The streak of light that had slipped through the curtains had been the first thing I had laid my eyes on when I woke up that morning. Not the harsh glare of Crestmont mornings where sunlight bounced off glass towers and split through curtains like an interrogation lamp. No. This was different. Maplewood's light filtered in pale and gold, softened by the lace curtain that hung over the narrow window of my room. It fell across the wooden floorboards in gentle stripes, almost hesitant, as though it knew I was a stranger here.
For the first time in a long time, I wasn't jolted awake by Adrian's heavy footsteps or the quiet creak of my daughter's door opening when he thought I wasn't watching. I wasn't bracing for anything. Just the sound of morning, unremarkable and steady.
The floor beneath me groaned when I swung my legs over the side of the bed. It was the kind of sound old houses made - a tired but welcoming stretch. The air smelled faintly of coffee, toasted bread, and polish on wood. Somewhere below, the muted hum of voices carried upward, spilling into the hall. Not the clipped, businesslike conversations of Crestmont's Glass District, but soft, winding exchanges with laughter tucked inside.
For a moment, I didn't move. I sat on the edge of the bed, bare feet on cool planks, trying to remember if I'd ever woken up this way before. Without the press of obligation. Without the sting of fear. It felt wrong. It felt wonderful.
A small whimper broke the stillness. I turned to the bassinet beside me where my daughter stirred, her face crumpling into a tiny frown. Her fists jerked upward, demanding comfort. I leaned over quickly, gathering her into my arms. She nestled against me, warm and impossibly small, the weight of her grounding me in a way nothing else could.
"You're safe," I whispered against her hair. "We're safe."
The words tasted new on my tongue, fragile as glass.
By the time she'd quieted, I decided we both needed air. I dressed quickly - nothing glamorous, just jeans and a soft blouse, clothes chosen for anonymity rather than statement. In Crestmont, I was always dressed to be seen. Here, I wanted the opposite.
Downstairs, the inn's dining area opened like something out of another life. Round tables with mismatched chairs, vases of wildflowers freshly picked, a chalkboard menu written in looping handwriting. The scent of butter and cinnamon clung to the air, and a kettle whistled faintly in the background.
Behind the counter, stood a woman in her late fifties, perhaps early sixties. She wore her gray hair pulled back into a loose bun, strands escaping to frame a face softened by time rather than hardened by it. Her apron was dusted with flour, and her hands were busy arranging pastries on a tray. She looked up when I entered, her eyes crinkling with something that could only be described as kindness.
"Well, good morning, sleepyhead," she said, her voice warm, carrying that sing-song lilt of someone who had long stopped rushing through her days. "I was beginning to think you'd missed breakfast altogether."
Caught off guard, I hesitated before offering a polite smile. "We had a… long night on the road."
Her gaze flicked to the baby in my arms, and I braced myself for the questions that usually followed. But instead, she only softened more, as though the sight explained everything. "Of course you did. Poor thing," she said, and I couldn't tell if she meant me or my daughter.
She wiped her hands on her apron and came around the counter. "I'm Marjorie," she introduced herself, extending a hand that smelled faintly of yeast and soap.
"Brielle," I replied, shifting my daughter to one arm so I could take it. Her grip was firm, grounding, the kind of handshake that said she meant every word she spoke.
"Well, Brielle," Marjorie said, "welcome to Maplewood's little corner of calm. You're staying in Room Four, yes?"
I nodded.
"Good. That room gets the best light in the morning. I always tell guests it's the house's way of saying, 'You made it another day.'"
I blinked at her, startled by how easily she slipped those words into conversation. In Crestmont, mornings were about deadlines, commutes, and curated perfection. No one spoke of simply making it through the night.
"Thank you," I managed.
She waved a hand dismissively. "Nothing to thank me for. Sit down. You must be starving."
Before I could protest, she was already bustling back toward the counter, sliding a plate of toast, eggs, and what looked like homemade jam onto a tray. She added a steaming mug of tea beside it.
I hesitated again, unused to such uncalculated generosity. "I… I should pay…"
"Nonsense." She cut me off with a look sharp enough to silence me but kind enough not to sting. "You've got a little one. You'll need your strength. Consider it on the house."
Something lodged in my throat, something that felt dangerously close to gratitude. "That's… very kind of you."
Marjorie tilted her head, studying me for a moment, but she didn't pry. She didn't ask where I was from, why I was here, why my shoulders were tense as though expecting a blow. Instead, she simply smiled. "Kindness is the least we can give each other. Now eat while it's hot."
And just like that, she turned away, humming under her breath as if the conversation had required nothing more.
I sat down at the nearest table, adjusting my daughter so she lay in her carrier beside me. As I picked up the fork, I realized my hands were shaking—not from fear this time, but from something quieter. The strangeness of being treated as if I mattered, not because of a last name or a role, but because I was here, in this small dining room, with a hungry stomach and a baby to hold.
For the first time in years, I felt almost invisible. Not currency. Not a trophy wife. Just a tired woman with jam on her plate and a stranger's kindness in her pocket.
And it felt like breathing.
After breakfast, I thanked Mrs. Marjorie for the meal, and then returned to my room with a quiet sense of ownership I hadn't felt in years. The little space was barely bigger than the walk-in closet in Crestmont, yet it felt sacred. Mine.
I set the suitcase on the bed, unzipped it, and began pulling out clothes. Baby dresses folded with care, my scrubs pressed neatly as if I'd known I would need them again. The tiny socks, the soft blanket with fading stars on it—these things had survived Adrian's world with me, and now they were proof that I wasn't leaving alone.
I laid out a corner of the room for my daughter, tucking the blanket into the travel crib. She stirred in her stroller, her fists balled like she was already preparing to fight the world. I scooped her up, pressing my lips to her warm forehead.
"Shh, sweetheart," I whispered, easing into the chair by the window. The wood groaned under our weight, but it was steady. I rocked her against my chest, fed her slowly, and then stroked her cheek with the side of my finger until her little body softened with sleep.
In Crestmont, I was never just Brielle. I was Dr. Grant or Mrs. Grant or Adrian's wife. Titles weighed more than my name ever did.
But here… maybe I could be. Just Brielle.
A woman.
A mother.
A person.
Just me, Brielle.
The thought startled me, but I clung to it, even as a fragile hope.
Later, when the sun rose higher and the streets began to hum with life, I strapped her gently into her stroller and stepped outside. The air was different here—softer, scented with fresh bread and blooming lilacs instead of exhaust and concrete.
Maplewood stretched out before me like a painting someone had forgotten to frame. The corner café had its doors propped open, laughter spilling out along with the sharp aroma of roasted beans. A flower shop stood beside it, buckets of daisies and tulips lined in rows, their petals shaking with the breeze. Across the street, a bookstore displayed worn hardcovers in the window, each one promising worlds I could lose myself in.
We passed a park tucked between the streets, where children shrieked in delight as they climbed a wooden play set. Their parents watched from benches, coffee cups warming their hands, conversations light and unhurried.
It was simple. Ordinary. But my chest ached as if I'd never seen life like this before. Maybe I hadn't—not through my own eyes, not without the filter of survival.
I stopped near a cluster of blooming cherry trees, their branches arching overhead, and bent to tuck the blanket tighter around my daughter. Her eyelids fluttered open, unfocused, and innocent.
"This could be ours," I whispered. "I don't know how yet, but I promise you—I'll try."
For the first time in a long time, the promise didn't feel empty.
Back in my little space, the hush of the inn wrapped around me like a blanket I wasn't sure I deserved. I set my daughter down in her crib and opened the worn leather notebook I'd tucked into my suitcase at the last minute.
The page stared back at me, empty, expectant. I wasn't used to planning my life without someone else's shadow dictating it. But now, if I didn't, no one would.
I pressed the pen down, the ink bleeding into the paper as I scrawled my first word
• Work.
Not the kind of work I left behind. Not the endless twelve-hour shifts in starched coats under fluorescent lights, where I was polished and professional but yet invisible.
No.
Something small. Something that didn't make me stand out. I could be a cashier, or a clerk in the bookstore, or even part-time at the café. Anything to keep food on the table and a roof over our heads for now, without drawing too much attention.
• Apartment.
The word looked heavier than the rest. I needed something modest, affordable, and tucked away where no one would look twice at me coming and going. Somewhere Adrian or my Family would never think to search.
• Childcare.
I stared at the word until the letters blurred. Could I trust anyone else with her? With my daughter - the only good thing I had left from the mess I'd survived? My chest tightened at the thought, but I wrote it anyway. If I wanted to work, I would have to face that fear.
• Car.
My current one was too shiny, too much like my past. I couldn't keep it, it would attract some unnecessary attention. I'd sell it, get something older, unremarkable. In Crestmont, cars were a statement. In Maplewood, mine would only betray me.
And then….. My pen hovered.
• Name?
Do I erase Brielle Grant/Lancaster altogether? Or cling to the last piece of myself that was mine before Adrian corrupted it? If I changed it, maybe I could buy time. If I didn't, maybe I'd always feel like I was hiding.
My gaze shifted to my left hand. The absence was sharp, the skin faintly indented where the ring had been. A phantom weight. I remembered the moment I'd hurled it from the Stonehaven Bridge, the silver band vanishing into the dark water. I hadn't heard the splash, but I'd felt the freedom—thin, fragile, like the first crack in glass.
Even now, fear lingered. What if he came looking? What if Crestmont finds me and swallows me whole again? I closed the notebook and pressed it to my chest, like I could smother the panic inside.
– – – –
Days slipped by like folded pages. Slowly, almost unwillingly, I slowly began to build a rhythm. Morning feedings. Walk through Maplewood. Checking local ads for apartments and jobs. Scribbling possibilities in my notebook until the margins were crowded.
The town began to recognize me, though never by name—just the woman with the stroller, with eyes too guarded for someone so young.
One evening, after a long day of tending to small, ordinary tasks, I found myself drawn to the warm hum of Cornerstone Café. The sign glowed softly in the dusk, the bell above the door chiming as I pushed it open.
The air smelled of cinnamon and roasted beans, and for a moment, I let myself imagine this was normal. That I was just another mother passing through after a day in town, not someone hiding from a man who would burn the world down to reclaim what he believed belonged to him.
I ordered a simple tea—nothing fancy, nothing memorable—and found a seat by the window. My daughter slept peacefully in her stroller beside me, her tiny breaths fogging the blanket near her lips.
I wrapped my hands around the cup, letting the warmth seep into me. Outside, the streetlamps flickered on, casting long shadows across Maplewood's quiet sidewalks.
I tried to look like I belonged, like this was my life. I crossed my legs, tilted my head toward the window, sipped slowly. But each time the door opened and a bell chimed, my shoulders stiffened. I imagined every glance lingering too long, every whisper curling toward me. Most of it wasn't real. Still, it burned.
"If I keep my head down," I told myself silently, "no one will ever know who I was."
The words steadied me. Almost.
I pushed my empty cup aside, and tugged the stroller gently toward me. The tea had gone lukewarm, but it had done its work - warmth in my hands, a steadiness in my chest. My daughter stirred faintly but didn't wake as I stood, gathering the diaper bag onto my shoulder.
The bell above the café door chimed when I pushed it open, and the evening air kissed my face, cool and damp with the scent of rain waiting in the clouds. Streetlamps glowed in soft halos along the sidewalk, Maplewood's quiet pulse stretching ahead of me.
I adjusted the stroller handle and stepped out, my mind already running through tomorrow's list: check the paper for rentals, visit the market, and maybe walk past the park again. A normal list for a normal life.
At that moment - it happened.
I collided with someone rounding the corner. The jolt made me stumble, my hand gripping the stroller to steady it before it could tip.
"Oh, I'm so sorry," I murmured quickly, my voice too soft, too automatic. I straightened, brushing hair from my face, lifting my gaze—
And froze.
The world seemed to tilt.
His eyes were the same — sharp, storm-grey, carrying the weight of every debate, every late-night laugh, and every reckless dare from years ago. But the man standing before me wasn't the boy I remembered. He was a bit older now, more defined. His jaw carved in harder lines, hair shorter, and suit jacket fitting broad shoulders that hadn't existed back then. Time had sharpened him into something formidable.
"Brielle?"
My name left his lips like a question and a revelation at once.
The sound hit me in the chest, unlocking memories I'd spent years burying under Crestmont's glass towers and Adrian's shadow. For a heartbeat, I wasn't the runaway woman clutching at normalcy - I was the girl at Willow Heights University, chasing lectures and hockey games, caught in the orbit of someone I was never supposed to want.
I opened my mouth, but nothing came.
He looked at me with stunned recognition, his surprise too raw to be anything but real. "It's you."
And in that moment, standing on Maplewood's quiet sidewalk with the stroller between us, I felt the ground shift beneath my feet.