Chapter 1

The memory was a ghost that never left me, a film of a life I had already lived and lost.

In that other life, the end was cold and dark. They said I had shamed the family, that I was a hysterical woman who couldn't accept her husband' s new love. Mark, my Mark, the man whose hands I held while he cried over anatomy textbooks, stood by and watched. He watched as they dragged me through the mud of public opinion. He watched as they took my son' s future and gave it to another boy.

And in the end, after all the fighting, all the begging, all the humiliation, my son Tom gave up. The light in his eyes went out. He left me alone in a world that had turned its back on us. Mark didn't even come to the funeral. He was at a gala, accepting an award.

That was the end. A drowning. Not in water, but in despair.

Then, I opened my eyes.

The air was thick with the smell of disinfectant and something else, something familiar. Hospital cafeteria chili. It was the smell of a Tuesday. Specifically, the Tuesday Mark was supposed to pick up Tom from school for his sports physical, the day before the scholarship committee met.

The day it all started to unravel.

I wasn't dead. I wasn't grieving a dead son. I was back.

The realization hit me not like a gentle wave, but like a car crash. I sat bolt upright in the stiff chair in the hospital breakroom. My nurse's uniform was wrinkled. My coffee was cold. A half-eaten sandwich sat on the table.

This was my chance. A chance I didn't ask for but would not waste.

I didn't think. I just moved. I tore off my hospital badge and threw it on the table. I grabbed my purse and ran out of the breakroom, my sensible shoes squeaking on the polished linoleum. I didn't clock out. I just left.

The high school was only ten blocks away. I ran them all. My lungs burned, and my legs ached, but the physical pain was nothing. It was fuel.

I burst through the main doors of the school just as the final bell was ringing. Students poured into the hallways, a river of noise and teenage energy. I pushed through them, my eyes scanning the crowd.

And then I saw them.

Mark was standing by the main office, looking every bit the successful surgeon. His coat was expensive, his hair was perfectly styled, and his smile was a weapon. Standing next to him, clinging to his arm, was the socialite. The woman who had stolen my life. She was beautiful, dressed in clothes that cost more than my monthly salary.

And between them, looking small and uncomfortable, was her son. He was a year older than Tom, bigger, with a smug look on his face.

My Tom was nowhere in sight.

The rage that had been simmering for a lifetime, or just a few minutes, boiled over. I didn't care who was watching. I didn't care about making a scene. A scene was exactly what they deserved.

I marched right up to them. I ignored the woman. I ignored her son. I looked straight into Mark' s handsome, treacherous face.

"Where is my son?"

My voice was raw, louder than I intended. A few students stopped to look.

Mark' s smile faltered. He looked surprised, then annoyed.

"Sarah? What are you doing here? You should be at work."

"I asked you a question, you son of a bitch. Where is Tom?"

The socialite flinched at my language. She tightened her grip on Mark' s arm.

"Now, Sarah, let' s not cause a scene," Mark said, his voice low and threatening.

"A scene?" I laughed, a broken, ugly sound. "You want to talk about scenes? How about the scene where you abandon your family? How about the scene where you steal your own son' s scholarship and give it to the son of this... this vixen?"

I pointed a shaking finger at the woman. She gasped, her perfectly painted mouth falling open.

"How dare you!" she whispered.

More people were watching now. Teachers, parents, students. A circle was forming. The whispers started.

"Who is that?"

"I think that' s Dr. Evans' s ex-wife."

"She looks crazy."

Mark' s face was turning red. He was a man who lived and died by his reputation. I was setting it on fire right in front of him.

"Sarah, stop it. You' re embarrassing yourself," he hissed.

He grabbed my arm, his fingers digging into my skin. In my old life, I would have flinched. I would have let him drag me away.

Not this time.

I yanked my arm free.

"Don' t you touch me."

Just then, my son Tom came out of the gym, his bag slung over his shoulder. He saw the crowd, saw me, saw his father. His hopeful face, the face I had just dreamed of losing forever, clouded with confusion.

"Mom? Dad? What' s going on?"

Mark saw him and his composure completely broke. He was sweating now, his eyes darting around at the watching faces. He had built a careful, perfect world for himself, and I had just taken a sledgehammer to it.

He rushed over, not to me, not to his son, but to try and control the damage.

"Everything is fine," he announced to the crowd, forcing a tight, unnatural smile. "My ex-wife is just... unwell. She gets confused sometimes."

A few women in the crowd looked at me with pity, but their eyes were hard. They looked at my wrinkled uniform, my messy hair, my frantic expression. Then they looked at the socialite, so calm and elegant, looking like the victim.

They believed him. They saw a crazy ex-wife and a poor, successful man just trying to move on.

"That' s right," one of them muttered to her friend. "Trying to get money out of him, probably. Pathetic."

The humiliation was a familiar burn. But this time, it didn' t make me want to shrink away. It made me want to fight harder. I had been their victim once. I would not let it happen again.