I remember the weight of the dress—thirty pounds of silk and hand-stitched lace that felt like armor I couldn't move in. My mother had stood behind me in the bridal suite, her fingers cool as she fastened the heirloom pearls around my neck. “A perfect fit,” she’d whispered into the mirror, but she wasn't looking at me. She was looking at the image.
The lace had been scratchy against my collarbone, a persistent irritation that I’d been told to ignore. Beauty is pain, Sierra. Endurance is grace. I remember looking at my reflection and seeing a stranger. A beautiful, polished, hollow stranger.
I remember the walk down the aisle. The scent of five thousand white lilies was so cloying it made my stomach roll. The air in the cathedral was stagnant, thick with the smell of old stone and expensive perfume. I looked at Jace standing at the altar, looking every bit the all-American savior in his black tuxedo. He looked solid. He looked safe. But when our eyes met, I didn't feel a spark of joy; I felt a wave of nausea.
I can’t do this, I had thought as my father’s hand squeezed my arm, leading me forward. His grip had been firm, a silent reminder of the contracts and social standing that were being signed away with my hand. He hadn't looked at me as a daughter; he’d looked at me as his greatest achievement. He had leaned in and whispered, “Make us proud, Sierra,” as ifthe next fifty years of my life were just a performance for his benefit.
I looked at the guests, the sea of judges, CEOs, and socialites, and I realized that the wedding wasn't for me. It was a merger. It was a performance. And Jace... Jace was just as trapped as I was, though he didn't seem to know it yet. He was doing the "right thing," just like he always did.
When the priest asked if I took him as my husband, the silence in the cathedral was deafening. Heavy. Expectant. I had looked at my mother in the front row, her chin tilted up, her eyes narrow and commanding.
“I do,” I’d said. And with those two words, I’d locked the door to my own life.
I snap back to the present, my breath coming in short, shallow gasps. My hand is gripping the edge of the kitchen table so hard my knuckles are white. The memory of that day tastes like ash in my mouth.
I stand up abruptly, the chair scraping harshly against the linoleum. I need to move. I walk over to one of the few boxes I brought with me. One I’ve labeled ‘Office.’
I haven’t unpacked much. Most of my belongings are still sealed in the boxes the boys helped me haul up the stairs last weekend. Seeing it all stacked against the wall makes the apartment feel even smaller, like the life I lived with Jace is physically crowding me out of this new one.
I only took what was essential, and yet, looking at the open box, I realize I took all the wrong things. I took my planners, my leather-bound journals, my ‘respectable’ stationery. I didn't take my old sketchbooks. I didn't take the worn-out sweatshirt I used to wear in college before I learned how to dress like a Carter.
I reach inside the box and pull out a small, leather-bound journal. I flip it open, and a sonogram photo flutters out, landing face-down on the floor. My breath hitches. I don't pick it up immediately. I just stare at the blank white back of the thermal paper. My hand moves instinctively to my stomach.
The miscarriage happened months ago, the physical pain replaced by a hollow, aching void, but the secret of that child remains. Jace mourned that baby as his. He held me while I cried, his own heart breaking for a future he thought we were building.
But every time he whispered,“We’ll try again,”a piece of me withered. Because the baby wasn't his. It was Knox’s.
It was the result of one night where I finally snapped, seeking out the one person who has always seen the real me—the messy, unpolished, terrified version. The version that doesn't wear pearls. And instead of being honest, I used Jace as a shield. I let him believe the lie because I was too much of a coward to face my parents with the truth of a man like Knox. A man who didn't fit the Carter brand. A man who made me feel alive instead of just ‘correct.’
I remember that night with Knox. The smell of rain on hot asphalt through the screen door of my college apartment. Theway he looked at me—not as a girl who needed to be polished or managed, but as a person. He didn’t care about my family’s expectations or if I was saying the right things to the right people. He just cared that I was breathing. The way his hands felt on my skin was the opposite of the careful, checked-out touch I’d eventually get from Jace. Knox was fire and chaos and truth. And I had traded that air for the suffocating safety of a life that looked good on paper.
I finally reach down and pick up the photo, tucking it back into the journal. I can't look at it. Not yet.
A sharp, rhythmic knock at the door startles me. My instinctual reaction is immediate. I stand up, smoothing my cashmere sweater. I check my reflection in the window, pulling my shoulders back, practicing an ‘I’m fine’ expression. Even here, in this dump, the conditioning holds.
I open the door, and the mask shatters.
Emma stands there. She’s in an oversized coat, her hair windblown, carrying a brown paper bag of takeout.
“You look like hell, Sierra,” she says softly.
The way she says my name is my undoing. I step back, letting her in, and the sob that had been lodged in my throat for three days finally breaks loose. Emma doesn't ask questions. She just sets the bag down and pulls me into a hug that smells like rain and the perfume she’s worn since we were back in college. I cry into her shoulder, my hands clutching the back of her coat like I’m drowning.
"I've got you," Emma whispers, her hand stroking my hair. "I've got you, Sierra. Just breathe."
Eventually, the storm passes. When my breathing finally evens out, I pull back, scrubbing at my face with the sleeve of my sweater. “How did you know where to find me?” My voice sounds small, like I’ve just woken up.
Emma’s mouth curves into a soft, knowing smile. “You texted me the address three days ago and then went radio silent. I figured either you’d changed your mind… or you needed me.”
I huff out a weak laugh. Of course I did. Even on autopilot, some part of me had been reaching for a lifeline.
Emma guides me back to the kitchen chair. She brought burgers and fries, food my mother would call ‘common’, and she forces me to eat while she makes tea.
"I'm just... floating, Em," I whisper. "I’ve spent so long being the daughter my parents wanted. I thought if I played the part well enough, I’d eventually become her. I thought the lie would eventually become the truth."
Emma leans forward, her expression fierce. "But the truth is you were never her, Sierra. You were just a girl trying to survive a family that treats love like a transaction. You were a hostage, not a daughter. Then you tried to build a life on a foundation of other people's needs."
"Jace deserved better," I say, my voice cracking. "He deserved a woman who loved him with her whole heart, not a woman whowas using him to hide from her own. He’s sogood, Emma. He tried so hard to be what I needed, and I just kept pulling him into the dark with me. He was trying to be the hero, and I was just the girl who needed a hiding place."
