Chapter 2 - The Empty ApartmentThe rain began to drum a harsh, relentless rhythm against the windshield of my Honda Civic as I drove us away from the hotel, the city lights of San Jose blurring into long, weeping streaks of red and yellow.
Mom sat in the passenger seat, her head bowed, staring down at her lap where her ruined hat rested like a broken crown. Every few seconds, she reached up with trembling fingers to touch the jagged, butchered tufts of hair near her temples, quickly pulling her hand back as if remembering there was nothing left to hold.
“I’m sorry, Naomi,” she murmured, her voice thick with self-blame. “I shouldn't have let him take me to that salon. I should have stayed home. I ruined your wedding.”
“You didn't ruin anything, Mom,” I said, gripping the steering wheel so hard my knuckles ached. A fierce, protective wave of anger surged through my chest, pushing back the tears. “You survived. And that wedding was a disaster long before we ever stepped foot in that hotel.”
We drove straight to the small, modest two-bedroom apartment we shared—a place paid for by my salary as a senior graphic designer, far away from the gated country clubs and high-society circles Brandon’s family inhabited.
As soon as we walked through the front door, the weight of what I had just done crashed down on me. The living room still had a cardboard box of wedding favors stacked by the coat rack. My phone buzzed in my purse—once, twice, then a relentless barrage of calls and text messages.
I pulled the phone out, silenced the ringer, and tossed it onto the kitchen counter without looking at the screen.
“Go wash up, Mom,” I said softly, gently removing her damp jacket. “I’m going to make you some chamomile tea with honey. Then we’re going to sit down, and you’re going to rest.”
While Mom retreated to the bathroom, I walked into my bedroom, stripped off the ruined, water-stained wedding dress, and changed into an oversized cotton sweater and sweatpants.
Standing in front of my own mirror, the reality of my situation hit me with terrifying clarity. I was twenty-eight years old, officially unwed, standing in a rented apartment with zero savings because every spare dollar I earned over the last two years had been quietly funneled into the exorbitant vendor deposits for Brandon’s dream wedding.
And I was pregnant.
Ten weeks. Growing quietly inside me was a tiny heartbeat, half-mine and half-belonging to a man who couldn't even defend my mother from being physically shoved into a doorframe.
A sharp cramp suddenly clenched my lower abdomen. I gasped, pressing both hands against my stomach, leaning heavily against the edge of the dresser as a wave of cold dizziness washed over me. The stress, the adrenaline, the screaming match in the bridal suite—it was taking a heavy toll.
I needed to sit down. I needed water.
Just as I regained my balance, my phone—which I had left buzzing on the kitchen counter—started vibrating again with such force that it skidded across the granite surface.
I walked out into the kitchen and glanced at the lit-up screen.
It wasn't Brandon. It wasn't his father Arthur.
The caller ID flashed a name I hadn't expected to see on a Saturday night, let alone hours after walking out on his brother’s wedding.
Waylon Cole.
Brianna’s older brother. The same man who had violently shoved my sixty-year-old mother into a wall just a few hours ago.
My thumb hovered over the screen. Why was Waylon calling me? Was he calling to threaten me on behalf of his sister? Or was there something else—something darker—hidden beneath the chaos of the morning?
May you like
I pressed accept, brought the phone to my ear, and said nothing.
“Naomi,” Waylon’s voice came through the speaker, low, breathless, and laced with an urgency that immediately made the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. “Don’t hang up. I’m sitting in my truck outside your apartment building. If you want to know why Brandon was really so desperate to marry you in a rush before your thirty-second birthday... you need to let me inside.”
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