OLIVIA

I was trembling all over as I stared at the man inside the consultation room, fear crashing over me like a storm.

"A cheap, fat girl like that? I would never date her."

That was what he had said to his friends after a one-night stand.

Now, he had become my daughter's doctor-Dr. Noah Ezekiel Morgan.

The woman he had despised had given birth to his daughter.

He knew nothing about what happened afterward. Seven years had passed since the last time we met, and I had never imagined I would run into him again.

As if fate were mocking me, he was now the very heart specialist assigned to treat my daughter.

I bit down on my lower lip. Should I turn around and leave immediately? I glanced at the little hand holding mine. My daughter looked up at me, confusion filling her eyes. I forced a smile and shook my head, trying to reassure her that everything would be okay.

I thought I had already run far enough.

Three months ago, I moved with Hannah from Hanover, New Hampshire, to Manhattan. Not because we liked the noise or the chaos, but because I had no other choice.

In Hanover, I had lived with the shadows of my past for far too long. The town was so small that even changing my hairstyle could become gossip at the church lunch table-let alone raising a child "without a father."

I wanted better medical resources for my daughter. And I wanted a chance to start over.

Manhattan was expensive, loud, and cruel-but no one knew me here. I no longer had to endure pointing fingers or fake smiles with my uncle's acquaintances. I now worked as an advertising sales rep at a Manhattan ad agency, earning just enough to scrape by.

When Dr. Smith suggested transferring Hannah to the city's top cardiac specialist-Dr. Harrison-I believed it marked the beginning of our turnaround.

That was, until I stood at the doorway of this office and saw that familiar back.

I was here today for my daughter's appointment. My six-year-old, Hannah, was born with congenital heart disease caused by premature birth. To ensure her condition was closely monitored, I had been bringing her in for regular checkups.

Dr. Smith, who had cared for Hannah since birth, recommended consulting Dr. Harrison-a renowned cardiologist and the director of Palo Alto Medical Center. According to his latest evaluation, my daughter needed surgery.

Just hearing the name of the hospital where Dr. Harrison worked told me I would need a huge sum of money to cover the procedure. But I didn't care how much it cost-as long as it could save my daughter's life.

After we arrived at the hospital, the nurse told me Dr. Harrison was out of town and recommended Dr. Morgan, who had just returned from overseas. She explained that Dr. Morgan was Dr. Harrison's favorite student and held both an MD and a PhD. After hearing his credentials, I agreed.

Who could have imagined that the Dr. Morgan she mentioned was Noah?

"Come in."

Noah's low voice snapped me out of my thoughts.

He lifted his head and looked in our direction. His gaze lingered on me for a moment before he returned to his work. My heart nearly leapt out of my throat, and instinctively, I clenched my fists.

"Mom, you're hurting me," Hannah whispered.

"I'm sorry, Hannah," I said immediately, loosening my grip. Just as I was about to explain, Noah spoke again.

"Ms. Evans, how can I help you?"

His tone was calm-professionally neutral, like any other doctor.

In that instant, I felt a rush of relief, followed almost immediately by the urge to laugh at myself. There was no way he recognized me. The woman standing before him now was nothing like the girl in his memory.

I had never planned to tell him we had a child. What happened between us that night was nothing more than a transaction. And with so many women lining up to sleep with him, how could he possibly remember someone like me?

He was the heir to a billion-dollar business empire spanning three continents, with interests in finance and energy. I was just an orphan adopted by my uncle after losing my parents. There was no way he would remember me.

Yes, we had attended the same university-Dartmouth College. But on that campus, he was always the star of every party. I was the girl hiding in the shadows of the library, wrapped in oversized sweaters.

Back then, I weighed over two hundred pounds. I had social anxiety. No matter how good my grades were, no one noticed. I didn't belong in his world. Even if we passed each other in the hallway, his eyes would never pause on me for even half a second.

I smiled politely and led Hannah to his desk. "Dr. Morgan, we were referred by Dr. Smith," I said as I took Hannah's medical file out of my bag. "This is Hannah's latest record. It should give you a clearer picture of her condition."

Noah's long fingers picked up the file. He didn't even look at me as he opened it and began reading carefully.

From this close distance, I observed him again. He looked far more mature than he had seven years ago-his hair was shorter, his features sharper. Even beneath the white coat, the muscles in his arms looked like those of a beast, ready to spring at any moment.

He had always been popular. Women were easily drawn to him. So it wasn't surprising that I meant nothing to him. I shook my head, forcing away the unnecessary disappointment. Right now, the only thing that mattered was Hannah's treatment.

After what felt like an eternity, Noah finally looked up from the file. His sharp gray eyes locked onto mine.

"Ms. Evans, based on Hannah's condition, we need to proceed with surgery as soon as possible," he said evenly. "Her heart is in a very critical state. Any further delay could make the condition harder to control and may affect her long-term health."

I clenched my teeth, my heart sinking. "Are you sure the surgery will completely cure her?"

"Mom... do I really have to have surgery? I think it'll hurt," Hannah said timidly.

I had completely forgotten she was still there. I was about to comfort her, but Noah moved faster. He crouched down in front of her, his voice suddenly gentle-completely different from the cold tone he used with me.

"Hey there, what's your name, little one?"

"Hannah Evans," she answered shyly.

"That's a beautiful name," Noah said, a breathtaking smile curving his lips. He took out a stethoscope and gently placed it on her chest, his voice incredibly soft. "The doctor just wants to listen to your little heart. It won't hurt at all."

Hannah looked up at him, her lashes trembling slightly, her small hand clutching the sleeve of his white coat. "Dr. Morgan, I feel like I've seen you somewhere before."

My throat tightened. Instinctively, I tried to stop her. "Hannah-"

But Noah cut in quickly, his tone calm with a hint of teasing. "Is it because I'm handsome?"

Hannah burst into giggles, her nervousness instantly melting away.

"Yes! You look like that doctor from The Good Doctor-the one who always saves all the kids!"

Noah paused, his gaze softening. "Then I'll have to be like him and help you get better."

"Will I really get better? Healthy enough to run like the other kids in kindergarten?" Hannah asked, blinking.

"Of course. I promise," Noah said firmly. "How about we make a deal? When you recover, we'll race. I bet you'll run faster than me."

Hannah looked up at me. "Mom, can we?"

I nearly froze again. Noah wanted to race with Hannah? Images of them together-close, like father and daughter-flashed through my mind. I shook my head, telling myself he was just trying to comfort her.

I patted her head and nodded. "Of course."

Noah stood up and said to Hannah, "I know a really fun place in the hospital. Why don't you go check it out with the nurse?"

I immediately understood that he wanted to talk to me alone. "Thank you," I said as the nurse approached.

Once the nurse led Hannah out of the office, only Noah and I remained.

My nerves flared again-though I shouldn't have been nervous. He clearly hadn't recognized me. Besides, I had changed my name. I was no longer Emma Cooper. I was Olivia Evans. I was no longer the two-hundred-pound woman I used to be. My weight was completely normal now.

Even my best friend Grace hadn't recognized me the first time she saw me again-I looked nothing like I did before.

Since high school, I had struggled with weight due to hypothyroidism. The condition slowed my metabolism, making weight loss nearly impossible. But after pregnancy, my thyroid function improved, helping me return to my original weight.

Still, the moment our eyes met, all my strength drained away. I gripped the strap of my worn-out bag tightly and took a deep breath.

"Dr. Morgan, what did you want to tell me? Is Hannah's surgery especially complicated?" I asked anxiously.

"No. The surgery itself is well within my capabilities," Noah replied quickly. His gaze flicked briefly over my casual clothes and my old bag. "It's just... the cost will be high. Are you sure your insurance will cover it?"

I had insurance, but it wasn't comprehensive enough to cover the entire procedure. With my income, paying the full amount would be difficult. I shook my head slightly. "I don't have full coverage for this kind of surgery. But I'll find a way to raise the money. That's why I'm here."

His flawless professionalism and detached gaze stabbed into me, painfully reminding me of something from seven years ago-the cruel words I had once overheard him say:

"I'd never date a cheap, fat girl like that."

He had been standing with a few friends on the steps of Dartmouth's medical school when he said it. They laughed loudly. I was passing by with a cup in my hands, and I heard every word.

I clenched my fists.

Back then, his words had dragged my life into a dark vortex. I had nearly been swallowed by depression. I had even thought about ending everything. But the moment I discovered I was pregnant with Hannah, everything changed. From that point on, his judgment lost most of its power over me.

"He's an asshole," I told myself firmly. "I will never let an asshole ruin my life."

"I assure you, the money won't be a problem," I said sharply, forcing down my anger. "Just schedule the surgery."

With that, I turned and walked out of Noah's office.

The door clicked shut behind me, and only then did I realize my back was soaked with cold sweat.

A deep, consuming fear seized me.

What if someone as powerful and privileged as Noah discovered that Hannah was his daughter? What if he tried to fight me for custody?

I could never let that happen.

I made up my mind-once Hannah's surgery was over, we would leave.

NOAH

I couldn't help but watch the mother and daughter as they left my office.

The woman walked with her back straight, her silhouette smooth and controlled. The legs beneath her jeans were long and straight, carrying a kind of tension that was impossible to ignore.

Sexy enough that, for a brief second... I almost forgot to breathe.

I'm not easily distracted-especially when I'm working. But in that moment, my attention did drift, if only briefly, from the medical chart to her.

There was something strangely familiar about her. I just couldn't put my finger on it.

Was it her scent?

Those light brown eyes?

Or was it simply a memory I had deliberately sealed away, now quietly trying to claw its way back to the surface?

I gave a soft snort and shoved the thought aside, nodding to the medical assistant.

"Who's the next patient?"

My schedule was packed today. I didn't have time for irrelevant distractions.

It wasn't until the afternoon-after I'd finished my last consultation-that my phone vibrated.

Caller ID: William Anderson.

I didn't need to check the notes to know who it was.

William Anderson-the "organizer" of our class, and one of the heirs to the Anderson family.

His father was a major real estate investor active between New York and the Bay Area. His mother came from East Coast old money and worked in art collection and gallery management. Even now, the Anderson name could still be found on Dartmouth's board of trustees.

On campus, William had always been good at reallocating resources and maintaining relationships-fraternity events, alumni gatherings, charity galas. Whenever a "presentable face" was needed, it was usually him.

And me?

I was the one who didn't need to show up-yet somehow always stood at the center.

"Hello?" I answered.

"Hey, Noah." William's voice was as relaxed as ever, carrying the effortless confidence of someone who'd been giving orders since childhood. "How've you been?"

"Fine." I leaned against my desk, my tone clipped.

"We're organizing a class reunion next week," he said. "Long Island. My family's old beachfront estate. Most of the fraternity guys will be there-pretty much everyone still operating on the East Coast."

Of course they would.

It wasn't a reunion.

It was a resource check.

Who was still in the circle.

Who had fallen behind.

Who was worth continued investment.

Everyone knew the rules.

"Honestly," William went on, laughing lightly, "the person everyone really wants to see is you-especially the women. They've been calling you out in the group chat. They're dying to see how sexy that womanizing bastard from back then looks now that he's a doctor."

I didn't respond.

His voice kept flowing, but my mind had latched onto a single image-the woman's back as she walked away.

She moved fast, but the curve of her hips felt deliberately provocative. Those damn jeans clung tightly to muscle and shape, like a second skin.

I leaned back in my chair, my Adam's apple bobbing as I tried to suppress the primitive restlessness stirring in my body.

It didn't work.

A faint heat pooled low in my abdomen, something twitching there without permission.

I closed my eyes and sucked in a sharp breath.

Fuck.

I wasn't an eighteen-year-old slave to hormones anymore.

But the moment her shadow drew near, I felt like a wild animal shoved back into a cage.

"You and Emma Cooper are the only two who've never shown up."

I said nothing. My mind felt hollowed out.

"Noah? You still there? Bad signal?"

My eyes dropped to the pen on my desk.

A black fountain pen, thin gold trim along the barrel.

I'd used it for seven years.

The paint was nearly worn off, yet I'd never replaced it.

In that instant, memory burst through like a ruptured dam.

It was my birthday.

That night, I accepted Emma's "deal."

We both knew it was an unfair agreement. She thought offering herself would buy her a moment of tenderness. I agreed outwardly, said nothing-but inside, something stirred.

Because, if I'm honest...

I had feelings for her.

She was quiet. Never loud, never demanding. Labeled "Fat Emma" on campus, yet her face was unsettlingly delicate-especially her eyes.

Brown.

As if they held words she never quite spoke.

She didn't belong to our circle. She always sat by the window on the third floor of the library, sleeves pulled over her hands inside oversized sweaters. No one noticed her.

Except me.

I liked the way her gaze would dart away whenever I caught her looking at me.

I thought she'd hesitate that night.

She didn't.

She looked at me like she was using every ounce of courage she had.

"I know you won't really like me," she said. "So I'll just treat this as me doing something brave."

I thought she was just another forgettable girl.

That night, she redefined the word brave for me.

The next morning, she was gone.

On the bedside table sat a black velvet box. Inside was a pen. Beneath it, a small card.

Happy Birthday.

The pen wasn't cheap. I knew she worked part-time at the campus library-saving meal money just to afford Starbucks.

I stared at the card for a long time, the corner of my mouth lifting unconsciously.

I wanted to find her.

Wanted to be serious.

But I never got the chance.

Because that very night, my fraternity threw me a birthday party in a private room at Spago.

I hadn't expected Emma to be absent. Part of me waited-ridiculously-for her to appear at the door.

She didn't.

"What the hell, man?! Is that a hickey?" Joshua shouted deliberately.

I lifted my hand, instinctively touching my neck.

"Heard you took Fat Emma to a hotel-seriously?" Brian's eyes went wide.

Every fraternity brother was staring at me.

I could've told the truth.

That it was her.

That I initiated it.

That I wanted her to stay.

That she was the one who left.

But I didn't.

I was afraid.

"You didn't fall for her, did you? Jesus, are you insane?" Mike gagged theatrically.

They needed an answer.

One that fit the image of a Morgan heir.

One that could circulate easily at a drinking table.

"That kind of cheap, fat girl? I'd never date her."

I heard myself say it.

I wanted to throw up.

That wasn't what I meant.

It was never what I meant.

"I was just messing around. I'm leaving next month anyway."

I added the final stab myself-killing my last escape route.

The rest of the party passed in a haze. I drank too much, laughed too hard, my head splitting.

When I got home, I grabbed my phone, planning to ask her to meet me, to explain everything.

She had already blocked me.

For seven years, that memory had lodged itself in my chest like a nail. I'd never told anyone.

"Noah!!!" William's voice yanked me back to the present.

"She never showed up?" I asked, my voice dropping unconsciously.

"Never." William paused, then laughed in the crude, familiar way men like him always did. "But if she knew you were coming, she'd probably show. We all know how desperate she was for you back then. Though she was so fat-I doubt you'd even find the hole anymore."

My entire body went rigid.

My throat tightened. My teeth ground together.

For a split second, I nearly hurled my phone at the wall.

I could picture Anderson's smug, disgusting grin. Picture everyone laughing as he tossed out that "bro joke" in the group chat.

I clenched my fists, knuckles turning white.

I used to be one of them.

Now I just wanted to pin his face to the floor.

I swallowed the rage burning in my throat, said nothing, and hung up.

Click.

The quiet consultation room held only me.

I stared out the window at the sky turning faintly yellow, a block of fire lodged in my throat, burning my chest from the inside.

I was in a hospital.

I was wearing a white coat.

I was the youngest cardiothoracic consultant in the building.

I couldn't lose my temper.

But I really fucking... wanted to kill someone.

And yet-

I decided I would attend that stupid reunion.

OLIVIA

After Hannah and I got on the bus home, my mind was still echoing with the shock of running into Noah.

I had never imagined we would meet again. Noah and I had always lived in completely different worlds. He was born into privilege-the only son of a board member of the Morgan Group-while I was just an ordinary woman raising a child on a paycheck.

After graduation, he stayed on the East Coast and entered Columbia University's College of Physicians and Surgeons, pursuing a dual MD–PhD degree-one of the most prestigious medical institutions in New York. Later, he spent a year as a visiting researcher at the Cardiac Research Institute of the University of Basel in Switzerland, becoming one of the youngest rising experts in the field of cardiothoracic surgery.

And me?

I had spent all these years struggling on the edge of survival. Moving from New Hampshire to New York was nothing more than a desperate attempt to secure better medical care for my daughter.

So many years had passed. What were the odds that we would cross paths again?

Almost zero.

"Mom."

My daughter's voice pulled me out of my thoughts.

I wrapped my arms tightly around her, trying to ease the heavy pressure in my chest.

As I looked at her face, I noticed again how much she resembled Noah-especially her eyebrows and those gray eyes, the exact same shade as her father's.

"Mom, is Dr. Morgan my dad?"

Her sudden question stunned me. I fell silent for a moment, thinking about how to answer.

I gazed into her clear eyes and smiled, gently stroking her cheek. Then I noticed how thin she had become-smaller than most children her age.

"What makes you think he's your dad?" I asked softly.

Hannah pulled a photo out of her bag and showed me a picture of Noah and me from our college days.

"I wanted to ask Dr. Morgan earlier," she said, pointing at the photo. "Because he looks like my dad."

The hopeful look in her eyes made my heart miss a beat. I knew exactly what she wanted-to hear me confirm that the doctor we had just met was the father she had always longed for.

I didn't want to hurt her, but I couldn't tell her the truth either. Remembering how Noah had hurt me in the past, I couldn't bear the thought of my daughter being hurt by him as well.

"He's not your dad," I said carefully. "I've told you before-your father works overseas."

"But the nurse said Dr. Morgan just came back from abroad and started working at Manhattan Hospital," she countered.

I swallowed hard. My daughter was smart-too smart. I smiled and ruffled her hair. "Dr. Morgan isn't your dad. If he were, he would have recognized you. He just happens to look like your father."

"Oh," she said quietly.

The disappointment on her face was unmistakable.

I'm sorry, sweetheart. I can't tell you the truth. I don't want you to know that your father didn't want you.

He once despised me-out of shame and wounded pride, like a dull knife carving into flesh. And if he knew you existed, he would despise you too.

But I promise you this: I will love you with everything I have. I will do my best to fill the place he left empty, so you'll never feel the absence of a father's warmth.

We got off the bus and walked through the increasingly autumn-chilled streets of Brooklyn until we reached our building. We lived in Dyker Heights-a relatively quiet neighborhood not far from the subway, less expensive than Manhattan and safer than Bushwick.

I rang the doorbell of the apartment next door to check on Margareth.

Margareth Brown was our landlord. She was eccentric and well-known in the neighborhood for it. The duplex we rented belonged to her-a cozy one-bedroom unit. Margareth lived right next door.

After a moment, Margareth opened the door and let us in. I handed her the maintenance medication I'd picked up at the pharmacy near the hospital for Hannah's upcoming follow-up.

"How did the checkup go?" Margareth asked as she poured us drinks.

We sat in the dining area while Hannah played happily in the living room. After school, Hannah usually stayed at Margareth's place, so when I worked late, she kept some of her things there.

I smiled timidly. "Just like Dr. Smith said. Hannah needs surgery as soon as possible. We can't delay anymore, or it could affect her long-term health."

Margareth handed me her bank card. "I've got some savings. A decent amount. I believe it'll cover all of Hannah's medical expenses."

I shook my head and pushed the card back toward her. "I can't take it, Margareth. You've already helped us so much. Just taking care of Hannah while I'm at work is more than enough."

I needed money to support my daughter-but I couldn't accept hers. Margareth wasn't young anymore. That money should be her emergency fund, in case something happened to her. If I took it and something went wrong-and we couldn't help her because the money had gone to Hannah-I would never forgive myself.

"I'm not giving it to you. I'm lending it," she insisted, pressing the card into my hand. "You can pay me back monthly. Think about Hannah-she needs this money right now."

"You know I treat you like family," she added. "You're my daughter-in-law, and Hannah is my granddaughter."

I smiled.

After all, I had once been her daughter-in-law-briefly.

Liam Brown was Margareth's son. I met him when I first joined my company. He was one of my clients, and after working on a project together, we became friends. The apartment I lived in now was provided by him.

At the time, his father was critically ill. Liam turned down a position as marketing director at the company's UK branch because he wanted to stay by his father's side.

His father's only dying wish was to see his son married.

Back then, my finances were in dire straits. My salary wasn't enough to cover Hannah's medical bills and childcare, yet I had to work-and Hannah was only two years old.

Liam made me an offer: marry him to fulfill his father's wish, and in return, he would give me fifty thousand dollars. We agreed to divorce after his father passed away.

I accepted.

Like him, I was willing to do anything for family. And fifty thousand dollars was no small sum when it came to paying for Hannah's treatment.

We got married quietly-only family knew. We kept it as secret as possible, not wanting anyone else to find out.

Margareth was furious when she learned the truth, but there was nothing she could do. She knew her son was only trying to be filial, so she stayed silent.

A month later, Liam's father passed away. After the funeral, we divorced. A few months later, Liam flew to the UK. The position he had once turned down was offered to him again. With his father gone, there was no reason to refuse, and Margareth encouraged him to take it. It was a perfect opportunity for his career.

A year later, Margareth fell ill. Hannah and I took care of her. From then on, our bond grew even closer. She offered to look after Hannah while I worked, saving me the cost of hiring a nanny-money that could instead go toward Hannah's medical bills.

"No, Margareth," I said firmly. "Don't worry about us. I've got a big deal about to close. Once I land it, I'll earn a substantial commission. I can handle this."

On Monday morning, I went to work.

Walking through the bustling SOMA district, I felt more determined than ever to secure the major client by Friday. I worked as an account manager at Brightwave Media. I had originally wanted to become a copywriter-my strengths leaned more toward creativity-but I ultimately applied for sales because each signed client meant commission. And that money was critical for paying Hannah's medical expenses.

As I reached my desk, one of the copywriters, Jessica, approached me.

"Olivia, Isabel's assistant said her boss wants to see you in her office," she said.

I nodded, grabbed my laptop, and assumed Isabel wanted me to review the final proposal we were submitting to the major client on Friday.

As expected, our creative director, Isabel, questioned me about the campaign proposal for Mere & Line's Everyday Luxury collection. I walked her through the concept and each phase of the campaign.

She reviewed the materials several times, then sighed.

"Olivia, is this really the best your team can do?" she asked.

I almost raised an eyebrow. I forced a polite smile. "Do you have any suggestions?"

"This launch has to scream luxury," Isabel said. "We're talking high-end fashion. The campaign has to be eye-catching-because the word 'luxury' itself should stand out. Like me."

She smiled proudly, gesturing to the brand-logo outfit she was wearing.

I took a slow breath, reminding myself not to offend her. She was the boss's daughter.

"I understand your point, Isabel," I said calmly. "But that's not the brand's philosophy."

"The 'everyday luxury' our client wants to promote is minimalism and understated elegance-quiet luxury," I explained, hoping she would understand.

Her smile never faltered. "I get what you're saying, Olivia. But luxury has to be aspirational. If it's too subtle, people get bored. It won't grab attention. We need bolder visuals, higher contrast."

I stared at her for a moment, thinking about how to explain that her definition of luxury differed from the client's. I needed her to understand the brand's core message. I needed to please the client-not her.

"What if we submit two proposals?" I suggested. "One as it is, and one revised according to your ideas."

It was the only way I could ensure the deal went through.

She paused, then nodded slowly. "Fine. We'll submit both. I'm confident the client will agree with me."

I forced another smile. "Of course."

After the tense meeting with Isabel, I immediately gathered my team and relayed everything we'd discussed.

"What the hell?!" Jessica exclaimed once I finished.

Ella shook her head. "She thinks she's above everyone just because she's creative director. Everyone knows she got that position because of her dad."

"Thank God Matthew is actually competent," Sophia muttered. "Otherwise, this company would've gone under."

Matthew Caldwell was our CEO and the owner's son. As Sophia said, Matthew was a capable heir-good news for all of us.

Thanks to Isabel, we suddenly had extra work, and I got home late that night. My daughter was already asleep in her room.

I had just finished showering when my phone chimed.

It was a message from Grace.

"I ran into William at a cocktail event in the Lower East Side a while back. He asked about you."

Grace's job took her to all kinds of social events. She worked in brand PR at a boutique event-planning firm, specializing in launches and private dinners for real estate developers and luxury brands. A muscle-brained trust-fund kid like William Anderson was naturally one of her regular fixtures.

I stared at her next message.

"He said he hasn't been able to reach you and wants to invite you to the class reunion this Saturday."

I frowned.

William caring about me? Impossible. We barely spoke during all four years of college. Even when the thing between Noah and me blew up, it barely caused a ripple in his social circle.

I replied: "What did you tell him?"

"I told him I didn't know where you were."

"Oh-and there's a ridiculous rumor that you're dead."

I typed back with a dry laugh:

"Then let them think I'm dead."

In their world, Emma Cooper had never mattered. Unless someone wanted to make a joke out of her, no one remembered she existed. From the moment I decided to change my name, I had buried Emma Cooper and drawn a clear line between my past life and this one.

Grace was the only exception.

She had never treated me like a joke. We met in the high school literature club. Even back then, she had a way with words-always knowing how to calm someone on the brink of emotional collapse. We were each other's unspoken secrets. Even now, she remained one of the very few people who made me feel safe.

"Are you sure?" she texted. "I heard Noah's going to be there. William even said he doubts Noah would recognize you."

I could practically hear her tone-light, faintly sarcastic.

Of course he wouldn't recognize me. I didn't want him to.

My fingers hovered over the screen for a moment before I replied:

"I'm not going."

I put the phone away and buried my face in the pillow, letting that one sentence-'I doubt he'd recognize you'-roll endlessly through my mind.

Not because I cared whether he recognized me.

But because I knew that even if he did, he would do exactly what he had done seven years ago-deny that I had ever been worth acknowledging at all.