Chapter 3: The Shepherd’s Perfect Lie

In my last life, Rowan Shepherd had called me that too, as he strangled me.

His hands were strong, his grip unyielding. I remember the look in his eyes—cold, detached, as if he was putting down a rabid animal. I didn’t fight. The memory still haunted me, a shadow I could never quite shake.

Back then, Rowan fell for Lila Quinn at first sight.

He saw her at a Fourth of July barbecue—flags, sparklers, the works. Lila in a white sundress, laughing as fireworks burst overhead. He was smitten, the kind of infatuation that makes a man reckless. The whole town noticed, and so did I.

But the Shepherds had been in local government for generations, and Rowan, as the eldest legitimate son, was held to the highest expectations. His grandmother, Mrs. Shepherd, looked down on the Quinns’ social climbing. Instead, she took a liking to me—the quiet, plain girl Lila brought along as a backdrop—and arranged the marriage.

It was all about appearances in Maple Heights. Mrs. Shepherd wanted someone with a good name, a spotless reputation. I fit the bill—at least on paper. Paper was all that mattered.

After marrying into the Shepherd family, Rowan and I had a stretch of wedded bliss. His career took off, and with the Shepherds’ support, he became the youngest state senator in a decade.

We were the golden couple, our photos splashed across the society pages. Everyone wanted to be us. People envied us, whispered about our good fortune. I smiled for the cameras, played the part, all while the cracks in our marriage deepened behind closed doors.

Years went by, and in a family like the Shepherds, no new mistresses ever appeared. For a while, I became the envy of every woman in town.

Women at church socials eyed me with a mix of jealousy and awe—potluck dinners, bake sales. I was the standard they measured themselves against—the woman who had it all. If only they knew.

When people asked, he’d just smile and say, "My wife won’t allow it."

He played the devoted husband, always quick with a joke, a wink. It was all an act. Folks thought we were in love. They had no idea.

Then he’d take off his coat and drape it gently over my shoulders.

In public, he was the perfect gentleman. In private, he was a stranger—cold, distant, his eyes full of contempt.

But back in our house, the tenderness in his eyes would vanish. He’d grab my hair and shove my head into the bathtub, pain burning across my scalp until I looked up at his furious face.

The violence was sudden, shocking. I learned to hold my breath, to go limp, to wait for it to end. Survival mode. I never screamed. I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction.

Rowan Shepherd smiled coldly. "Morgan Sinclair, is being Mrs. Shepherd comfortable enough for you?"

His words dripped with sarcasm, every syllable a knife. I didn’t flinch. I stared up at him, water streaming down my face, refusing to break.

I choked on water and asked, "Why don’t you just divorce me?"

My voice was hoarse, my throat raw. I wanted out, but he wouldn’t let me go. Not ever.

He said nothing, just stared at me for a long time before sneering. I stared right back.

"You’re too much fun. How could I let you go—unless you die..."

His voice was soft, almost tender. I realized then that he’d rather destroy me than lose me.

Right. Unless I died, no one would ever know Rowan’s secret.

He guarded his secrets fiercely—his ambitions, his shame, the things he’d done to get ahead. Secrets were his real currency. I was the only one who knew the truth, and that made me dangerous.

After the Quinn family was ruined, Rowan knelt all night in the family chapel, begging to bring Lila into the house and protect her forever.

I watched him through the stained glass, his silhouette hunched in prayer, the old wooden pews, the smell of wax. He whispered Lila’s name like a mantra, desperate for forgiveness, for a second chance.

That’s when I realized she was the one he truly loved.

It was a bitter pill to swallow, but I forced it down. Love had nothing to do with our marriage. It never had.

That night, after I drank the pregnancy tonic, blood wouldn’t stop pouring out of me.

The pain was blinding, waves of agony crashing over me. Make it stop. I lay curled on the bathroom floor, clutching my stomach, praying for it to end.

I was unconscious for three days. Rowan never came to see me—not once. He was too busy comforting Lila, who’d been humiliated to the breaking point by the family’s old guard.

The nurses whispered about it in the halls, their voices full of pity. I hated their pity. I heard every word, even through the haze of pain and medication.

Several old women outside the guesthouse Rowan kept for Lila called her the product of an affair. They said she should’ve been run out of town, but she’d shamelessly wormed her way in as a mistress—and now even dreamed of marrying in.

The Shepherds prided themselves on tradition. Lila was an outsider, a stain on their perfect image. The old women took it upon themselves to put her in her place. Maple Heights justice.

During their tirade, they never mentioned Rowan’s name. People whispered, as if Lila had tangled up every big-shot in Maple Heights, her reputation in tatters.

No one blamed the men, of course. It was always the woman who bore the brunt of the scandal. Lila became the town pariah overnight.

The women held her down and slapped her hard across the face.

The sound echoed across the lawn, sharp and final. No one stopped them. Lila’s cries were muffled by the weight of tradition, of expectations she could never meet.

After Rowan comforted Lila, he came to see me. I complained:

"Dad and I went to great lengths to pull strings and keep Lila from being sent away or shamed. Who’d have thought she’d sink this low? I never should’ve saved her—now she’s brought disaster to the whole family."

I let the bitterness show, my words edged with resentment. Rowan stood in the doorway, arms crossed, his face unreadable.

Rowan hesitated. "You and she are like sisters—why say things like that?" He never understood.

"You’re mistaken, Rowan. I’ve never been the gentle type. If Lila ever fell into my hands, I’d skin her alive myself." I lowered my eyes, watching the veins bulge on the back of his hand, my smile never reaching my eyes. "But lucky for her, you come from a squeaky-clean family. You’d never do something so disgraceful."

My words were a challenge, daring him to prove me wrong. He never did.

I had to admit, my mother-in-law’s move was ruthless. With the Shepherds’ reputation, Lila’s name was mud—she’d never set foot in that house again.

Mrs. Shepherd knew how to protect her own. She’d sacrificed Lila to save the family name, and she didn’t lose a minute of sleep over it. Family first, always.

But Lila was desperate enough to jump into the lake in the dead of winter.

The news spread fast—sirens wailing, neighbors gathering on the shore, everyone craning their necks for a glimpse of the drama. Nothing like a scandal to bring folks together.

I sat in a coffee shop, sipping a hot latte by the heater, quietly watching as Rowan dove into the freezing water to save her.

The windows fogged up, the air inside thick with the smell of cinnamon and espresso. I watched the chaos unfold outside, my heart cold as ice. I felt nothing.

He’d slipped out without even bringing a bodyguard.

For a man who valued appearances, it was a reckless move. Love makes fools of us all. Maybe he thought love would keep him afloat. Maybe he just didn’t care anymore.

Rosie’s hands trembled as she poured more coffee. "Miss, is that... the senator’s son in the lake? Someone could die, right?"

She hovered by my table, eyes wide with fear. I barely glanced up, my attention fixed on the scene outside.

I set down my cup and watched the two struggling in the water, my voice cold. "My child died because of them. Sooner or later, they’ll have to pay for it." Justice, one way or another.

Rosie whispered, "Nothing was found in the tonic, so whatever you say, he won’t believe it..."

She looked at me with pity, as if hoping I’d find some comfort in her words. I didn’t. Pity was useless.

"Such slick tricks," I sneered. "Lila deserves to die. And that conniving little homewrecker deserves it too. Rosie, do you think after today, I’ll be the richest widow in town?"

I let the bitterness show, my voice edged with sarcasm. Rosie didn’t answer, just wrung her hands and stared at the floor. She was scared of me, too.

But fate had other plans.

Nothing ever worked out the way I wanted. I should have known better by now.

Rowan was a strong swimmer. He managed to push Lila ashore. Passersby pulled him out too. Of course he did.

I watched as people rushed to help, their shouts muffled by the glass. The relief on their faces was almost comical.

I looked up at the sky. Only when tears overflowed did I lift my skirt and run to his side, sobbing:

"Rowan, you can’t die!"

My voice was raw, the words torn from somewhere deep inside me. I almost believed myself. For a moment, I let myself believe the lie—that I cared, that any of this mattered.

While swimming, Rowan had seen me sitting in the café, watching the drama unfold.

He told me later that he’d spotted me through the window, my face cold and distant. He said it haunted him, that look in my eyes. Good.

He opened his eyes weakly, his cold hand cupping my cheek.

His touch was gentle, almost loving. I hated him for it. Too little, too late.

"You’d better hope I die. If I make it, you won’t..."

His words were a promise, a threat. I met his gaze, unflinching. I wasn’t scared.

But things didn’t go as planned. Rowan survived, and so did I.

We were both too stubborn to die, too angry to let go. The world kept turning, indifferent to our suffering.

Because of the rescue, Rowan was left unable to have children. Poetic justice.

The doctors said it was a miracle he survived at all. The cold had done its work, leaving him broken in ways no one could see.

I threatened him: if he dared hurt me or anyone close to me, I’d make sure everyone knew he’d lost his ability to have heirs because he saved Lila.

It was the only leverage I had left. Rowan valued his legacy above all else. The threat was enough to keep him in check—for now.

The Shepherds’ reputation meant more to him than his life. He had no choice but to back down. He was trapped.

He swallowed his pride, put on a good face for the world, and pretended nothing had changed. But I saw the cracks, the fear behind his eyes.

From that day on, Rowan put on a show of marital bliss with me in public. We became the envy of the whole town, a picture-perfect couple. It was all for show.

We attended every gala, every fundraiser, our smiles bright and unbreakable. People whispered about our love, our devotion. No one saw the truth.

But nobody knew that everything he did was meant to humiliate me.

Behind closed doors, the mask slipped. Rowan found new ways to hurt me—small cruelties, whispered insults, a thousand tiny cuts. Death by a thousand paper cuts.

When my mother-in-law learned I couldn’t have more children and still wouldn’t let Rowan take a mistress, she hated me for cutting off the Shepherd line. Every night, she made me kneel in the family chapel to atone.

She’d stand over me, rosary beads clicking, her prayers sharp as knives. I knelt until my knees bled, until I learned to numb the pain. I stopped feeling anything.

Afraid of damaging her son’s reputation, she blamed everything about Lila’s suicide attempt on me.

She told anyone who’d listen that I was the reason for all their troubles. I became the family scapegoat, the villain in every story. Let them talk.