Chapter 1: April Fool’s—The Last Straw

The day my husband’s plane crashed into Lake Michigan, I completely lost it and ran straight into the lake after him. It wasn’t until they dragged me out of the freezing water that I remembered—it was April Fool’s Day.

My skin still burned from the cold. The air in my lungs was sharp, ragged. Sirens, shouts—everything blurred together. Somewhere in that chaos, the date hit me like a punchline to a cruel joke. April Fool’s. I swear, I could hear the universe laughing at me.

Right before I blacked out, I heard his friend’s voice in my head—mocking, taunting. Was it a memory, or just my mind playing tricks on me?

“Man, Carter, your wife’s really obsessed with you. If she ever finds out you’re messing with her, she’ll totally lose it.”

The voice was so clear it felt like he was right there at my bedside, words thick with smugness. I could picture them—guys packed into some smoky back room, beers in hand, acting like kings of the world.

He laughed, low and careless. “Let her. After Autumn gave birth, she’s as docile as a lamb. As long as you all keep this from her, it’s fine. This is the last time I’ll test how much she loves me.”

They all cracked up, rough and mean. I could almost smell their cologne, hear the clink of bottles, see the way they nudged each other, promising to keep the secret. The sting was real—like being punched, not just remembering.

Their voices echoed, bouncing around my skull. Salt in an open wound. Fresh and raw.

I lay on the gurney, numb. Couldn’t even cry anymore. Just empty.

The fluorescent lights above me flickered—cold and harsh, matching the chill inside. The paramedic’s hands checked my pulse, but I barely noticed. I felt hollow. Just...empty.

He didn’t know it yet, but this was the last chance I’d ever give him.

Something inside me snapped. Like a string pulled too tight, finally giving way. Nothing left to give.

From that moment, whatever I felt for him—gone.

It was like someone flipped a switch. All the love, all the pain, just...gone. What was left was a quiet I’d never felt before.

When I woke up in the hospital, there was a peeled apple on the table.

It sat on a paper plate, the skin spiraled off in one long ribbon. The whole place smelled faintly of antiseptic and apples—a weird, almost cozy contrast. Sunlight striped the white sheets through the blinds.

Whenever I was sick before, Jackson never showed up. He’d just have his assistant drop off a pile of vitamins and protein shakes.

I used to stare at those untouched bottles, lined up like trophies, and wonder if he even remembered what my voice sounded like when I was sick. That memory made the apple seem almost alien.

Seeing my blank stare, he picked up a slice of apple and held it to my lips.

His hand was steady, almost gentle. He hovered there, waiting—like he was testing me.

“Seeing me alive must make you so happy.”

The words slapped harder than any hand. He said it with a smile, but his eyes were cold. There was a dare in his voice, baiting me to react.

I turned my head away and caught a glimpse of faint love bites on his neck. My voice came out steady, but inside I was ice. “Jackson, let’s get a divorce.”

A beat of silence stretched out, thickening the air. The bruises on his neck were like little purple secrets, and I felt nothing. Just a cool, steady calm.

His hand froze, then he popped the apple into his own mouth. He crunched it loud, eyes glinting. It was almost a performance—like he wanted me to see how little he cared. But his jaw was tight.

He chewed slowly, letting the sound fill the room. It was theatrical, like he wanted to prove something. But beneath it, I saw tension.

Then, right in front of me, he made a call.

He pulled out his phone, thumb flying over the screen, never glancing my way. That was always his move—one step ahead, never letting me see his hand.

Soon, his assistant brought in Mason.

I heard Mason’s sneakers scuffing the tile before I saw him. The assistant hovered awkwardly in the doorway as Mason trudged in, clutching a battered action figure.

Mason had shot up in the few months since I’d last seen him. But he was still distant.

He stood a few feet from the bed, eyes flicking everywhere but at me. His hair was longer, falling over his brow, and his hands worked the toy back and forth.

After I gave birth to Mason and finished nursing, Jackson’s father—Mr. Carter Sr.—took him away. I only got to see him on holidays, at family dinners in that big, silent house.

Those dinners were stiff, the kind where you heard every clink of silverware and scrape of chairs, but never a laugh. I’d watch Mason across the table, separated by more than just distance.

I knew exactly why Jackson brought Mason here.

He always played this card when he was in trouble—using Mason as a shield, a peace offering, something to tug at my heart.

Whenever he screwed up and I was angry, he’d send our son in to soften me up.

It worked, too, more times than I wanted to count. Mason’s little hands in mine, his uncertain smile—it used to be enough to make me forgive anything.

I’d lost count of how many times he’d played that card.

The pattern was so familiar it was almost boring now. Anger, Mason, forgiveness, repeat.

But now, it wasn’t my weakness anymore.

This time, I felt the old ache, but it didn’t move me. Something inside me had finally gone still.

Seeing Mason, a little rounder than before, I didn’t even smile.

His cheeks were rounder, his clothes a size too small. He looked up at me, waiting for a reaction. I gave him nothing.

Mason frowned, looking like a miniature Jackson. Even calling my name, he had his father’s tone.

“Autumn, you’re still so uptight and boring. Dad, I want to go back. I want Mommy Lisa to play chess with me…”

His voice was whiny, almost rehearsed. The words stung, but not the way he meant.

Mommy Lisa?

The words echoed in my head, sharp and sudden. My throat tightened, but my face stayed blank.

No wonder he never called me Mom. He’d already picked someone else for the part.

There it was—the final twist of the knife. I wondered if Jackson even noticed, or if he just didn’t care.

Jackson’s eyes went cold.

The room seemed to drop a few degrees. He shot Mason a look that made the boy shrink, lips pressed tight.

Mason immediately clammed up and climbed into my lap. “Daddy’s being mean to me!”

He curled into me, little hands grabbing my shirt, eyes wide and uncertain. I remembered when that would have melted me.

Before, I would’ve comforted Mason. But this time, I gently pushed him away.

“Go tell your Mommy Lisa.”

My voice was soft, but the words landed like a slap. Mason stared, stunned, mouth opening and closing.

Two nearly identical faces froze.

For a moment, they looked so alike—father and son, caught off guard, not sure what to say. The silence was thick.

I spoke again, “Jackson, I mean it about the divorce. I’m not playing around.”

There was steel in my voice, the kind you only get when you’ve got nothing left to lose.

A flicker of anger crossed his face, then he covered it with a mocking smile.

He was always quick to hide the real stuff, but I saw the flash of fury before that old, familiar smirk slid into place.

“Autumn, if you keep playing hard to get, it won’t end well. If you really piss me off, you’ll never see your son again.”

His words were pure threat. I’d heard them before, but this time, they bounced right off.

No wonder he hadn’t reacted the first time I brought up divorce—he thought I was bluffing, just trying to get a rise out of him.

It was almost funny, how much he underestimated me. He always thought I was just making noise.

I remembered last year, when he fooled around with some influencer so much she ended up in the hospital with a ruptured ovary and internal bleeding. The whole mess exploded on Instagram and Twitter, and I fought with him about getting divorced.

It was a nightmare—my phone blowing up, friends sending worried texts, tabloids camped outside. I confronted him, desperate and angry, but he just brushed it off.

He locked me in a room. Wouldn’t let me see Mason. Not for half a year.

The memory still made my chest ache. Days blurred together—me pacing the floor, listening for footsteps that never came, missing Mason so bad it hurt to breathe.

That’s when I finally learned my lesson.

There’s only so much pain a person can take before they just...stop feeling it.

And that’s when I realized I didn’t love him anymore.

It was quiet, almost peaceful. Like waking up from a nightmare and realizing the sun’s already up.

“Jackson, I’ll move out of the Carter house after I’m discharged.”

My voice was even, my gaze steady. For the first time, I felt like I was talking to an equal, not a tyrant.

I said it again, meeting his eyes.

I wanted him to know I meant it. No more games, no more back-and-forth.

He finally realized I wasn’t just throwing a fit. His face turned serious.

He studied me, looking for a crack in my resolve. He didn’t find one.

“Want a divorce? Let’s see if you’ve got the guts.”

His words were a dare. I didn’t flinch. I just watched him gather Mason and leave, the door closing behind them with a final, echoing click.

After he left with Mason, I finally picked up my phone and texted that unfamiliar number.

My hands shook a little. Still, I typed it out and hit send before I could second-guess myself.

“I’ve made up my mind. I’ll leave after the dance competition ends next week.”

It felt good, putting it in words. Making a plan. I stared at the screen, waiting for a reply that never came.