Chapter 2

HANNAH POV

David walked in the door an hour later, his face a perfect mask of concern. He rushed to my side on the sofa, where I was huddled under a cashmere throw, pretending to shiver.

"Hannah, my love. Your mother called, she said you were upset. What's wrong?" he asked, his voice laced with a tenderness that now felt like poison.

He reached out to touch my forehead, and I had to fight every instinct in my body not to flinch away from him. His touch, which had been my comfort and my home for five years, now felt like a spider crawling on my skin.

"Just a headache," I mumbled, pulling the blanket tighter around me. "I think I might be coming down with something."

"You poor thing," he murmured, his thumb stroking my cheek. "Let me take care of you."

Tomorrow was the fifth anniversary of Morgan's "death." Every year, David would go alone to the coast, to a spot he said she had loved, to "say a few words." He always came back melancholy and distant, and I would hold him, thinking I was comforting a man grieving a past he couldn't escape.

The hypocrisy was a physical weight in my chest, making it hard to breathe.

"You should still go tomorrow, David," I said, my voice sounding surprisingly even. "Your tradition. It's important."

He looked at me, his eyes filled with what I once thought was love, but now I recognized as something else: relief.

"Are you sure, Hannah? I can't leave you if you're sick."

"I'm sure," I said, forcing a weak smile. "I'll just rest here. I'll be fine."

He leaned in and kissed my forehead. "You're too good to me." The words were a bitter joke.

The moment he left the next morning, a strange, cold calm settled over me. The shaking had stopped. The tears had dried. There was only a hollow space where my heart used to be, and in its place, a single, clear objective: I needed proof.

I went straight to his study. The room, with its rich mahogany desk and floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, had always felt like his sanctuary. Now it felt like a crime scene. I ran my hands over every book, tapped every panel on the wall, checked under every drawer. Nothing.

My eyes landed on his laptop, sitting on the desk. Too easy. David was meticulous, paranoid. He wouldn't leave evidence of a five-year-long deception in plain sight.

I thought about the boy. Caleb. **I thought about Morgan, scrolling through that sleek, silver tablet in the park. It wasn't an iPad. It was something else.**

I scanned the study again. On a low shelf, tucked behind a row of leather-bound first editions, was a charging dock I'd never seen before. And nestled inside it, a silver tablet. Identical to the one Morgan had been holding.

My breath hitched. I picked it up. It was cool to the touch. I pressed the power button, and the screen lit up. It was locked with a passcode. A six-digit number.

My fingers hovered over the screen. What would it be? His birthday? Our anniversary? I tried them both. Access Denied.

I closed my eyes, forcing myself to think like him. Not the man I thought I knew, but the man who had lied to my face for 1,825 days. The password wouldn't be about me. It would be about them.

**I turned the tablet over, running my thumb along the smooth metal. And then I felt it. A tiny, almost imperceptible line of text near the charging port, finely engraved. I had to angle it to the light to read it. *'For my Davey. Our new beginning. 04.12.18.'***

**My stomach dropped. The boy in the park looked to be about four or five. April 12th, 2018. My hands shaking, I typed in the numbers: 041218.**

The tablet unlocked.

For a second, I couldn't breathe. Then, I opened the photo gallery.

It was an avalanche of betrayal.

There was Morgan, radiant and pregnant, with David's hand resting protectively on her belly. There was David, in hospital scrubs, holding a tiny, red-faced newborn, his eyes shining with tears of joy. The date stamp on the photo was April 12th, 2018.

There were photos of Caleb's first steps, his first birthday, his first time on a swing set. There were videos of David teaching him to say "Dada." There were family holidays to places I was told David had to go for "solo work retreats." The Alps. The Caribbean.

And then, the final, soul-crushing blow.

A photo of my own parents, Robert and Eleanor, cooing over a baby Caleb in the living room of a beautiful, sun-drenched house I'd never seen before. My mother was holding him, her face alight with a grandmother's love. A love I had never seen her show anyone.

They all knew. They were all in on it. My entire world, my entire family, was a lie.

I scrolled, my fingers numb, swiping through years of their happiness, built on the foundation of my deception. Every smile, every laugh, every shared look was a testament to my foolishness.

I found a video, taken just last week. David and Morgan were sitting on a sofa, a glass of wine in their hands.

"Are you sure she doesn't suspect anything?" Morgan asked, her voice a purr. "Five years is a long time, Davey."

David sighed, running a hand through his hair. "Hannah trusts me completely. She trusts all of us. It's cruel, I know. But it's the only way. Just a little longer, Morg. Once the final merger is complete, I'll handle it. I'll handle her. Then we can finally be a real family."

His words echoed in the silent room. *I'll handle her.*

A violent, wrenching spasm seized me. I dropped the tablet and barely made it to the bathroom before I was sick, vomiting until there was nothing left but bitter bile. I collapsed onto the cold tile floor, the lies I had swallowed for five years being purged from my body in a gut-wrenching torrent.

As I lay there, gasping for breath, the tablet chimed from the other room. A new message.

I crawled back, my body aching, and picked it up. It was a text from Morgan to David.

It was a picture of the diamond necklace David had given me for our first anniversary. Morgan was wearing it, a smug smile on her face.

The text underneath read: 'It looks better on me, don't you think? Happy anniversary of my 'death.' See you soon, my love.'