Chapter 2: The Distance Between Us

I looked at Jason Hartman’s face on the screen—handsome, cold, and suddenly unfamiliar. For a second, I felt like I was floating, lost in the chaos of headlines scrolling by: “Hartman Denies Secret Family.” The conference room behind him was as sterile as any of his boardrooms, all glass and steel. For four years, that face had been my world; now, it was just another mask for the cameras.

Jason’s reputation was all ice: reserved, calculating, never letting his emotions show.

Even at Penn, Jason was the guy who never lost his cool during finals or when the frat boys TP’d his car. He was aloof, the kind of man who saw feelings as distractions.

But the truth was, Jason Hartman had always had intense desires—needs that ran deep and constant.

He lived by the clock, except at night. To everyone else, he was the man who ran five miles at dawn and closed deals before breakfast; to me, he was the man who brought his hunger home.

Before business trips, he’d ignore my tears, use his tie to bind my wrists, pressing me beneath him—sometimes four times in a row before he left for the airport.

It was always messy, desperate, our bodies tangled in those final hours. The tie left faint stripes on my wrists, and the sound of his suitcase rolling down the hallway lingered long after he was gone.

Later, I’d sometimes bite his neck, leaving a mark only we knew about.

Even now, I sometimes caught myself tracing my lips, remembering the thrum of his pulse beneath my teeth. It felt childish—like a secret just for us.

That navy blue tie with the subtle pattern? I spent an hour in Macy’s picking it for our anniversary. He never said thank you, but he wore it on every big day.

This is our fourth year together.

Four anniversaries, each one quieter than the last—dinners at fancy restaurants, the silence between us growing wider than the table.

We have a beautiful daughter. She just turned three.

She blows out her birthday candles herself now, cheeks puffed out, always glancing at her dad for approval before she claps. Her first word was “up.” Her second was “daddy.”

But now, Jason Hartman—my so-called husband—stood before the media, his voice cold and serious:

“There’s no secret marriage, and I don’t have a daughter. My personal life’s always been an open book.”

His words hit harder than any slap. The TV blared, closed captions spelling it out for the world. I finally understood how easy it was for him to erase us.

He pushed up his gold-rimmed glasses, blue eyes sharp and cold, as if he could see straight through the camera and into my living room.

Those glasses were his armor. His eyes narrowed, calculating—he could size up a room without blinking. Tonight, it felt like he saw right through me.

“I advise those with ulterior motives: don’t get any ideas, and don’t embarrass yourselves.”

It wasn’t just a warning. It was a wall, thrown up between me, Maddie, and any memory of what we’d built together.