The candlelight flickered across Victor's face as he raised his champagne glass. The restaurant had been his choice—one of those places where the waitstaff moved like ghosts between tables and the bill arrived without prices. I'd spent hours getting ready, my black dress carefully chosen to impress the new client he'd been pursuing for months.

"To landing Westbrook Industries," Victor said, his smile not quite reaching his eyes. "Your speech was perfect, Maeve. They couldn't say no."

I smiled back, warmth spreading through my chest at the rare compliment. "We make a good team."

"We do." His gaze shifted to his phone as it buzzed on the table. His fingers moved across the screen, typing something quickly before he looked up. "Sorry. Work never stops."

I nodded, swallowing the familiar disappointment. Five years together, three in this apartment, and still his phone came first.

"Actually," Victor said, setting down his glass with deliberate care, "I've been meaning to ask you something."

My heart skipped. Was this finally happening?

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small velvet box. "Maeve Harper, will you marry me?"

The words hung in the air between us. I stared at the ring—a solitaire diamond that caught the light in fractured rainbows.

"Yes," I whispered, then louder: "Yes, of course."

Victor slid the ring onto my finger, then glanced at his phone again as it lit up with a notification. His thumbs moved rapidly across the screen.

"Who are you texting?" I asked, trying to keep my voice light.

"Just letting James know the good news," he said, not looking up. "He's been asking about our plans."

I nodded, twisting the ring on my finger. It felt heavy, foreign. "I thought we could plan something special for the engagement party. Maybe that rooftop bar you like?"

"Mmm," Victor hummed noncommittally, still typing.

He finally set his phone down and pulled me into a hug that felt rushed, his mind already elsewhere.

---

Three days later, I sat cross-legged on our couch, scrolling through Pinterest for engagement party ideas. Nothing felt right. The ring on my finger caught the afternoon light streaming through our floor-to-ceiling windows, but something felt hollow about the whole thing.

My phone pinged with a notification. A video had appeared in my feed—the algorithm's suggestion based on my recent searches.

"My Boss is the Cutest" read the caption in cursive font.

I tapped play, intending to scroll past, when a familiar voice filled my ears.

"You're hopeless," the voice laughed. Victor's voice.

My finger froze above the screen.

The camera panned up from a woman's waist-length brown hair to show Victor's hands gently tying it back with a silk scarf. His fingers lingered against her neck in a gesture so intimate I felt like a voyeur.

"Perfect," he murmured, and I recognized the tone—one I hadn't heard directed at me in years.

The video cut to another clip: Victor draping his suit jacket over the same woman's shoulders as they walked along what looked like the Hudson River promenade at sunset.

"He always takes care of me," a female voice narrated over the footage. "Even when he doesn't have to."

My stomach churned as I read the username: @MelodyHillSecrets.

Melody. His assistant.

I clicked on her profile. The "Secret Crush Diaries" series stretched back months—dozens of videos documenting small moments between them. Each one was timestamped, each one carefully edited to look innocent while being anything but.

My hands trembled as I scrolled through, matching dates in my head. The night he'd texted me about "working late" while I waited at home with dinner getting cold. The weekend he'd claimed to be at a conference but wouldn't answer my calls.

The videos painted a picture of intimacy I hadn't realized was missing from my own relationship.

---

"You're being paranoid."

Victor's voice cut through the silence of our apartment as he loosened his tie. I'd been waiting for hours, Melody's videos burned into my retinas.

"Paranoid?" My voice sounded strange to my own ears. "Victor, I saw you tying her hair back. I saw you giving her your jacket."

"And you think that means what? That I'm having some torrid affair?" He laughed, but it sounded forced. "These are professional relationships, Maeve. You're jealous of my assistant because she appreciates my mentorship."

"Mentorship," I repeated numbly.

"Yes, mentorship." His tone hardened. "Do you have any idea how ungrateful you sound right now? After everything I've given you?"

I stared at him, this man I'd loved for five years, and saw a stranger.

"I need you to pack my luggage," he said abruptly, changing the subject. "For the Chicago trip. Melody and I leave tomorrow morning early."

"Chicago," I echoed hollowly. Another "business trip" with his assistant.

"Yes, Chicago." He looked at me coldly. "Unless you'd prefer I cancel and lose this client too?"

I moved mechanically to his closet, pulling out his suitcase. As I folded his shirts and pants, a strange calm settled over me.

This was the end. It had to be.

The morning Victor and Melody left for Chicago, I stood in our bedroom watching him adjust his tie in the mirror. He didn't look at me once.

"The car will be here in ten minutes," he said, straightening his cufflinks. "Make sure you remember to water the plants while I'm gone."

I nodded, my fingers unconsciously twisting the engagement ring that still felt foreign on my hand. Two days had passed since our confrontation about Melody's videos. Two days of icy silence and separate beds.

"I'll be back Friday," Victor added, finally meeting my eyes in the mirror. "We'll talk then."

Then he was gone, leaving only the lingering scent of his cologne and a hollow ache in my chest.

---

Two days later, I was curled up on the couch with a cup of tea, trying to focus on a book when my phone exploded with Victor's ringtone. I hesitated before answering.

"Maeve!" His voice was a thunderous roar that made me hold the phone away from my ear. "What the hell did you do?"

My heart hammered against my ribs. "What are you talking about?"

"Don't play innocent!" Victor's voice cracked with fury. "Melody's in the hospital! She had a severe allergic reaction!"

A cold wave washed over me. "I don't understand—"

"The suit jacket you packed!" he shouted. "She put it on during our meeting and within minutes she was struggling to breathe! They had to administer epinephrine!"

My fingers went numb around the phone. "Victor, I didn't—"

"She could have died!" His voice dropped to a dangerous whisper. "And you know what's funny? The doctors found traces of peanut dust in the jacket folds. Peanut dust, Maeve! You know she's deathly allergic to peanuts!"

The room spun around me. "I would never—"

"I've called the police," he cut me off. "They're coming to arrest you for attempted poisoning. For malicious intent. You'll be lucky if you don't spend time in jail for this."

The line went dead.

---

Twenty minutes later, two officers stood in our living room. One was young with kind eyes that couldn't quite mask his discomfort. The other was older with a face like carved granite.

"Ms. Harper?" the older one said. "We need you to come with us."

"I didn't do anything," I whispered as they led me toward the elevator. "This is a mistake."

The precinct was a fluorescent-lit nightmare. They put me in a small room with a metal table and chairs bolted to the floor. Detective Maria Rodriguez was a sharp-eyed woman who looked like she'd seen every trick in the book.

"Tell me about your relationship with Victor Anderson," she said, folding her hands on the table.

I stared at her, tears blurring my vision. "We're engaged. Or we were."

"And Melody Hill?"

My throat closed up. "His assistant."

Detective Rodriguez nodded slowly. "And the videos?"

I looked up sharply. "You know about them?"

"Social media has a way of leaving traces, Ms. Harper." She leaned forward. "So does physical evidence. We tested the jacket. The peanut dust was concentrated in specific areas—like someone had sprinkled it deliberately."

"I didn't touch her jacket," I said, my voice breaking. "I would never hurt anyone."

She studied me for a long moment. "The problem is, you had motive. The videos show a clear pattern of infidelity. Your fiancé accused you of jealousy. And now his assistant is in the hospital."

"I was leaving him," I whispered. "That's all."

---

Four hours later, they released me. No charges filed. No evidence beyond Victor's accusation. But the damage was done.

I stood on the sidewalk outside the precinct, my fingerprinted hands trembling as I clutched my phone. The afternoon sun felt too bright after the artificial lights inside.

My phone buzzed with a text from Victor: "You're finished in this city."

Something broke inside me then—something vital and irreparable.

I drove home in a daze, parked illegally outside our building, and took the elevator up. Our apartment felt like a museum of someone else's life.

I packed only what mattered—clothes, my laptop, the journals I'd kept for years. I left the engagement ring on the kitchen counter where he'd be sure to see it.

Then I got in my car and headed north.

The city fell away behind me, its gray towers giving way to green hills and open sky. Each mile put distance between me and the nightmare of the past few days.

Vermont wasn't just a place. It was safety. It was my best friend Dakota's warm house with its crooked porch swing and garden full of sunflowers.

As I crossed the state line, my phone lit up with Victor's number. I watched it ring until it stopped, then blocked his number with shaking fingers.

The road stretched ahead of me, winding through forests just beginning to turn autumn colors. For the first time in days, I took a deep breath that didn't hurt.

The tires of my car crunched on the gravel driveway as I pulled up to Dakota's cottage. The journey from New York had left me hollow, my body numb from hours of driving and days of emotional battering. The Vermont sunset painted the white clapboard house in golden light, making it look like something from a postcard—peaceful, untouched by the chaos I'd left behind.

I sat in the car for several minutes, staring at the sunflowers nodding in Dakota's garden. My hands trembled as I turned off the engine.

"You made it," Dakota said, appearing on the porch. She didn't ask questions, didn't demand explanations. She simply opened her arms.

I fell into them, my composure finally breaking. "I'm sorry," I sobbed against her shoulder. "I should have called first—"

"Shh." She stroked my hair like she used to when we were kids. "You're here now. That's all that matters."

Dakota led me inside, her small cottage warm and smelling of cinnamon tea. She guided me to the guest room—a space with a quilt-covered bed and windows that faced the forest.

"The bathroom's through there," she said, setting my bag down. "Take a shower, eat something, sleep. Whatever you need."

I caught sight of myself in the mirror—hollow-eyed, pale, a ghost of who I'd been days ago.

---

Morning light filtered through gauzy curtains when Dakota knocked softly. "There are some people I'd like you to meet," she said, her voice gentle but firm. "Just friends. No pressure."

I followed her to the kitchen where three people sat around her worn wooden table. A man with kind eyes and a quiet smile nodded at me. "Francis Ward," he said simply.

"Francis has been my rock since I moved here," Dakota explained, squeezing his shoulder.

Next to him sat a woman with silver-streaked hair and knowing eyes. "I'm Sarah Mitchell," she said. "Dakota's mentioned you."

But it was the third person who made me pause. Tall with dark hair and eyes that crinkled at the corners, he leaned back in his chair with an easy confidence that somehow wasn't arrogance.

"And this is Zane Harvey," Dakota said, a hint of something in her voice I couldn't quite place.

"Harvey," the man repeated with a grin. "As in 'didn't your mother ever tell you not to talk to strangers?'" He winked at me. "But I promise I'm mostly harmless."

Despite everything, I felt my lips twitch upward.

---

"Fresh air will do you good," Dakota declared the next morning. "We're going hiking."

The trail wound through forests just beginning to blush with autumn colors. I struggled to keep pace, my city legs unaccustomed to the uneven terrain.

"You're wearing those shoes in the mud?" Zane's voice came from behind me, amusement lacing his words. "Those are definitely city shoes."

I looked down at my expensive sneakers—now caked with Vermont soil—and felt heat rise to my cheeks.

"Here." He extended his hand. "This part gets tricky."

I hesitated before taking it. His grip was warm and steady, nothing like Victor's possessive hold.

"Thanks," I murmured as he helped me navigate a particularly slick section.

"Everyone starts somewhere," he said, his tone matter-of-fact rather than pitying.

We reached a clearing that overlooked the valley below. The others had gone ahead, leaving us alone with the vast landscape.

"It's beautiful," I said softly.

"It is." Zane's eyes weren't on the view but on me. "How are you really doing?"

The question caught me off guard—not because it was invasive but because it was genuine.

"I feel..." I paused, searching for words. "Lost. Like I've been living someone else's life."

He nodded as if I'd said something profound. "Sometimes the only way forward is to get lost first."

We stood in comfortable silence, the wind carrying autumn's promise.

---

That evening, my phone pinged with an email notification. Victor's name flashed on the screen.

My stomach clenched as I opened it.

*Maeve,*

*I understand you're upset. But running away solves nothing. The police report is still open. People are asking questions about your involvement in Melody's incident.*

*You need to come back and fix this mess you've created. We can work through this together.*

*I know you're in Vermont with Dakota. Did you think I wouldn't find out?*

*This isn't like you, Maeve. You're better than this.*

*Come home. We'll figure it out.*

*—Victor*

My hands shook as I read it again. He knew where I was. He was tracking me.

I looked around Dakota's peaceful kitchen, suddenly feeling like I'd brought a storm into her sanctuary.

The phone pinged again—another email from Victor.

*P.S. Did you really think I wouldn't notice you left your cloud account logged in? You should be more careful about your digital footprint, especially now that you're essentially a fugitive.*