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.*

The bell above the coffee shop door jingled as I settled into my favorite corner seat. Three days in Vermont had begun to heal something inside me—the constant knot in my stomach had loosened slightly. I opened my laptop, fingers hovering over the keyboard. For the first time in years, I was writing for myself, not for Victor's approval.

The caffeine hadn't even kicked in when the bell jangled again. The sound was followed by a silence that made my skin prickle.

"Maeve."

Victor's voice sliced through the coffee shop's cozy atmosphere. I looked up slowly, my hands freezing over the keyboard.

He stood there in his charcoal designer suit, looking like he'd stepped out of a Manhattan boardroom rather than into a Vermont coffee shop with its mismatched chairs and local artwork. His eyes scanned the room with barely concealed contempt before landing on me.

"What are you doing here?" I managed, my voice smaller than I intended.

"What am I doing here?" He laughed, the sound sharp and humorless. "I'm here to bring you home."

I glanced around nervously. The barista had stopped wiping the counter, two other customers had paused their conversations.

"This isn't the place," I said quietly.

Victor ignored me, striding across the room until he towered over my table. "Did you think you could just run away? After everything I've done for you?"

My heart hammered against my ribs. "Victor, please—"

"Please what?" His voice rose. "Please forgive you for sleeping with some hillbilly to make yourself feel better about being a failure?"

Heat rushed to my face. "That's not what happened."

"Then what is this?" He snatched my phone from the table, holding it up. "You've been posting pictures with him all over social media."

Before I could respond, his hand clamped around my wrist, yanking me toward the door. "We're going home. Now."

Panic flooded my system. I couldn't move, couldn't speak. My body remembered too well what happened when I defied him.

"That's not happening."

Zane's voice cut through my paralysis. He stood in the doorway, his tall frame blocking the exit. His eyes flicked to Victor's hand on my wrist, then back to Victor's face.

"Who the hell are you?" Victor demanded, his grip tightening.

"Zane Harvey." He stepped forward, his voice calm but firm. "Maeve's boyfriend."

The word 'boyfriend' hung in the air between us. I felt Victor's grip loosen slightly as he processed this information.

"Boyfriend?" Victor's laugh was ugly. "Is that what you're calling him now?"

Zane moved closer, positioning himself between us. "I'm calling myself whatever will make you back off and leave her alone."

Victor's jaw clenched. "Do you have any idea who I am?"

"I know exactly who you are," Zane replied evenly. "And I know you're not welcome here."

For a moment, Victor's face contorted with rage. Then something shifted in his expression—calculation replacing anger.

"This isn't over," he said, stepping back. "We'll discuss this privately, Maeve."

As he brushed past Zane, I caught the murderous look in his eyes.

---

Dakota's living room was bathed in the soft glow of lamplight as I finished telling them everything. The words had poured out of me like blood from a wound—all the years of ghostwriting Victor's pitches, crafting his words, building his reputation while receiving no credit.

"He never wrote a single winning pitch," I said, my voice hoarse. "Every client, every deal—they were all mine."

Dakota's eyes were wide with shock. "Maeve, why didn't you tell me?"

"I don't know." I laughed bitterly. "Maybe because I convinced myself it was love."

Zane leaned forward, his expression fierce. "That's not love. That's exploitation."

"He'll never admit it," I whispered. "No one would believe me anyway."

"Then make them believe you," Zane said firmly. "Reclaim your work. Your voice. Your story."

I stared at him, something stirring in my chest—not hope exactly, but perhaps its precursor.

"How?" I asked.

Zane's eyes held mine. "Start by stopping hiding."

The words settled over me like a challenge. For five years, I'd been invisible, writing in shadows. Maybe it was time to step into the light.

But first, I needed to face Victor one last time.