Chapter 2
Summer's POV
The marriage had been a nightmare dressed up as a dream.
Kieran had given me everything he'd promised—a penthouse overlooking Boston Common, a closet full of designer clothes, a black card with no limit. He'd introduced me to his world of tech moguls and venture capitalists, stood beside me at charity auctions with his hand possessive on my waist, bought me jewelry that cost more than most people's houses.
But he'd never loved me. Or at least, that's what I'd thought.
He'd kissed me once—at our wedding, for the cameras. After that, never again. In our bedroom, he'd been clinical, almost cruel in his efficiency. The lights always off, his hands always controlling, positioning me exactly where he wanted me. He'd take what he needed and then roll away, leaving me feeling more alone than if I'd been by myself.
"It felt like punishment," I told Dr. Martinez, my voice barely above a whisper. "Like he was reminding me every day that I'd never seen him, never acknowledged him when we were kids. Like he'd married me just to humiliate me, to show me what it felt like to be invisible."
"Did he ever say that?"
"He barely said anything." I could feel tears starting to build behind my eyes. "In public, he'd play the devoted husband. His hand on my back, guiding me through crowds. Introducing me as 'Mrs. Cross' with this edge of possession in his voice. But at home... God, at home it was like living with a stranger. He controlled everything—where I went, who I saw, what I wore. I had to get his approval before I could even buy groceries."
"That must have been very difficult."
Difficult. Such a polite, therapeutic word for what it had been. It had been suffocating. It had been terrifying. It had been like drowning slowly, day after day, while everyone around me envied my perfect life with my perfect billionaire husband.
"I wanted a divorce," I said. "After two years, I couldn't take it anymore. I'd drafted the papers. I had a lawyer ready. I just needed to tell him."
"And that's when you went to Walden Pond."
My hands were shaking now. The tissue had disintegrated completely, leaving little white flakes all over my lap. "He suggested it. Out of nowhere, one morning at breakfast. He said, 'Let's go to Walden Pond. Just the two of us. We could swim.' And I thought..." I laughed bitterly. "I thought it was perfect. Walden Pond—where Thoreau had gone to find himself, to live deliberately. It seemed like the right place to end a marriage that had never really begun."
"So you went."
"So I went."
---
The memories were coming faster now, sharper. Dr. Martinez had been trying to unlock them for three years, and suddenly the dam was breaking.
The drive out to Walden Pond. Kieran behind the wheel of his black Tesla, the Massachusetts countryside sliding past the windows. Me in the passenger seat, the divorce papers hidden in my purse, my hands sweating every time I tried to rehearse what I was going to say.
Kieran, I appreciate everything you've done for me, but we both know this marriage was a mistake. I've signed a prenup waiving all claims to your assets. I don't want your money. I just want my life back.
He'd been quiet during the drive, but that wasn't unusual. Kieran was always quiet. What had been unusual was the way he'd glanced at me every few minutes, something almost nervous in his expression.
"The weather's good," he'd said at one point.
"Yeah," I'd managed. "Perfect for swimming."
The lake had been beautiful that day. Crystal clear and cool, the water reflecting the sky like a mirror. There'd been a few other people scattered along the shore—families with children, couples on blankets, a guy with a kayak. Normal. Safe.
We'd changed into our swimsuits in the car. Mine was a simple black one-piece, practical rather than flattering. Kieran's swim trunks were navy blue, and I'd noticed, the way I always noticed, how thin he was. Not unhealthy, but lean in a way that spoke of someone who forgot to eat when he was working, who ran on coffee and stress rather than proper meals.
We'd waded into the water together. It had been cold enough to make me gasp, but refreshing after the humid August heat. I'd swum out toward the middle, away from the shore and the other people, thinking I needed space to say what I had to say.
"Kieran," I'd started, treading water. "I need to talk to you about something—"
That's when my right calf had cramped.
The pain had been instant and excruciating, like someone had wrapped a steel cable around my muscle and was twisting it tighter and tighter. I'd gasped, gone under, swallowed water. Panic had hit me like a physical force. I couldn't breathe, couldn't think, could only thrash and fight against the water that was suddenly trying to kill me.
And then Kieran had been there.
---
This was the part I'd blocked out. The part my brain had hidden from me, tucked away in some dark corner where I wouldn't have to look at it. But now, in Dr. Martinez's office with the autumn light slanting through the windows, it all came flooding back with perfect, terrible clarity.
Kieran's arms around me from behind, his right arm—the one that had never fully recovered from whatever injury he'd had in high school—locked around my waist with desperate strength. His voice in my ear, hoarse and urgent: "I've got you. Don't fight me."
But I had fought. In my panic, I'd clawed at him, dragged him down with me, nearly drowned us both. I could remember the feel of his shoulder under my hands, the way his breathing had turned ragged as he'd tried to keep both our heads above water.
"The shore," he'd gasped. "Summer, stop fighting. Let me—"
But I couldn't stop. The water kept filling my mouth, my lungs, and all I could think was I'm going to die, I'm going to die, I'm going to die.
His right arm had started to shake. I could feel it, the tremor running through his muscles as he'd fought to hold me up. That arm that had always been slightly weaker, slightly less coordinated. He'd been losing his grip.
"Help!" I'd heard him shout, his voice cracking. "Someone help us!"
There'd been a kayaker, I remembered now. A young guy who'd been paddling nearby. He'd turned at Kieran's shout, started heading toward us.
"Hold on," Kieran had said in my ear, and his voice had changed. Softened. Become something I'd never heard from him before. "Summer. Sweetheart. Just hold on."
Sweetheart.
In two years of marriage, he'd never called me that. Never used any term of endearment at all. It had always been "Summer" in that flat, controlled tone, or "Mrs. Cross" when we were in public.
But now, with both of us drowning, he'd called me sweetheart.
"I won't let you die," he'd said, and I could hear the determination in his voice even through his exhaustion. "I won't. I promise."
The kayaker had gotten closer. "Grab the paddle!" he'd shouted, extending it toward us.
Kieran had shifted his grip on me, and I'd felt him gathering what was left of his strength. Then he'd pushed—hard—lifting me up and out of the water, practically throwing me toward the kayak.
I'd grabbed the paddle. The kayaker had hauled me up, and I'd collapsed into the boat, coughing and retching, lake water pouring from my mouth and nose.
"Your husband!" the kayaker had shouted. "Where's your husband?"
I'd turned back toward the water, and that's when I'd seen him.
Kieran was still there, maybe ten feet away. His face was pale, his lips turning blue. But he was smiling. Actually smiling, this soft, gentle expression I'd never seen on him before, like he was looking at something precious.
He was looking at me.
His lips had moved, and even though I couldn't hear him over the sound of my own coughing, I could read what he was saying.
I'm sorry. I love you.
Then he'd sunk beneath the surface like a stone.