Chapter 1: Ghosts in the Inbox

On my way to what was supposed to be a fake divorce with Carter Whitman, I got an email scheduled fifteen years ago.

The car’s engine hummed under my feet, steady as always, while I scrolled through my inbox, the city blurring past the window. I almost missed the subject line—something old, something that felt like a hand reaching out from the past, tugging at my sleeve. For a second, I wondered if I should just let it go, but curiosity got the better of me.

"Hey Harper, did we get married? Does our kid laugh as much as you do?"

The words made me freeze, thumb hovering over the screen. Even back then, Carter was a little awkward—"Miss Harper," like we were in some Jane Austen novel. But I could almost hear his younger voice in those lines—bright, hopeful, a little too formal. Like he was sitting across from me again, knees bouncing nervously under the library table. The memory stung in a way I hadn’t expected.

"Did we make it big? Did we ever buy that place in Maple Heights with the huge balcony?"

I smiled, just a little, remembering all those late-night Zillow searches and half-joking promises about someday sipping coffee above the tree line. That balcony had been our shorthand for making it—our American dream, painted in square footage and sunlight.

"If I died right now, what twenty-year-old Carter Whitman would regret most is never teaching you how to fix a leaky toilet."

Classic Carter—always mixing the sentimental with the practical. I could picture his sheepish grin, the way he’d always try to teach me things he thought I’d need, just in case he wasn’t there. Always the practical one, even in love.

"The wildest thing is, I broke two ribs pulling you out from the rubble after the earthquake."

A chill ran through me. The memory of that day came back in flashes—the dust, the panic, his arms around me, the world shaking apart. It’s not the sort of thing you talk about after. But it sits with you. Heavy. Silent.

"If the Carter Whitman of fifteen years from now treats you badly, remember to knock some sense into him for me."

I almost laughed, but the sound caught in my throat. I wanted to reach back in time and shake some sense into both of us.

"Written after the aftershocks in May 2010."

I stared at the date, the timestamp frozen like a fossil. My thumb lingered, tracing the screen, as if I could touch that version of him—of us—one more time.

But then another email popped up—one sent just now.

It was the receipt for the diamond ring Carter bought last month—four thousand dollars—under another woman's name.

The subject line was just as cold as the numbers: "Order Confirmation – Sophia Lane." Four thousand dollars. I felt the number land in my gut, heavy as a stone. I didn’t need to read the details. The message was clear enough.

I knew, even if he once loved me with everything he had, our fake divorce was about to turn real.

The old promises felt like dust in my hands.

My breath caught. I forced myself to keep looking out the window, pretending nothing had changed.