The afternoon sun cast golden rays through the large window of the Vance mansion, illuminating me as I stood before the mirror. My 8-month pregnant belly, a full and loving presence, promised a bright future. I gently smoothed my navy blue silk maxi dress, feeling the soft fabric and a stir of excitement within me. Tonight, Brandon, my husband, invited me to his company’s 15th anniversary celebration. It was a significant milestone not just for his career but for our marriage as well. I spent the entire afternoon getting ready, meticulously curling my hair, dabbing on some lipstick, and putting on the earrings he’d given me for our second wedding anniversary. I yearned to see his eyes sparkle with pride and love, just like in the early days. I whispered to myself, “I hope tonight… will be truly special.”
As I stepped into the opulent grand ballroom in downtown Seattle, the gentle strains of jazz music, the clinking of glasses, and cheerful laughter blended together, creating a warm, elegant atmosphere. Brandon met me at the entrance with a radiant smile, his hand gently squeezing my waist.
Brandon: “My love, you look stunning. I’m so lucky to have you by my side.”
Eleanor: “You too, Brandon. You look fantastic. I’m so proud of you.”
That gesture, those words, once warmed my heart. I leaned into him, savouring this rare moment of peace. “Perhaps tonight will be a new beginning for us,” I thought, a flicker of hope, radiant and fragile as a candle flame in the wind. I believed that, no matter what challenges life brought, love and family would always be my safest harbour.
Just then, Aunt Vivian, my paternal aunt and also Brandon’s marketing director, rushed towards us, interrupting our moment.
Vivian: “My Bran! The hero of the night is here! Happy 15th Anniversary! I can’t believe how far we’ve come! You’ve truly built an empire.”
She giggled, patted his shoulder, then gently placed her hand on his chest, her gaze fixed on him. I felt a pang of unease. Vivian quickly glanced at me, a fleeting look of triumph and disdain flashing in her eyes, just quick enough for me to catch.
Vivian: “Ellie, my dear! I hope you don’t mind me ‘keeping’ Brandon for so long. He’s the centre of attention tonight! You know, my job is so busy ensuring everything is perfect for him, for this important event.”
Eleanor: “It’s fine, Aunt Viv. I understand. I just wanted to congratulate him myself.”
Vivian: “Wonderful! I just want everything tonight to go perfectly, Bran. Our partners from New York are eager to meet you! They’ll be key to our international project. We’ve discussed this thoroughly, haven’t we?”
Brandon merely offered a faint smile, letting Vivian pull him towards the crowd. I stood there, feeling like an uninvited guest in a family play. My belly felt heavy, but it was Vivian’s gaze that truly haunted me: smug, proud, and calculating. Brandon seemed oblivious, or worse, he chose to ignore my discomfort.
I tried to find a secluded corner to breathe, away from the curious glances. I placed my hand on my belly, feeling my baby’s soft kicks, a silent reminder that I wasn’t truly alone. But the isolation amidst the lavish crowd made me feel even colder.
Suddenly, Vivian appeared before me, holding a glass of red wine. A radiant yet cold smile played on her lips.
Vivian: “Ellie, my dear. I know you’re pregnant, but one sip won’t hurt. This one is special, imported from Napa Valley. Your aunt personally selected it for you; you can’t refuse, right? Its flavour will help you relax, trust me. I can see you’re stressed.”
Eleanor: “Thank you, but I’m really not drinking right now. My doctor advised me to be careful. I don’t want to take any risks.”
Vivian: “Oh, I forgot! But what a shame! I poured this one just for you. I’ve been saving it since the party started; no one else was allowed to touch it! You wouldn’t want to hurt my feelings, would you? Just one tiny drop for good luck for the baby, Ellie! Just a little bit won’t hurt.”
I felt increasingly uncomfortable. She was intentionally making a scene, drawing everyone’s attention.
Eleanor: “Aunt Vivian, I truly cannot drink. I apologise. I don’t want to spoil anyone’s mood.”
Vivian: “Alright then, at least hold it for me, won’t you? My hands are freezing. I just dealt with a mountain of paperwork; my hands are shaking.”
Before I could react, she abruptly pushed the glass into my hand. Instinctively, I reached out to steady it. Just then, she “accidentally” nudged my wrist forcefully. The wine tipped forward, spilling all over her ivory silk dress.
Vivian: “Oh no! This dress was a birthday gift from my mother! It was custom-made in Paris! It’s the very dress she wore at her golden wedding anniversary celebration! How could you… do this to me, Ellie? Do you know how precious it is? It’s an invaluable keepsake!”
Every eye in the room turned to me. Whispers began to spread. Vivian started sobbing dramatically, her cries so sorrowful that many turned to look with pity, and then she ran out of the room like a child who had lost her favourite toy. I stood there, still holding the bottom half of the glass, wine dripping onto the carpet. The air grew thick and stifling. I turned to Brandon, hoping he would step in and tell everyone it was an accident. I pleaded for a glimmer of hope from him. But he just stood there, his expression unreadable, then turned away, avoiding my gaze, as if he were ashamed of me or, worse, didn’t want to get involved in a mess I had created. This wasn’t the first time he’d abandoned me in public, ignoring my discomfort and pain. I knew something was terribly wrong. My sense of betrayal and isolation grew with every passing second.
I ran into the restroom, locking the door behind me. I collapsed, sobbing uncontrollably. It wasn’t about the dress or the wine; it was about Brandon’s gaze and his silence. I realised I wasn’t just publicly humiliated; I was betrayed by the man who had once promised to protect me. I began to wonder if the entire performance had been staged, and I was the only one without a script.
When I emerged from the restroom, the party was back in full swing as if nothing had happened. I didn’t go back to Brandon; I didn’t wait for him. I walked straight to the exit, hailed a cab, and went home alone. That night, I lay on the living room couch, my belly heavy. My baby still moved, soft kicks reminding me that I couldn’t afford to be weak, that I had a life to protect. But for the first time, I felt unbearably alone in my own home, a place that was once a sanctuary, now chillingly desolate. A cold question formed in my mind, heavier than any physical pain: “If I disappeared, would anyone even look for me? Or would they just breathe a sigh of relief?”
The next morning, I woke up, my entire body aching as if the nightmare of the previous night had dragged itself into daylight. My phone vibrated incessantly, the incessant notifications sending shivers down my spine. I opened my social media app, and my heart sank. A short video, barely a minute long, showed me dancing in the living room, cradling my pregnant belly, swaying gently to Brandon’s favourite jazz music. It had been recorded a few weeks earlier, on a night I tried to cheer him up after a long day at work. I wore no makeup, just comfortable pyjamas. It was a private, genuine moment.
Beneath the video were thousands of crude, cruel, and vicious comments: “Who does she think she is? A pregnant elephant putting on a show?” “Look at that, who dances like that in those clothes? It’s disgusting!” “Someone should remind her that being a mom doesn’t mean losing all self-respect. So ridiculous!” “Trying to seduce someone with that bulging belly? How cheap!” The malicious comments cut through me like sharp blades, each word a fresh stab at my already shattered dignity.
I froze, my hands trembling. Only Brandon had that video, saved on his phone. I had never shared it with anyone else. Then a horrifying, chilling thought, like an electric current, coursed through my spine and lodged itself in my mind: He was the one who leaked it. He wanted to destroy me.
Without changing my clothes, without makeup, I sped to the house Brandon and I shared. The front door was unlocked. I heard laughter coming from Brandon’s home office upstairs. I was about to call out to him when a strange man’s voice rang out clearly, laced with complicity.
Strange man: “You really pulled it off, Brandon. Turning a boring wife into the office’s best entertainment. Aunt Vivian certainly helped you spread it everywhere. It’s going viral!”
I held my breath, slowly creeping towards the half-closed door. Brandon’s voice followed, chillingly calm, completely alien to the man I once loved.
Brandon: “She danced like she was in some comedy skit. Who records something like that and doesn’t share it? I mean, come on, her belly looked like a balloon, and she was still twisting around like a ballerina. Now the whole company’s watching, even those tough partners from Boston. Perfect for our upcoming acquisition plan.”
They both burst into laughter, the sound echoing like a slap to my pride. I gripped the corner of the wall, my nails digging into the plaster, feeling each brick give way. Brandon’s voice softened, but the bitterness remained, mingled with a terrifying calculation.
Brandon: “She thought a few little dances would make me stay. She doesn’t get it. I’ve been over this life for a long time. A woman nearing 35, drained, heavy… what’s there to hold on to? Especially when she started demanding information about finances, about the inheritance after Robert passed… The pregnancy just made everything more complicated, slowed it all down.”
Strange man: “Vivian’s prettier, younger, and sharper. That’s your world now, Brandon, next to someone like her. Anyway, it’s also thanks to Vivian that you got a significant portion of Robert’s assets, isn’t it? That woman is truly intelligent, not some soft pushover like your wife. She’s a truly amazing partner.”
I felt a surge of nausea. A disgusting truth began to reveal itself. Every piece of the puzzle clicked into place, forming a terrifying picture. I glided like a shadow, trying not to collapse right there in my own hallway. I used to believe Brandon would protect me, that he was the hero of my life, but the truth was, he had pushed me into the abyss, intentionally, calculatingly.
Three days later, an invitation to Brandon’s company’s year-end party arrived for me. “Dear Eleanor, we would be honoured to see you at this special event. Let’s reflect together on a memorable year.” Initially, I wanted to tear it up, to discard everything related to Brandon and his company. But a part of me, with a sliver of dignity remaining, told me I had to go. Not to hold on, not to demand anything back, but to confront them, to seek a final answer, to confirm that everything was truly lost, and to clearly see their true faces.
I appeared at the party on the top floor of the Lancaster Hotel in a simple yet elegant black dress, concealing my heavily pregnant belly. Each step felt heavy, but I tried to maintain my composure. Curious glances and whispers, mocking murmurs, clung to me like shadows. Vivian stood beside Brandon in the centre of the room, radiant in a bright red gown, a triumphant smile undisguised on her face.
Vivian: “Ellie, my dear! I wanted to offer you a toast to clear up any misunderstandings from last time. I truly don’t want to hold on to any bitterness in our family, especially this holiday season.”
Eleanor: “Thank you, but I’m not drinking. I’m pregnant, you know that.”
Vivian: “Oh, just one sip! Haha, didn’t you dance so enthusiastically in that video? One little sip won’t hurt! Or are you afraid of losing your figure? Or are you simply too fragile to handle a little wine?”
A few people chuckled. Brandon still stood there, silent, with even a slight smirk playing on his lips, his eyes sweeping over me with disdain. I put my glass of water down, intending to leave, but a senior employee blocked my path.
Senior Employee: “Eleanor, I heard you used to be a dancer. The whole room is curious for a live performance! Especially after your ‘viral’ video! Boss Brandon even said, You’re the company’s hidden talent; you shouldn’t hide it!”
Before I could react, the lights went out, and a single spotlight turned on, shining directly on me, blindingly bright as if to burn me. Then the music began—precisely the track from my private video that had been leaked—and it was amplified through the speakers, echoing through the room.
Eleanor: “That’s enough! What are you doing?!”
Someone: “Come on, we’re just celebrating! The company’s most viral moment! Don’t spoil the fun! Show us your moves, pregnant queen!”
My heart pounded as if it would burst from my chest; my baby moved strongly inside me as if sensing my despair and rage.
Eleanor: “Stop it! I’m not your entertainment! You have no right to do this to me!”
Vivian abruptly grabbed my arm, spinning me forcefully and throwing me off balance.
Vivian: “Oh, come on, dear. You used to dance so well. One more time, to let everyone enjoy it! Don’t disappoint them, Ellie.”
I shoved her away. The wine glass in her hand flew, spilling all over my dress and onto the floor. A few screams, then laughter followed, not joyful laughter, but mocking, malicious laughter. My vision blurred. I staggered backward, and then a sharp, excruciating pain attacked my lower abdomen, like a sharp blade piercing me. My legs buckled. A warm fluid suddenly gushed between my thighs, quickly pooling on the polished marble floor.
Eleanor: “Brandon! I… I’m going into labour! Please… take me to the hospital! Hurry! My baby… my baby is coming!”
Brandon stepped forward, frowning, his face a mask of extreme annoyance, as if I was inconveniencing him with a cheap stunt.
Brandon: “Stop it, Eleanor! Are you seriously pulling this stunt now? Trying to steal attention again? This is so dramatic! What terrible timing!”
Eleanor: “No! My water just broke! The baby… Brandon, please! Save our baby!” I weakly pleaded for help.
But he merely sighed, turned away, his gaze completely alien.
Brandon: “Someone get her out of here. Don’t ruin my party. Everyone, carry on!”
I lay there, trembling in the pool of amniotic fluid and spilt wine, amidst disgusted, indifferent stares and gleeful laughter. No one came to help. No one called for an ambulance. The music and laughter continued, uncaring, a chilling soundtrack to my tragedy.
Nearly two hours later, a night janitor, after the party had ended, found me unconscious in a downstairs restroom, in a pool of blood. I was rushed to the hospital. When I woke up, the nurse avoided my eyes. The doctor spoke softly, his voice full of pity: “We did everything we could, but it was too late. The baby didn’t make it.” I didn’t scream, and I didn’t cry. I just stared at the stark white ceiling, listening to the soft hum of the air conditioner like a tragic lullaby, I closed my eyes. Something inside me had died. Not just the death of my child, but the death of hope, of faith, of an innocent Eleanor. And there was no one to blame but the man who had once vowed to protect me.
I left the hospital on a freezing early morning, without announcements, without goodbyes. I abandoned everything in Seattle and found a small coastal town in the South, where no one knew who I was; no one knew Brandon Hayes. I needed to disappear, to bury my past.
Days after I disappeared, Brandon went to the hospital with a small gift box and a tired expression. He had no idea I had lost the baby until Linda, the nurse on duty that night, looked him dead in the eye.
Linda: “She lost the baby, and no one was there for her, no one! You know, Mr. Hayes, she called your name until the very end, begging you to save our child.”
Brandon stood frozen in the hospital lobby, a fleeting sense of guilt passing through him, quickly overshadowed by self-preservation. He returned to his company, where his true nightmare was only beginning.
Back at the office, Brandon happened to walk past the break room and overheard Vivian giggling with a small group of colleagues. He paused outside the door, didn’t knock, and just listened.
Vivian: “Who would have thought, just a few drops of that special essence and it worked better than I thought. I lost a whole month looking for the right kind, the kind that triggers early contractions but leaves no trace. So convenient! Just thinking about it makes me want to laugh.”
Colleague 1: “Wait, did you put something in her drink? Was the wine spill just a show to fool everyone?”
Vivian: “Let’s just say I gave things a little nudge and also gave Brandon his freedom. He was so tired of living with a gloomy woman who blamed everything on her belly. If a woman can’t keep her man, she shouldn’t complain. Besides, he wasn’t really keen on the pregnancy anyway. That’s why he agreed to my plan. He just needed a perfect excuse to get rid of her.”
The room erupted in laughter until they realised the door had opened.
Brandon stepped inside, his face as white as a sheet. The laughter stopped instantly.
Brandon: “What did you say? Say it again, Aunt Vivian, what did you do?”
Vivian tried to regain her composure, her smile rigid.
Vivian: “Brandon, I was just joking! Everyone here knows I didn’t mean any harm.”
Brandon said nothing more. He pulled out his phone, tapped a few times, and held it up to Vivian. The screen displayed a photo: a screenshot of a message from an old messaging app, used only by Brandon and Vivian, sent to Brandon before the year-end party.
Message: “The plan is ready, Brandon. Just wait for my signal. She’ll never dare to show her face again. And don’t forget the money you promised for the will.” It was accompanied by a winking emoji. This photo had been taken by Brandon from Vivian’s own phone, which she had “accidentally” left behind in Brandon’s office a few weeks prior.
Brandon continued scrolling through his phone, now no longer just suspicious but filled with rising horror and disgust. He found not only the video of me dancing but also old photos of me from childhood, meticulously stored in a secret folder on Vivian’s phone. Beneath each photo, Vivian had scrawled bitter, resentful captions about how I was always “favoured” or how I “stole everything” from the Vance family, haunting words full of hatred.
In another note file, Brandon discovered a secret digital diary belonging to Vivian, detailing her resentment towards me and, specifically, “the elaborate plan” for my public humiliation, the exact type of substance used in the “special wine,” and the ultimate goal of causing me to lose my baby to completely end “the favoured lineage.” The diary also mentioned a secret overseas bank account where Vivian regularly transferred money and to which Brandon also had access, along with massive gambling debts Vivian was hiding.
Brandon looked at Vivian, his eyes cold as steel, devoid of any affection.
Brandon: “Joking? A woman lost her baby because of what you did, and you call that a joke?” He shoved his phone in her face: “What is this, Aunt Vivian? These notes, these photos from the past, this whole plan? You orchestrated all of it? You hate Eleanor that much? Or do you hate the entire Vance family? And what are these debts? Were you using me to pay off your dirty gambling debts?!”
Vivian’s face went white, her body trembling, all pretence crumbling. She couldn’t deny it when Brandon played another video on his phone—a short audio recording, automatically triggered from a supposedly ended call between Vivian and a mysterious man (a loan shark Vivian owed money to) that she thought had ended.
Vivian: (In the recording, her voice dripping with venom and greed, now completely unhinged) “Absolutely, send that video. The more people see her as pathetic, the better. I want it to go viral; I want her life to be shattered. And the wine… that was just the appetiser. I had a bigger plan for the night she’d go into ‘labour.’ I researched the dosage very carefully to make sure it left no trace. She’ll lose everything, including that burden in her belly. Brandon will be mine, and more importantly, the entire Vance fortune will be ours! I’ve waited my whole life for this moment. I won’t let that girl or anyone else stop me from reclaiming what my mother deserved and what Robert owed me! He stole the love of my life, Richard Thorne, and he stole my youth! Everyone will pay!”
Vivian’s maniacal laughter echoed in the recording, mingling with the gasps of horror from the colleagues in the break room, now utterly terrified rather than amused. Brandon stood frozen. The truth was undeniable, crueller than any speculation. Vivian was not just a mistress; she was a vicious mastermind who had meticulously planned to destroy my life, including causing the death of my baby, driven by deep-seated familial envy and hatred from the past, combined with financial pressure from her secret gambling debts. She had put a labour-inducing substance in the wine she “accidentally” spilt on me, along with orchestrating the humiliating public display. Everything had been meticulously calculated.
Brandon clenched his phone, his face white. He looked at Vivian, his eyes filled with contempt and a profound self-loathing.
Brandon: “Get your things now, and don’t let me see you within 100 miles of this office again! You’re a monster! You turned me into a monster!”
He threw the pre-signed resignation letter onto the table. Vivian tried to cling to him, but Brandon shoved her away and walked out with a newfound resolve. Yet, within him, a gnawing remorse and self-disgust festered—he had turned a blind eye to the signs, even indirectly enabling Vivian’s malevolence to escape the “burden” of his marriage and the unwanted child. His betrayal ran even deeper.
Brandon continued to investigate further after Vivian’s arrest. He wanted to know if there were any more secrets. Among her documents, the police and Brandon discovered a forged old will from my deceased father, Robert Vance. This will have been altered to completely disinherit me, transferring the vast majority of his fortune to Aunt Vivian and Brandon. Furthermore, there was evidence that Brandon had known about this forged will from the beginning and had even colluded with Aunt Vivian to expedite the probate of the fake will after my father’s death. Brandon’s entire marriage to me, initially, had been a ploy for him to gain access and manipulate me, with Aunt Vivian’s help, in order to seize my legitimate family inheritance. The baby’s birth would have simply been an “obstacle” in their plan, which is why they sought to eliminate it.
But this was the truly terrifying part, revealed through old files uncovered by Julian Thorne, a mysterious financial investigator. He had been hired in secret by my mother, Catherine Vance, a few years prior to her sudden death, as she had sensed something was wrong. Julian had been silently investigating all this time, haunted by my mother’s mysterious passing and the death of his own brother—Richard Thorne.
In a locked box belonging to Aunt Vivian, the police found an old, yellowed letter from Catherine Vance addressed to Julian. The letter read: “Julian, I know she (Vivian) will never stop. She’s obsessed with Robert, believing I stole him from her. She hates Eleanor because the child is a symbol of the love between me and Robert. But the truth… the truth is even more horrifying. Eleanor is not Robert’s daughter. She is my daughter with Richard Thorne—her biological father. Vivian was madly in love with Richard, and I betrayed her by falling for him… and having a child with him. That’s why Vivian hates me so much. I have to protect Eleanor from Vivian’s madness. If anything happens to me… Julian, please protect her… and expose the truth about Robert’s death.”
Along with the letter, Julian presented old, secret DNA test results, performed shortly before my father’s death. These results proved that I was not Robert Vance’s biological daughter but the daughter of Catherine Vance and Richard Thorne. Richard Thorne was Julian Thorne’s own brother, who had died in a mysterious accident years earlier. Julian also revealed that Vivian had once been Richard’s lover, and she had always blamed Catherine for “stealing” Richard from her. I was the daughter of the man Aunt Vivian hated for “betraying” her and also the daughter of Catherine Vance—whom Vivian believed had “stolen” the love of her life.
Julian Thorne also uncovered suspicious bank transactions between Vivian and Brandon throughout their marriage. Brandon was not only having an affair with Vivian but also maintained a network of “cheating” and “playing the field” with at least three other female employees in the company, whom he used to gather confidential competitor information or to facilitate shady financial dealings. These relationships helped Brandon manipulate the stock market, artificially inflate company stock prices, and launder money through offshore investment funds.
Even more horrifying, Julian also had evidence that Robert Vance’s death was not due to a simple accident or illness but was a meticulously planned assassination by Vivian and Brandon. They had slowly poisoned Robert, fabricating symptoms of illness, to ensure his death at the precise moment before he could change his will to protect me. I had married the very man who had colluded in the murder of the father I trusted and conspired to steal my inheritance, and my paternal aunt had caused the death of my baby while simultaneously being my mother’s enemy and my biological father’s obsessed ex-lover.
Everything I knew about my family, about my origins, and about my parents’ love completely crumbled. I not only lost everything I had, but I also discovered that my life was a colossal lie, built upon hatred, envy, deception about my lineage, and the terrifying crimes of my closest family members. I was not the daughter of the father I loved, and my mother had lived in fear of her own sister’s hatred—a sister who was now the perpetrator who had killed my baby and was involved in my father’s death. Everything I believed in, from love to blood ties, from family to fortune, had vanished. My life was completely overturned, with no anchors left.
In the weeks that followed, Brandon tried to find me. He hired private investigators, checked traffic cameras, and combed through hospital records, but I had vanished as if I had never existed. His company spiralled into chaos. The recording from the break room, the twist about the forged will, the evidence of other crimes, and the horrifying secret of my lineage all leaked. The press got involved, and investors pulled out en masse. Brandon Hayes, once a celebrated CEO, became the embodiment of moral collapse and familial cruelty, a fraudster and a murderer. But I didn’t care. I sat in my small room in that quiet seaside town, sipping hot tea, trying to absorb the terrifying truth of my life. I had lost not just my husband, my baby, and my fortune, but also my origins and my identity. Everything I had trusted was an illusion.
Nearly a year later, I started over in a peaceful coastal region in the south of France. I rented a small house overlooking white sands, living simply by baking, freelance writing, and sometimes illustrating children’s books—old dreams I never had a chance to pursue while with Brandon. Creating beauty with my own hands was a healing balm. I learnt to smile again, not because the wounds had healed, but because I knew I deserved peace. Julian Thorne had contacted me and helped me understand the full truth; he was my sole anchor in the storm, a true relative I had just discovered—my cousin, the son of my biological father, whom I had never known.
One autumn morning, the bell above my small bakery door chimed. Brandon stood there, thinner, gaunt, holding a bundle of dried lavender, the kind I used to love.
Brandon: “Eleanor, I finally found you. I… I know everything now. Aunt Vivian… she’s been arrested. All the secrets… the forged will, your father’s death… everything has been exposed. I couldn’t escape either.” He hung his head, his voice trembling. “And I… I was too cowardly to face the truth. I was selfish… and I inadvertently enabled her. I knew about the forged will… I was part of that conspiracy. I even knew the truth about your father… And… Robert’s death… I was involved too. I… I’m so sorry. I know I can never make amends. But I just want you to know that…”
I cut him off, my voice cold, but my eyes filled with profound pain.
Eleanor: “You’re sorry? Sorry for what? For my life being destroyed? For my baby being lost? For the death of the father I trusted? For all the lies that built my identity? Or for all the other women you “cheated” on me with to facilitate your dark schemes?”
Brandon placed a thick folder on the table, documents transferring his remaining company ownership to me.
Brandon: “I’ve lost all, Eleanor. You can do whatever you want with it. I just ask for one thing—your forgiveness. Even just a little.”
I touched the folder, not out of ambition. I looked into Brandon’s eyes, my gaze firm.
Eleanor: “Forgiveness? Perhaps. But going back? Never. My love for you died the day I begged you to take me to the hospital, and you walked away without looking back. And the truth that you knew, even in part, about Aunt Vivian’s malice, about the forged will, about my origins, about my father’s death… you stayed silent and even participated… that’s worse than any words. I’ve lost everything, Brandon. You can’t give me back what I’ve lost. My life is now a blank slate, but that’s a beginning.”
I stood up and walked outside. The sky was wide and clear, soft sunlight spreading over the deep blue sea like a dream.
Eleanor: “I’m not coming back. I don’t need the company or that past. I just hope this ends in peace for both of us. As for me, I will find peace for myself.”
I walked away, each step severing another thread that had once bound me to pain.
I don’t know when Brandon left that town. I didn’t need to know, because for the first time after everything, I was free. I had chosen myself.
That spring, I received a message from Julian Thorne: “Aunt Vivian was sentenced to life imprisonment for conspiracy to murder (causing the death of my baby and Robert Vance), forging wills, and various other charges related to the financial fraud of the Vance family, including complicity in Robert Vance’s death. The horrifying family secrets, including the clandestine affair between Catherine Vance and Richard Thorne, were exposed, shattering the Vance family’s reputation. Her mother died of a stroke after reading the cruel online comments and public shaming directed at her daughter.”
Brandon also couldn’t escape the law. After evidence of his collusion in forging the will, concealing Robert Vance’s death, and illegal financial dealings, along with proof of his ‘cheating’ and ‘playing the field’ with multiple other women throughout our marriage, was brought to trial, he was arrested. Brandon Hayes was sentenced to 25 years in prison for fraud, complicity in the forged will case, complicity in murder, and money laundering activities related to his company. From a successful CEO, he became a symbol of moral collapse and ultimate crime.
A few weeks later, I received a letter by express delivery, accompanied by a bank folder. Inside were documents for a transfer of $50 million—the remainder of Brandon’s personal assets, transferred from an offshore account he had tried to hide. With it was a handwritten note, now stripped of all arrogance, containing only belated remorse: “Eleanor, I know nothing can change the past or what I’ve done. I know you’ll never forgive me. I don’t deserve it. But if I can use the rest of my life to make amends, this is where it begins. I don’t ask for forgiveness; I only hope you live in peace, true peace. You are much stronger than I ever realised. I lost the most precious gem in my life.”
I folded the letter and placed it in a drawer next to my old journal and the newborn bracelet that was never worn. I didn’t call him. I didn’t text. From that money, I used a small portion to establish a foundation supporting women who have suffered emotional abuse, especially those betrayed by their own loved ones, those who have lost children due to violence, or those who face terrifying family secrets. The rest, I placed in a frozen account, untouched, a reminder that I could choose to live with that wealth, but I didn’t need to.
That evening, the sky glowed a soft shade of pink and orange. I stood on my balcony, listening to the waves crash gently, like the ocean’s quiet breath. Some wounds never fully fade, but time, in its quiet way, makes them hurt a little less. I haven’t forgotten, but I no longer let them define me.
My little cafe rests at the end of a cobbled alleyway in Provence, Southern France. Its name is Rain. That is the name I chose for myself, a form of rebirth. I am no longer Eleanor Hayes. Here, everyone calls me Rain. I painted the cafe by hand; creamy white walls with hanging bundles of dried lavender, modest wooden tables, hand-painted mugs, and the scent of warm almond pastries each morning made it a familiar stop for strangers and for me.
Each morning, I wake before sunrise and walk to the market for milk, eggs, and fruit. I no longer need someone to lead me through the storm. I’ve learnt to walk on my own scarred feet, but steadier than ever. Sometimes, unexpected rain drizzles down, just a soft pattering on the old tin roof. I stand behind the coffee counter, listening to the rain with a tender ache in my chest—no longer sadness, no longer regret, just gratitude for being strong enough to walk away from the darkest days of my life.
I have never told anyone here about Brandon, or about the baby I lost, or about my aunt, or about the shocking family secrets. But near the cafe window, there’s always a small rose plant placed beside a sketch of two hands holding a fragile flower. No one asks, but everyone seems to understand—it’s a space for something sacred and deeper than words can express.
One day, a regular customer, an elderly Italian man who lives alone at the end of the street, said to me, “Rain, we don’t need to forget our pain. We just need to learn how to live with it without letting it consume us.” I smiled, knowing he was right. The $50 million Brandon sent, I didn’t touch it. I transferred all of it into a fund supporting women who have suffered abuse and pregnancy loss. I don’t need his money. What I needed, I created myself—peace, freedom, and pride.
Finally, Brandon vanished from my life like a summer storm—fast, violent, and leaving only ruin behind. He tried a few more times to find me, but he never found anyone named Eleanor again. That woman died the night she lost her unborn child in the rain.
Now I am Rain. I live not for anyone else but for myself. And every morning when sunlight pours through the window and glows on my chamomile tea, I smile—a real smile. I have walked through hell, and I came back, not just alive, but brighter than ever.