I had told them love was enough.
I had been so young.
So painfully certain.
So wrong.
I checked into a hotel under my maiden name.
Nora Vance.
The room was clean, plain, and anonymous.
I lay on the bed and stared at the ceiling.
No chandeliers.
No servants.
No cold dining table.
No husband sleeping in another wing.
Just silence.
For the first time in three years, I was alone.
For the first time in three years, alone felt like freedom.
The next morning, I woke up sick.
Nausea rolled through me before I even opened my eyes.
For weeks, I had blamed the dizziness on stress.
On sleepless nights.
On that house.
But something inside me whispered that it was more.
I went to a clinic.
I filled out the forms using my maiden name.
When the nurse called me back, my hands were cold.
The doctor was a kind woman in her fifties with gentle eyes and a practical voice.