Chapter 2: Birthday Wishes and Broken Glass

Later, the golden boy found himself desperately chasing after his wife, but it was too late.

I died in a car accident.

On Christmas Day—my birthday. Funny, right?

The irony never left me. Each year, the world celebrated with twinkling lights and carols while I sat alone, pretending not to care that no one remembered. It was my fifth birthday spent by myself, married for five years, yet always alone. The ache was familiar, a dull throb beneath the surface.

I’d gotten used to the silence, the way the house echoed with every footstep. Sometimes I’d leave the TV on just to fill the emptiness, but nothing could drown out the absence of Mason’s voice, his laughter, the way he used to say my name like it was a secret only he knew.

It had been ages since I’d seen Mason Hale.

He was everywhere—actual superstar status. Billboards, magazine covers, late-night talk shows. Even my mom, who never cared about celebrities, knew his name. Sometimes, I’d catch a glimpse of him on TV and my heart would stutter, just for a second, before I reminded myself that was another life. Another me.

Right now, he was in Los Angeles, attending a fan meet-and-greet.

The event hall was decked out with Christmas trees—but every branch was covered in cards cursing me, and even fan-edited funeral photos of me.

It was surreal, watching from a distance as strangers tore me apart. I guess I should have been used to it by now, but it still stung. My name scrawled in angry Sharpie on ornaments, photoshopped images of me in caskets—like some twisted holiday joke. The glitter and fake snow couldn’t hide the hate. I wondered if Mason even noticed, or if he just kept smiling for the cameras.

“Harper Lane, why aren’t you dead yet?”

“Homewrecker Harper Lane will never clear her name.”

“A tramp who seduced a man into bed and faked a pregnancy to get ahead.”

Some extreme fans even said to Mason’s face:

“When are you divorcing Harper Lane?”

“I spent thousands on your merch, not so you could buy that witch designer purses!”

The truth was, I never carried designer bags.

The only bag I ever took out was a little bear backpack Mason bought me in college for fifteen bucks. Seriously, fifteen bucks. That was more my style. I could still picture it—cheap canvas, one ear flopping over the zipper. It wasn’t fancy, but it was mine. I’d sling it over my shoulder and feel like I was carrying a piece of him with me. The fans had no idea. To them, I was some villain in their soap opera, never the girl who just wanted to be loved.

I stared blankly at Mason’s beautiful, captivating eyes on the screen.

I remembered the tallest Christmas tree and the biggest Winnie-the-Pooh plush he ever gave me.

How he’d sneak me out for late-night burgers after award ceremonies, but we could never eat more than a few bites before paparazzi and fans surrounded us.

The taste of those cold, half-eaten fries, the way we’d laugh while ducking into the back seat of his car, always chased by flashing cameras. It was supposed to be romantic, but it felt more like being on the run. We learned to eat fast, to savor stolen moments. Even those tiny freedoms felt like luxuries.

When we went to the movies, we always had to sit in different rows, seats so far apart, and he’d always slip out before the credits rolled.

No matter where we went, there’d be a fleet of paparazzi cars following us at a distance. Every time, I’d check the rearview and spot those headlights. It made my skin crawl, but there was nothing we could do.

Every detail of our relationship would be splashed across the news headlines the next day.

Then the fans and media would pick apart my every move with a magnifying glass, finding fault in everything I did.

Just because I spoke seven seconds more than him in front of reporters—seven seconds!—I’d be bombarded with insults and humiliation. Sometimes I wondered if they counted every word I said, just waiting to pounce.

My novels were accused of exploiting Mason’s fame, and I was eventually forced to stop publishing them indefinitely.

I couldn’t work or socialize like just another girl my age.

I was trapped in an empty two-story house, waiting day after day for Mason to come home.

He became my entire life—my only focus.

It was suffocating.

Some nights, I’d wander from room to room, trailing my fingers along the banister, listening to the silence pressing in. I started counting the hours until he’d walk through the door, then the days, then the weeks. My world shrank to the size of his absence. It was like the house itself was holding its breath.