White Whale Chronicles

For me—Aaron Cole, the legendary playboy of the D.C. social scene—gave up three things:

Racing. Cigarettes. Every other woman.

At our lavish, headline-making wedding, he knelt on one knee, his eyes red and voice choked as he slid the ring onto my finger.

“Ariana, you are the only woman I will ever love.”

His vow still hung in the air when I woke up the next morning—six years into the future.

And the man who once cherished me like his own life now looked at me without a trace of affection, only a frost-bitten emptiness.

He threw a stack of papers toward me.

“Sign it, Ariana. I’m done with you.”

...

“Sign. The house is yours, the cars, five percent of the company shares—enough to keep you comfortable for life. Just one condition: stay away from me and Reese.”

Reese?

Which Reese?

My mind reeled. A torrent of questions, chaotic and insistent.

“Aaron, what are you talking about? We just got married yesterday. Why would you divorce me?”

I searched his face for any hint this was some cruel joke.

There was none. Only cold, weary contempt.

He barked a harsh, derisive laugh. “What new game is this, Ariana? Amnesia? You tried that one six years ago. Don’t you ever get tired?”

I rushed to the floor-length mirror in the living room. The face staring back was mine, yet not mine.

The eyes were the same, but fine lines now framed them, and a deep weariness had settled into my expression. All of it whispered the same silent truth.

Six years.

What happened in those six years?

Why was my memory still trapped on our wedding night?

Seeing my shattered expression, Aaron’s frown deepened.

“Stop the act. It’s pathetic. Reese is pregnant. With a boy. I need to give him a proper name.”

Reese...

The name struck like a thunderclap.

That timid girl who used to trail behind me, calling me “Senior Ariana” with such reverence.

The other scholarship student from the same backwoods—just like me—plucked from obscurity by the Cole family’s charity foundation.

“No...” The word slipped out, a fragile breath. “That’s impossible.”

Aaron’s patience snapped. He closed the distance, his hand closing around my wrist with a crushing grip.

“Ariana, I’m warning you. Stay away from Reese and the baby. Don’t make me sever the last thread of mercy between us.”

He leaned in, his voice a low, venomous whisper next to my ear. “Haven’t you done enough these past six years? Don’t force me to send you back to the old house. Let my mother... take you properly in hand.”

Mercy? Done enough?

Each strange accusation cut like a knife.

I looked at the man before me. Handsome, yes—but a mask of cold resolve had replaced the tender, devoted boy who once had eyes only for me.