When Love Was a Performance

Ten years.

That's how long I, Ava Miller, meticulously built my dream life.

I left behind my past as the "notorious mean girl" Ashley King.

Now, I had Chloe, the kindest best friend, and Ethan Reed, my devoted husband.

We were expecting our first child, a symbol of our perfect future.

Then, I found Ethan's journal.

Dusty and hidden, it revealed a truth colder than ice.

My husband, Ethan, wasn't just 'reborn' – he remembered a past life.

A past where I, Ashley, was his enemy.

He married me not for love, but to "monitor the threat."

To keep an eye on me, the monster he believed lurked within.

Ten years of tender kisses, shared laughter, and deep conversations were a calculated performance.

He loved Chloe, always Chloe.

Every "gentle" touch, every "concerned" glance, was a lie.

My world shattered when, at the summer fair, he shoved my pregnant body aside to shield Chloe.

He accused me, "Did you do this?"

Then, a car swerved, and without a second thought, he threw himself at Chloe, his body slamming into mine.

I woke up in a sterile hospital room.

Our baby was gone.

My heart was torn between searing grief and burning rage.

How could he have been so blind, so obsessed with a phantom?

So cruel.

I looked at the man who destroyed everything.

"I want a divorce, Ethan."

This fake life ends now.

I will reclaim my story.

The morning sun warmed my face through the sheer curtains.

I stretched, a contented sigh escaping me.

Ten years.

Ten years since I, Ava Miller, woke up in the body of Ashley King, the notorious mean girl from "Lakeside High."

Ten years of trying to be good, to be kind.

And it had worked.

I had Chloe, the novel's actual heroine, as my best friend.

And Ethan Reed, the quiet boy next door from the books, was my husband.

My hand went to my swollen belly.

Our baby.

A symbol of this perfect life I' d built, a life so different from the one Ashley King was supposed to have.

My parents, Ashley' s parents, were wealthy, yes, but they were also supportive, loving this new version of their daughter.

I thought about Ethan, how gentle he always was.

He wasn' t the main hero in those old books, just a secondary character who loved Chloe from afar.

But in this life, he loved me.

Or so I believed.

We were happy. Chloe was happy, married to Liam, the novel's hero.

Everything was as it should be, peaceful and full.

I smiled, thinking of the baby shower Chloe was planning for me next month.

Life was good.

I had truly changed my destiny.

This charmed life was real.

That afternoon, I was looking for an old photo album.

Ethan had mentioned wanting to see pictures from our honeymoon, a silly, sentimental mood he' d been in.

His old high school things were packed in a box in the attic, stuff he' d brought from his parents' place when we first got married.

"It might be in there," I muttered to myself, carefully climbing the attic stairs.

The box was dusty.

Inside, beneath yearbooks and old jerseys, was a worn, black notebook.

Not a photo album.

Curiosity, a small, unwelcome prickle, made me open it.

Ethan' s handwriting, but younger, more forceful.

The first page hit me like a physical blow.

"I' m back. I remember everything. Ashley King. Chloe. The torment."

My breath caught.

I read on, my hands shaking.

It was a journal.

But not from this life.

It detailed his "rebirth," his memories of a previous timeline.

The timeline from the "Lakeside High" novels.

A timeline where Ashley King, the body I inhabited, had made Chloe' s life hell.

His words burned into my brain.

"I have to protect Chloe. Ashley can' t be trusted. She' ll hurt her again."

"Marrying her is the only way. I can keep an eye on her. Neutralize the threat."

His undying love for Chloe filled every page.

Chloe, Chloe, Chloe.

His true love.

The reason he was with me.

Ten years.

Our marriage, his kindness, his love – a performance.

A calculated, decade-long act to monitor the "evil Ashley."

My perfect life shattered.

The air in the attic felt thick, suffocating.

I sank to the floor, the journal falling from my numb fingers.

The baby kicked, a small, innocent movement against the turmoil inside me.

My husband didn't love me.

He loved my best friend.

And he thought I was a monster.