Even after decades in my house, that morning, it felt unfamiliar. Packing felt like picking through wreckage, but an email from Lana—offering a creative retreat—gave me a reason to leave.
The island was chaos, not the quiet haven I expected. Then I met Eric—charming, easy to talk to. For the first time in months, I laughed.
The next morning, my novel was gone. I overheard Lana plotting to steal it. Betrayed, I left.
Months later, at my book signing, a note from Eric led me to a café. He confessed—he had saved my manuscript. Lana was gone.
When he asked for a second chance, I hesitated—then agreed. Some betrayals, it seemed, led to something unexpected. Maybe even love.
