Chapter 1: Nightmare at Maple Heights

After finally becoming a couple with the alpha husband I’d secretly adored, I had a dream.

Even now, as I lay in our king-sized bed in our cozy Maple Heights home, the memory of the dream stuck to me like lake-effect snow—cold, heavy, impossible to shake off. The room was dark except for the soft glow from the alarm clock on Derek’s nightstand—always set ten minutes ahead, a quirky habit I found weirdly endearing. In that dream, I was nothing more than cannon fodder—a disposable tool—in a typical “chasing wife at the crematorium” story. (That’s a popular romance trope where a husband desperately tries to win back his wife after betraying her.) My only purpose was to pave the way for my husband and his true beloved, the main character. Was I really so easy to erase? The thought stung worse than any breakup line.

Even as I tried to brush it off, the absurdity of being cast as an extra in my own marriage gnawed at me. Who wants to be a cautionary tale in their own love story? The more I thought about it after waking up, the angrier I got. My fingers curled tight, the anger bubbling up so fast it made my skin prickle. I slapped my still-sleeping husband hard across the face.

My husband woke up groggy, saw me crying in anger, and offered his other cheek. “Babe, don’t be mad. If your hand hurts, go ahead and use the other one. I can take it.”

1

I always thought of myself as a lucky person, born into an open-minded, middle-class family in Maple Heights, Ohio.

Maple Heights was the kind of place where neighbors waved from their porches, kids rode their bikes down tree-lined streets, and everyone seemed to know each other's business—especially if you had a backyard barbecue and forgot to invite the Johnsons. On summer nights, you could smell fresh-cut grass and barbecue smoke drifting through every open window. My parents, Greg and Lanie, never missed a single school recital or swim meet, and the holidays were always a whirlwind of board games, laughter, and my mom’s famous pecan pie.

Spoiled since childhood, if I asked for the stars, my parents wouldn’t just give me the moon—they’d try to get the stars, too.

Like the time Dad drove three towns over because the local store was out of my favorite cereal, or when Mom stayed up all night sewing sequins on my homecoming dress. Their love was loud, obvious, and a little over-the-top, but I never doubted for a second that I was their world.

With my good looks, I acted willfully and recklessly. I wore cherry-red lipstick that left prints on every soda can and snuck out to midnight showings at the Majestic Theater, heart pounding every time.

High school was a parade of bold lipstick and last-minute adventures. I cut my own bangs on a dare (disaster), snuck into midnight showings at the old Majestic Theater, and flirted shamelessly with any boy who’d glance my way, just to see what would happen.

Even though I had a bad temper, my looks always seemed to make up for it.

Once, after I’d thrown a slushie at a cheating ex in front of the whole cafeteria, the only thing people remembered was how my hair caught the sunlight as I stormed out. My girlfriends said I could get away with murder as long as I batted my lashes and apologized later with a smile.

Then I met the guy I secretly liked in college—a senior two years above me, the campus heartthrob, Derek Lawson.

He was legendary at State: captain of the soccer team, 4.0 GPA, and a smile that could melt the polar ice caps. I used to spot him at the campus coffee shop, lost in spreadsheets, a pencil tucked behind his ear. My friends dared me to talk to him, but I just blushed and ordered extra espresso instead.

For the first time, I braced for heartbreak—figured I was overdue for a little cosmic payback.

It was like bracing for a tornado that never came. I practiced speeches in the mirror, plotted elaborate run-ins, convinced I’d never be noticed by a guy like him. I was ready for heartbreak, if only so I could say I’d lived a little.

But instead, Derek confessed to me.

One late afternoon in the quad, while the maple leaves were burning red and gold, he walked right up and asked if I wanted to grab a burger with him after class. My mouth fell open. Later, he told me he’d been working up the nerve for weeks.

He said he’d fallen for me at first sight, and after seeing me once, he couldn’t imagine wanting anyone else.

I thought only movie characters said things like that. But there he was, all sincerity and dimples, telling me I was the reason he came to the coffee shop every Thursday, hoping I’d show up in my yellow raincoat.

So we started dating without a hitch, and after I graduated, we got married just as smoothly.

Our engagement was low-key—just us, takeout pizza, and a playlist of indie love songs on my old Bluetooth speaker. The wedding, though, was a full-on Maple Heights event, with half the town crammed into the church, flower petals everywhere, and my little cousin Emma doing her best to eat all the cake before we cut it.

By then, he was already successful, running his own financial company downtown.

Derek had landed his dream office in one of those glass towers overlooking Lake Erie. He commuted in every morning, crisp shirt, tie slightly askew, and a travel mug I’d scribbled hearts on with a Sharpie. Everyone in town acted like he’d made it to Wall Street.

I had a grand wedding and a happy family that everyone envied.

Our house was always full—my parents dropping by with pie, friends bringing their kids for pool parties, even our mailman staying for a cup of coffee some mornings. I started to believe maybe fairy tales did happen—just with more laundry and the occasional ant infestation.

Then, I had that dream.

It hit me like a cold front. One night I went to bed with Derek’s arm slung around my waist, and next thing I knew, I was living a nightmare version of our life.

In the dream, everything was fine until Derek hired a new assistant, and things started to change.

I remembered sitting at our breakfast bar, nursing my coffee, when he first mentioned the new hire. There was a flicker of something I couldn’t name—unease, maybe, or just plain old jealousy.

The assistant’s name was Ben Foster. In public, Derek called him Mr. Foster, but in private, he called him Benny.

Ben was all sharp suits and shy smiles, with a quick wit that made Derek laugh in a way that stung. At parties, I’d catch glimpses of them talking in corners, their heads bent together, and feel a chill run down my spine.

They met in secret at the office behind my back, and later got so bold they even had an affair in the home I shared with Derek.

It wasn’t just the betrayal; it was the audacity. My house, my safe place, invaded by whispers and laughter that didn’t belong to me. Every shadow in the hallway felt like proof I didn’t matter. I woke up sweating, hand clutching the comforter, certain I could still hear them in the next room.

And I, though attractive, was nothing but a foolish pawn.

Every time I tried to speak up in the dream, my voice fell flat. I was the woman people pitied, the one who didn’t get the joke. It made my skin crawl, the powerlessness of it.

After discovering Ben’s existence, I made a scene with Derek and lost all my dignity.

I remembered shouting, sobbing, slamming the bedroom door so hard a picture fell off the wall. In the dream, my anger was messy, loud—exactly the kind of scene I’d always sworn I’d never make.

The dream ended with Derek forcing me to leave empty-handed, signing the divorce papers, and abandoning me on the street.

No suitcase, no friends to call. Just me, shivering on a cracked sidewalk, mascara running, while Derek turned away without a second glance. That was the last thing I saw before I jolted awake.

When I woke up, I was so upset I could barely breathe.

The ceiling fan spun lazily above me, but my heart was racing. I pressed my face into the pillow, breathing in the faint scent of Derek’s cologne, trying to remind myself what was real.

The dream felt too real—my emotions surged, and tears streamed down uncontrollably.

I tried to tell myself it was silly. But the ache was real, the betrayal sharp. My pillowcase was damp by the time I peeked at Derek.

I glanced at Derek’s handsome, sleeping profile beside me. Even in his sleep, his hand was searching the bed for me.

His lashes fluttered as he shifted, mumbling something under his breath, fingers grazing my side like he knew I was upset even in his dreams. The sight of him—so peaceful, so mine—only made me angrier.

Fuming, I reached out and slapped his face without holding back.

The crack echoed in the quiet room. My palm stung, but my anger felt a tiny bit lighter.

It was a hard slap; a red mark immediately appeared on his cheek.

Derek woke up groggy and, when he saw my tearful, aggrieved face, stared in shock for two seconds.

He blinked at me, rubbing his cheek, like he was trying to remember if today was our anniversary or something.

He swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing.

A nervous habit—he always did that right before he apologized for something, even when he didn’t know what he’d done. I could almost hear his brain spinning.

His mind worked quickly, analyzing the situation.

Derek was nothing if not practical. I could see him scanning my face for clues, searching his memory for what he might’ve done. I could tell he was landing on the idea that, whatever it was, he probably deserved it.

He sat up halfway, revealing his strong chest and sculpted abs.

Sunlight filtered through the blinds, tracing gold stripes across his skin. He looked like he belonged on the cover of some men’s fitness magazine, not in the middle of my early-morning emotional hurricane.

He took my right hand and gently rubbed it in his palm.

His thumb traced slow circles over my palm, the way he always did when he wanted me to know he was there—really there.

“Babe, what’s wrong? Did your hand hurt when you hit me? If you’re gonna keep this up, I’ll grab you a pillow next time—save us both the bruises.”

He said it with a crooked smile, trying to make me laugh, but his eyes were serious. He knew me too well—not pushing, just offering comfort on my terms.

I pressed my lips together and stayed silent, still looking angry and wronged.

There was a heavy pause. I focused on the comforter, picking at the threads, refusing to meet his gaze. The silence between us was thick, but somehow safe.

Touching him was my reset button—proof he was solid, warm, and mine. He pulled me into his arms again, letting me touch his chest muscles for a while, then his abs.

He knew my tells—when I was upset, I liked to trace lazy patterns over his skin, grounding myself in the rhythm of his breathing. His hands stroked my back, gentle and patient.

Seeing I was still upset, he even imitated a puppy’s bark to try to make me laugh.

He grinned, let out a ridiculously accurate little “woof,” and nudged my cheek with his nose. I cracked a reluctant smile despite myself, rolling my eyes but secretly grateful for his dorky attempts at comfort.

In the end, after a quarrel at the head of the bed and making up at the foot, I went back to sleep, and Derek went to work—having fulfilled his marital duties.

When I woke up the second time, sunlight filled the room. I found Derek’s note on the pillow: "Love you. Call me if you need anything. Don’t let your dreams win. – D.” I smiled, shaking my head, feeling the world right itself just a little. I got ready for the day, humming along to the oldies station on the radio, grateful for a man who loved me—dreams and all.