't hear them. I was already running.

Leo was in the fountain. He had slipped on the wet marble edge. His head had hit the stone lip. He wasn't moving.

Panic, cold and absolute, seized me. I jumped into the water, pulling his small, limp body into my arms. "Leo! Leo, baby, wake up!"

People were gathering, murmuring. A commotion. But through the haze of my terror, I saw Ethan. He was still on the stage, looking down at the scene. He hadn't moved. He just watched, his face a blank canvas.

Then he leaned toward his campaign manager, David, and I saw him smile. A small, fleeting smile. He said something, and a woman next to me gasped, having overheard it too.

"Well, that'll get the sympathy vote," Ethan had joked.

The world stopped. The sounds of the party, the splashing water, my own frantic heartbeat-it all faded to a dull roar. That one sentence confirmed everything. The amnesia, the accident, all of it. A lie. A long, cruel, meticulously crafted lie.

And our son, my beautiful boy, was just an "unfortunate event." A convenient tragedy to bolster his victim narrative.

At the hospital, the doctors told me Leo was gone. The words didn't register. I was in a glass box, watching a movie of someone else's life.

I was sitting in a sterile white waiting room when I overheard the final confirmation. Ethan and David were in the hallway, their voices low but clear.

"The press is calling it a tragic accident," David said. "Solidifies your story. The grieving father, already suffering from amnesia, now loses his... the boy."

"Make sure the narrative is tight," Ethan's voice was cold, all business. "No emotion from me. I don't remember him. It's a tragedy, but a distant one. It adds to the pathos."

My heart, which I thought had already turned to stone, shattered into dust. He wasn't just a liar. He was a monster. A monster who saw his son's death as a political opportunity.

That was the moment the old Jocelyn truly died. And in her place, something else began to stir. Something cold and hard and full of a terrible, quiet resolve.

He had taken everything from me. My love, my home, my son.

Now, I would take everything from him.