Chapter 4

The plan was set in motion with cold, calculated precision. Matthew had arranged everything. A new life, a new identity, a quiet place to work in D.C. where no one would know the name Jocelyn Scott. All I had to do was die.

The stage for my final act was our family's lake house, a place that once held happy memories, now just another part of the life I was shedding. We went for the weekend, a trip orchestrated by Ethan' s team to show a "period of healing" after the "tragedy." Ethan, of course, wasn't there. He was away at a high-level political retreat, planning the next phase of his campaign: his miraculous recovery. He' d told David he couldn' t wait to see my face when he "remembered" me, expecting tears of joy and gratitude.

The irony was a bitter pill.

On a cold, gray Saturday morning, I walked down to the dock. The lake was still and dark, a perfect mirror for the sky. I left a note on the small wooden table on the porch. It was short, filled with the rambling despair of a grieving mother who couldn't go on. Every word was a lie, carefully crafted to be believed.

I took off my coat and folded it neatly on the edge of the dock. Beside it, I placed my wedding ring. The final prop.

Then, I slipped into the woods at the edge of the property, following a path Matthew's contact had marked for me. A nondescript car was waiting a mile down the road. I got in without looking back.

By noon, the news was breaking. Grieving Mother Jocelyn Scott Missing, Presumed Drowned. The media frenzy was immediate and intense. They found the note. They found the coat. They found the ring. The search teams dragged the lake, but they would never find a body.

Miles away, at his luxurious retreat, Ethan was in a strategy session, mapping out his path to the governor's mansion. An aide, pale and shaken, interrupted the meeting. He whispered in Ethan's ear.

I wasn't there to see it, but Matthew told me about it later. Ethan' s first reaction was disbelief.

"A prank," he' d said, waving his hand dismissively. "She's trying to get my attention. She'll turn up."

But she didn't. The hours ticked by. The news reports grew more certain. Authorities Confirm Suicide of DA Ethan Scott's Estranged Wife. They used the word "estranged" now, a detail his campaign had leaked to distance him from the mess.

It wasn't until his aide showed him the live feed-a news anchor confirming my death, my photo on the screen next to a picture of the desolate lake-that the reality hit him.

The confident, controlled mask of the amnesiac finally shattered. He stared at the screen, his face draining of all color. He had been so sure of his power, so certain he could control every piece on the board. He had planned for my grief, my pain, my eventual forgiveness.

He had never planned for my absence.

He was stunned. The man who could manipulate the public, the press, and the entire political system stood utterly defeated by a ghost. He had won his endorsement, but he had lost the one person who knew the truth. He thought he was free. He didn't realize he had just been condemned to a prison of his own making, haunted by a woman who refused to be his victim.