Chapter 3

Aryana's POV: Walking out of that glass tower, I didn't know whether to throw up or to laugh. So I just kept walking, the signed divorce paper a secret fire in my bag. I was free. I was also terrified. Back at the penthouse, an email was waiting for me. It was a sign. A lifeline I had thrown to myself weeks ago, now being thrown back. From: Cascade Foothills Artist Residency Subject: Your Application Dear Ms. Mason, We are thrilled to offer you a place in our fall program. Your work was a unanimous favorite among the selection committee. We require your decision within 48 hours. The residency begins in two weeks. Two weeks. A fourteen-day countdown to a new life. I typed my reply before I could second-guess it. I accept with pleasure. I booked a one-way flight to Portland, Oregon. Then I started to erase myself from the life I was leaving behind. I spent the next few days in a blur, packing the few things that were actually mine—my books, my clothes, my art supplies—and sending them to a storage unit. The rest was just a set. Designer dresses I never felt comfortable in, cold furniture I never chose. It was easy to leave. But a strange exhaustion had settled deep in my bones. I told myself it was stress. A week later, when a wave of nausea hit me so hard in the middle of an art supply store that I had to grip a shelf to stay upright, I told myself it was the flu. Then I did the math. My period was late. A cold dread, sharp and sickening, washed over me. No. It wasn't possible. I bought a pregnancy test along with my charcoal pencils. My hands were shaking so badly I could barely pay the cashier. I went to my studio, the one place in this city that was truly mine. The one place that felt safe. I took the test and set the small plastic stick on the edge of the sink. Three minutes. I had dismantled my marriage in under twenty-four hours, but now I had to wait three minutes to find out if I was still chained to him. My heart pounded a frantic, terrified rhythm against my ribs. Please, no. Please, no. The timer on my phone went off. I took a deep breath and looked. Two pink lines. Unmistakable. Positive. The world tilted. I stumbled back, my legs giving out, and sank onto a stool. Pregnant. The memory of that last time with Cameron, just a few weeks ago, came rushing back. It hadn't been an act of love. It had been cold, detached. A duty. And now it was a life. My simple plan to disappear, to start over as Aryana Mason, had just been obliterated. I wasn't just running from him anymore. I was hiding his child.