Chapter 4: Ghost in My Own Home

When I went downstairs, the echo of my suitcase wheels was impossibly loud. Ethan’s assistant was still in the hall, jacket rumpled, phone clutched tight. Guests lingered in gossipy clusters, watching for me to break.

He stared at my suitcase, searching for words. “Lauren, please—if you walk out now, Ethan won’t let this go.” His voice was soft, desperate.

I let out a low, bitter laugh. When Ethan had answered that FaceTime call, Annie was pale in a hospital bed—my wild, laughing sister now so fragile. Ethan’s hands shook as he asked, “Is it true? Annie really woke up?” I had to look away.

I tried to persuade him to stay, even as I knew the answer. “Can you wait until I finish cutting the cake before you go?” My voice barely above a whisper. He sneered and left. The cake was never cut. The scent of frosting and strawberries lingered in the empty room.

Most guests left with him. The rest stayed to watch my humiliation, pretending to check their phones but never looking away. Ethan’s assistant brought his girlfriend to me, as if fate was determined to rub salt in the wound.

I ignored the stares, managing a self-deprecating smile. “Is that so? Then tell him for me: I don’t want to be Mrs. Caldwell anymore.”

I glanced at the assistant, tossed out those words, and walked out the front door. The humid air felt like a slap—fresh, freeing. My suitcase thudded down the porch steps. Annie had woken up. Ethan wouldn’t be coming back. The title of Mrs. Caldwell was always meant for her. For the first time, I didn’t want it anymore.