Eight Years of Lies

My life as a pastry chef with dreams as sweet as my confections was shattered in an instant. The doctor' s words echoed: "Acute myeloid leukemia."

But that diagnosis was only the first blow. Numbly, I returned home, only to discover a hidden folder on my longtime boyfriend Liam' s tablet: "Walker_Harrington_Private." Inside were marriage certificates and photos of Liam, beaming, with his wife, Bella-dated three years ago.

My heart didn't just break; it stopped. The man I loved, the one I' d been sketching wedding cakes for, had a secret wife. Then, the true horror unfolded: I overheard Liam casually discussing "the Ava project" with a colleague. His plan? Use me as an incubator for a child for him and Bella, who was barren. He' d meticulously crafted my world, ensuring I had no one but him, even starting malicious rumors during our college days to isolate me.

Eight years. My entire future, my security, was a meticulously woven lie. The sickness eating my body felt less painful than the absolute, soul-crushing betrayal. How could I have been so utterly blind? So stupidly devoted to a monster?

But in that abyss, a flicker of cold defiance sparked. A brochure for experimental CAR T-cell therapy in Boston. I would fight for my life, but on my own terms. My only path forward: survive the leukemia, and completely disappear from Liam' s monstrous game.

The doctor' s words hung in the sterile air.

"Acute myeloid leukemia."

AML.

Aggressive. Poor prognosis.

My breath hitched.

The fatigue, the bruises I' d tried to ignore for months, suddenly made horrifying sense.

I was twenty-eight.

A pastry chef with dreams as sweet as my confections.

Eight years with Liam Walker.

My Liam.

I' d been sketching wedding cake designs just last night, a silly, hopeful habit.

A future, a family, all of it felt like it was dissolving.

He said the words again, something about treatment options, survival rates.

It was all a blur.

I nodded, numb.

Somehow, I drove home to the apartment Liam and I shared.

It was our sanctuary, or so I thought.

Liam was at work, a rising star at his finance firm.

He wouldn' t be home for hours.

The silence in the apartment was deafening.

I needed something, anything, to distract me from the abyss opening up.

Music.

Liam had an old tablet he rarely used.

Our shared playlists were on it.

I fumbled with the device, my hands shaking.

It powered on slowly.

A cloud-synced folder caught my eye.

Not music.

"Walker_Harrington_Private."

Curiosity, a cold dread, made me tap it.

Marriage certificates.

Liam Walker and Isabelle "Bella" Harrington-Walker.

Dated three years ago.

Three. Years.

My heart stopped.

Then, photos.

A lavish wedding. Liam, beaming, handsome in a tux.

And Bella.

Sophisticated, beautiful, with an old-money aura I could never replicate.

She looked... familiar.

Her eyes.

They were hazel, a distinctive, uncommon shade.

Just like mine.

Her facial structure, the curve of her jaw...

It was like looking at a distorted, wealthier version of myself.

The tablet clattered from my numb fingers onto the plush rug.

Leukemia. A secret wife.

Which was the bigger betrayal?

My life, the one I thought I was building, was a lie.

A meticulously crafted illusion.

My family was back in Ohio, a small town I' d fled for culinary school in New York.

Mom and Dad were gone.

My only sister lived across the country.

We weren't close.

Liam had been my everything.

My family, my anchor in this overwhelming city.

He knew I had no one else here.

No real safety net.

He' d made sure of it, in subtle ways over the years.

"Those old friends don't understand our life here, Ava."

"You don't need anyone but me."

And I, foolishly, had believed him.

I picked up the tablet, my movements jerky.

The image of Liam and Bella, smiling, their arms linked, burned into my retinas.

I wanted to smash it.

Instead, I navigated to their wedding album and, with a shaking finger, hit delete.

Then I deleted the certificate.

It changed nothing, but the small act of defiance sent a tremor through me.

Not of strength, but of pure, unadulterated rage.

It was a pathetic gesture.

The real proof was out there.

The real marriage was out there.

A memory surfaced, sharp and unwelcome.

NYU, years ago.

I was a scholarship kid, always feeling like an outsider.

Vicious rumors had spread.

That I' d faked my application essays.

That I was sleeping with a professor for grades.

I' d been devastated, isolated.

Liam, then just a charismatic classmate, had "defended" me.

He' d been my hero, my savior.

He' d dismissed the rumors as jealousy from those who couldn't match my talent.

His defense had cemented my trust, my affection.

Now, I saw it.

The timing.

Bella Harrington attended a rival university then.

She and Liam were "on-again, off-again," a wealthy, power couple in the making.

Had they started those rumors?

To isolate me? To make Liam my sole focus?

The thought was sickening.

I had to know.

I had to hear it from him, or at least about him.

Numbly, I grabbed my keys and purse.

Liam' s Wall Street office.

The security guard knew me. Smiled.

"Ms. Miller, go right on up."

Ms. Miller. Not Mrs. Walker.

The irony wasn't lost on me.

As I neared Liam' s glass-walled office, I heard voices.

Liam' s, and his colleague, Derek Chen.

Liam' s voice was cold, calculating.

Nothing like the warm tones he used with me.

Derek was on speaker.

"Seriously, Liam, Bella's getting impatient. How much longer with the 'Ava project'?"

My blood ran cold.

The Ava project?

Liam laughed, a dry, humorless sound.

"Until she's pregnant, obviously. Bella' s barren, and she' s fixated on a kid that looks like us."

Us. Liam and Bella.

"Ava' s practically her twin. Once there's a viable pregnancy, I' ll secure parental rights. Bella can finally parade around with our perfect baby."

My stomach churned.

Barren. Twin. Incubator.

Derek sounded skeptical. "Risky. What if Ava finds out about Bella? Or the kid doesn't look right?"

Liam scoffed. "She' s a naive small-town girl, worships the ground I walk on. And I' ve made sure she' s cut off most of her old friends. As for the kid, with their resemblance, it' s a safe bet. Worst case, there are... other avenues."

Other avenues.

The words hung there, chillingly vague.

My knees buckled.

I leaned against the cool corridor wall, struggling to breathe.

The Ava project.

A naive small-town girl.

He' d planned this. All of it.

For years.

I turned and fled.

Down the elevator, through the opulent lobby, out into the cacophony of Wall Street.

The city lights blurred through my tears.

My eyes burned.

My chest ached with a pain far sharper than any physical symptom of my illness.

Back in the apartment, our apartment, his apartment, I moved like a ghost.

Every photo of us, every shared trinket, felt like a prop in his sick play.

The wedding cake sketches I' d made.

Such a fool.

I found them, ripped them into tiny, unrecognizable pieces.

The rage was back, a wildfire consuming the shock.

I tore through my closet, pulling out clothes he' d bought me, gifts he' d given.

They all felt tainted.

And then I remembered.

The leukemia.

I hadn' t told him about the diagnosis yet.

I was going to, tonight.

I was going to lean on him, seek comfort in his arms.

The thought made me want to vomit.

My illness, the one that felt like a death sentence hours ago, now felt like something else.

A strange, perverse escape.

If I was dying, I wouldn't have to endure this for long.

But another thought, a flicker of defiance, sparked.

A brochure.

My local oncologist had mentioned it, a long shot.

An experimental CAR T-cell therapy program in Boston.

"Highly selective," he' d said. "For cases like yours, with limited options."

At the time, it seemed too drastic, too far away.

Now, it was a lifeline.

My only focus.

I sat on the floor, surrounded by the wreckage of my naive dreams.

He thought I was a naive small-town girl.

He thought I worshipped him.

He was right, once.

Not anymore.

The diagnosis was a death sentence.

His betrayal was a different kind of death.

The death of love, of trust, of the future I' d so carefully imagined.

I found the brochure, tucked away in a drawer.

A leading cancer research institute in Boston.

A sliver of hope in an ocean of despair.

This wasn't just about surviving leukemia anymore.

It was about surviving Liam.

It was about escape.

Liam came home late, smelling faintly of expensive cologne and the city.

He found me on the sofa, staring blankly at the television.

"Ava, baby, you okay? You look pale."

His voice, usually a balm, now grated on my nerves.

I hadn' t told him about the leukemia.

Or about the marriage certificate.

Or about his monstrous plan.

Not yet.

I needed time. I needed a plan of my own.

"Just tired," I mumbled, pulling away as he tried to kiss me.

His brow furrowed. "Rough day at the bakery?"

"Something like that."

He feigned deep concern, his arm going around my shoulders.

I flinched internally.

His touch, once comforting, now felt like a violation.

He started talking about his day, a big deal he was closing.

I tuned him out, the words "Ava project" echoing in my mind.

Over the next few weeks, he was a caricature of the loving boyfriend.

Flowers, sweet nothings, extra affection.

It was all a performance, a calculated effort.

Then he started subtly pressuring me about contraception.

"Don't you think it's time, Ava?" he' d murmur, nuzzling my neck. "My career is finally stable. We could start a family."

A family.

To bring "light" into our lives, he said.

Light for him and Bella, more like.

I saw through his charade.

He was desperate to impregnate me.

Before my health, which he knew nothing about, deteriorated further.

Or before any potential treatment, which he also knew nothing about, could make conception impossible.

"Maybe," I' d say, feigning consideration. "Let me think about it."

I was buying time.

Time to make arrangements for Boston.

Time to figure out how to disappear from his carefully constructed narrative.

His increased physical demands were cloying.

Before, I' d seen his appetite for me as passion, as a sign of his deep love.

His hands were always on me, his desire seemingly insatiable.

I' d felt cherished, wanted.

Now, I saw it for what it was.

A farmer checking his livestock.

A means to an end.

His end.

Bella' s end.

My body was just a vessel.

His touches made my skin crawl.

I feigned headaches, exhaustion, anything to avoid him.

But he was persistent.

"A baby will fix everything, Ava. You'll see."

Fix everything for whom, Liam?

One morning, I woke up with a dull ache in my bones, a familiar companion these days.

I stumbled to the bathroom, nausea rising.

I barely made it to the toilet before I retched.

Not just bile.

Blood.

Bright red against the white porcelain.

Panic seized me.

The leukemia was progressing.

Liam knocked on the door. "Ava? You okay in there?"

"Fine!" I choked out, flushing the evidence. "Just an upset stomach."

I splashed cold water on my face, trying to erase the terror from my eyes.

He was standing there when I opened the door, his expression a mask of concern.

"You're really pale, honey. Maybe you should see a doctor."

The hypocrisy was astounding.

He wanted me healthy enough to breed, nothing more.

Later that day, he was on the phone, his voice low and intimate.

Not with Derek.

With Bella.

I froze in the hallway, listening.

"Yes, darling... I' m working on it... She' s being a little difficult, but I' ll convince her... Soon, my love, soon we' ll have our baby."

My love.

He' d never called me that with such possessive tenderness.

Tears pricked my eyes, hot and bitter.

I was a placeholder. A means to an end.

The words were a fresh stab of pain, even though I already knew.

Hearing it, the casual intimacy with his wife while I stood feet away, was a special kind of torture.

I retreated to our bedroom, the room where he' d spun so many lies.

In the back of the closet, under a pile of old sweaters, was a box.

Mementos.

A vintage band scarf was on top.

He' d "given" it to me during those early NYU days.

After he' d "saved" me from the rumors.

"This reminded me of you," he' d said, his eyes sincere. "Unique, a little bit rock and roll."

I' d cherished it. A symbol of his understanding, his affection.

Now, I remembered Bella. Her style.

This scarf was hers. Discarded, probably.

Recycled for the naive small-town girl.

It felt like a brand on my skin.

I picked it up, the fabric soft, worn.

It smelled faintly of a perfume that wasn't mine.

Bella' s.

The entire foundation of our relationship, his "heroism," was a lie.

A lie he and Bella had likely concocted together.

Liam was still on the phone in the living room.

Bella' s voice, though muffled, carried an edge of impatience.

"...make sure she' s not using anything, Liam. I want this done."

"I know, I know. I' m handling it."

Then, a shift in tone from Bella, possessive, sharp.

"And Liam? When you' re done with... her... for the night, come home. To our home. I don' t like you sleeping there anymore."

"Of course, my love. Just a little longer."

He hung up.

I heard him moving around, getting ready to leave.

He poked his head into the bedroom.

"Feeling better, Ava?"

I nodded, unable to speak.

"Good. I have to go into the office for a bit. Late night."

He blew me a kiss, the gesture obscene.

Then he was gone.

To her.

To their home.

The apartment suddenly felt vast, cold, and alien.

Every corner whispered of his deceit.

The bed we shared.

The sofa where he held me.

All tainted.

His endearments, his "I love yous."

Were they ever for me?

Or was I always just a stand-in for the woman he couldn' t have children with?

A convenient womb with a familiar face.

The realization was a fresh wave of nausea.

This time, there was no blood.

Just the bitter taste of eight years wasted.