She wandered upstairs to the nursery. Time had frozen here. The walls still bore the faint imprint of clouds she had painted with love and delirium in sleepless hours. The mobile above the crib spun lazily, unpowered, a ghost of the lullabies that once hung in the room.
Dust settled on the shelves, each stuffed animal frozen in a moment of innocence, waiting.
She dropped to her knees beside the crib, the floor cold against her bare legs. Sobs wracked her body until her lungs burned, tears spilling over in a torrent that tasted of salt, heartbreak, and rage. The pain arrived uninvited, dragged her under, and left her curled on the floor, trembling, gasping, broken.
She cried until her body refused anymore, until sleep came at last—restless, dreamless, and empty, a brief mercy in a world that had stolen everything from her.
****
The next morning was no kinder than the night before. Every corner whispered memory, every shadow pressed against her chest. Waking up there felt crueler than any nightmare she'd endured.
Still, she forced herself out of bed, dressing in muted colors. Her day led her to a small, windswept cemetery on the edge of town. Mary's grave was tucked away in the farthest corner, as if even in death she sought a little privacy.
Eva stood at the headstone, the cold stone pressing a quiet accusation against her palms. Her breaths were shallow.
"I'm sorry," Eva whispered. "For everything."
After the award ceremony scandal, Mary's world had crumbled overnight. The press had descended with talons, claws tearing at every secret she'd confided, every fear she'd ever shared. Her orientation, once a quiet truth whispered over matcha lattes and midnight confessions, was broadcasted, dissected, weaponized.
And she was married.
The fallout was swift and brutal. Her husband vanished. Twitter erupted in moral outrage, in memes, in cruel jokes. Mary's laughter, her defiance, had been ripped away piece by piece.
"Those photos weren't even real," Eva muttered bitterly. "You idiot. You weren't supposed to die. You weren't supposed to leave me like this."
Mary had cracked under the weight of it all. She had taken her own life barely a month after the scandal, leaving behind a one-year-old child who would grow up with no memory of her laughter, no recollection of the warmth in her voice, no echo of the light she'd carried.
Mary had been caught in the crossfire, an innocent casualty of a war she hadn't started. And Eva… Eva couldn't forgive herself. She replayed every choice, every conversation, every shared coffee or whispered secret, wondering where she'd failed.
Someone out there had wanted Eva destroyed, and Mary had simply been standing too close to the blast, her shadow drawn into a tragedy that wasn't hers to bear.
Eva closed her eyes, pressing her palms to the rough stone. "I'm so sorry, Mare," she whispered. "I should've protected you. If I'd known… if I'd only known…"
"She doesn't get too many visitors," a voice said behind her.
Eva spun around sharply, expecting a nosy reporter, someone sneaking a scandalous photograph. Instead, she found a man standing a few feet away, a bouquet clutched in his hands, looking as disoriented and out of place as she felt.
"Hi…" she managed.
"Hello," he replied gently, adjusting the flowers in his grip. His eyes softened, observing her. "I can wait," he added quietly. "Until you're done."
"No… no," she replied, taking a cautious step to the side. "Misery loves company."
"Who are you to Mary?" she asked. Her eyes flicked over him, taking in the neat cut of his jacket, the faint line of worry around his eyes.
"Alexander," he said, moving a careful step closer, the bouquet still cradled in his hands. "Mary was my stepsister."
"Ah," she murmured, nodding. The corners of her lips quivered with the ghost of a polite smile. "I'm Eva. I was—"
"I know who you are," he said, cutting her off softly, as if there was no need for introductions in this fragile, suspended moment.
"From the pictures?" she asked, her mouth tightening, the bitterness of memory curling along her tongue.
"From the pictures," he repeated.
Eva's gaze dropped to the grass beneath her feet, and she crossed her arms, a subtle shield. "Of course," she said.
"Just so you know," she began, "that wasn't me in those pictures." She didn't meet his gaze at first. Her eyes stayed glued to Mary's grave, as if the earth itself might rise up and back her up.
Alex turned to her slowly. He studied her face, tracing the faint shadows under her eyes, the tension in her jaw. "I know," he said. Then his eyes traveled down her frame in one smooth, unapologetic glance. "I mean… your body looks better than that."
Eva's head snapped toward him, brow lifting, caught somewhere between disbelief and a choked laugh. Her lips quivered. "Wow," she breathed.
They slipped into another pocket of silence, one that wasn't uncomfortable. Eva exhaled a short, dry laugh, one that startled even her. It was fragile.
"Something funny?"
"Ah… just random thoughts," she murmured, brushing a wet streak of tear from her cheek while letting a small smile tug at her lips. "A total stranger who has never seen me naked can tell it wasn't me in the pictures… and my own husband couldn't."
She laughed again, louder this time. "Can you imagine that? He couldn't even be bothered to ask if it was real. Just saw the pictures and bounced."
"Maybe," Alex said, eyes narrowing thoughtfully as he tilted his head. "He just wanted a reason to walk away."
"If it were me," Alex continued, a teasing lilt threading his words, "I'd have invited you both for a threesome."
"What—?"
"I mean, I'm not saying it's practical. I'm just saying… creative solutions have their place." His gaze lingered a moment too long, and Eva felt herself flush despite the chill in the morning air.
"You don't take anything seriously, do you?" she asked, narrowing her eyes as if he might be hiding a trap.