Chapter 2

The flashing blue and red lights painted the front of the house in strobing colors, a stark contrast to the warm glow inside. A neighbor, woken by my screams, had called the police. Two officers stood on the lawn, their expressions a mixture of professional calm and confusion.

Mark walked over to me, his posture stiff with anger. He spoke in a low, furious whisper so the officers couldn't hear.

"This is a disaster, Ava. Look what you've done. If you want me to handle this, to make this go away without a huge scene, you will go inside right now and apologize to Sarah."

"Apologize?" I couldn't believe what I was hearing. "Mark, I was attacked. She has nothing to do with this."

"She has everything to do with this!" he hissed back. "Your coming here created this drama. Now, you have two choices. Apologize, and I'll tell the police it was a misunderstanding. Or don't, and you can explain to them and all our neighbors why you were screaming like a crazy person on my lawn."

The officers were watching us. I felt the weight of their gazes, the judgment of the entire neighborhood. I was trapped. Swallowing the bitter taste of humiliation, I nodded stiffly. I walked past him, up the steps and into the house. Sarah was sitting on the sofa, sipping a cup of tea, looking perfectly composed.

"I'm sorry," I mumbled, the words feeling like ash in my mouth. I couldn't bring myself to look at her.

Mark followed me in and gave a curt nod, satisfied. He went back outside to dismiss the police with a smooth, practiced lie about a small marital dispute that got out of hand.

I was finally inside my own home, but it felt like a stranger's house. The air was different, perfumed with a cloying floral scent I didn't recognize. On the mantelpiece, where a large family portrait of me, Mark, and Ethan used to hang, there was now a new photo. It was of Mark, Ethan, and Sarah, all smiling brightly on a beach I'd never been to. My entire existence had been erased. The throw pillows on the sofa were new, the magazines on the coffee table were hers, her shoes were neatly lined up by the door.

I spotted the manila envelope on the dining room table. The divorce papers. That was the only reason I was here. I walked towards it, my movements feeling stiff and robotic.

"Oh, Ava, you must be so shaken," Sarah's voice cut through the silence. She stood up and moved to intercept me, blocking my path to the table. She held out a glass of water. "Here, drink this. You poor thing." Her eyes were wide with fake concern, a perfect mask of sympathy that did not reach her cold, calculating eyes.

"I'm fine," I said, sidestepping her. "I'm just here for the papers."

Mark walked back in, closing the door firmly behind him. He looked exhausted and deeply annoyed.

"Just sign them, Ava, and we can all get some sleep," he said, his tone devoid of any emotion except impatience. "I have to take Sarah to the emergency room. Her heart is racing from the shock of all this."

I stared at him, dumbfounded. "The emergency room? I'm the one who was attacked."

"It's stress, Ava. Something you clearly know how to cause," he snapped.

Sarah, ever the actress, put a delicate hand to her chest. "I'll be okay, Mark. Maybe Ava would like a snack before she goes? I baked some cookies earlier." She bustled into the kitchen and came back with a plate. On it were perfectly round peanut butter cookies.

She held the plate out to me. "Here, have one. They're still warm."

I flinched back as if she'd offered me poison. I have a severe, life-threatening allergy to peanuts. One bite could send me into anaphylactic shock. I've had it since I was a child. Mark knew this better than anyone. He was the one who rushed me to the hospital when I was twenty after accidentally eating a dish cooked in peanut oil. He was the one who used to read every label, who would grill waiters at restaurants, who swore he would always keep me safe.

I looked at him, waiting for him to say something, to remember. But he just looked at me with that same impatient glare.

"What's wrong now, Ava? She's just offering you a cookie. Take it or don't, but let's get this over with."

He didn't remember. Or maybe he just didn't care anymore. The realization was a quiet, devastating blow. This man, who had once held my life in his hands and promised to protect it, couldn't even recall the one thing that could kill me.

I remembered a warm summer evening years ago, sitting on this very porch. He had kissed me and said, "I'll always be your protector, Ava. I'll never let anything hurt you." The memory, once a source of comfort, now felt like a cruel joke. The man who made that promise was gone, replaced by this cold stranger who stood before me, eager for me to sign away our life together so he could take care of his new love.

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