Chapter 3

After the wedding, Diane' s criticism didn' t stop. It shifted.

Now, it was my fault we weren' t conceiving.

Every family dinner became an interrogation.

"Sarah, are you sure you' re doing everything right? Maybe you should see another doctor."

"Perhaps you' re too stressed, dear. A woman' s anxiety can affect these things."

Mark would say nothing. He' d just eat, his jaw tight.

My silence, my promise to protect him, became a weapon she used against me.

One Sunday, Diane cornered me in the kitchen.

"You know, Sarah, Mark deserves a family. A real family. If you can' t provide that..." she let the sentence hang.

I tried to defend myself, vaguely. "We' re trying, Diane. These things take time."

"Time is running out, dear. For you." Her eyes were cold.

Mark walked in. "Mom, leave her alone." But his voice lacked conviction.

Diane just sniffed and walked away.

He didn' t look at me.

Mark, heavily influenced by his mother, started suggesting changes.

"Maybe you should reduce your hours at the coffee shop, Sarah."

"Focus on making a home. That' s important too."

I agreed. I wanted to make him happy, to make the marriage work.

I quit the barista job, taking only occasional catering gigs.

My world shrank further. My financial independence dwindled.

The isolation grew.

Diane' s jabs became more frequent, more public. Passive-aggressive Facebook posts about the joys of grandchildren, with links to articles about "unexplained female infertility."

Mark' s support was non-existent. He' d retreat into work, into silence.

The emotional toll was immense. I felt like I was drowning.

Then came the late work nights.

"Big project, Sarah. Lots of deadlines."

Secretive texts that he' d angle his phone away from me to read.

A new cologne.

A knot of suspicion tightened in my stomach.

One evening, he said he was working late again.

I couldn' t shake the feeling.

I got in my old car and drove towards his office.

But then I saw his car turn in the opposite direction, towards a new, upscale apartment complex on the other side of town.

I followed, my heart pounding.

He parked and went inside.

A few minutes later, a light came on in a third-floor apartment.

I saw his silhouette. Then another. A woman.

They embraced.

Then she turned, and I saw her profile against the light.

Brittany Evans. His colleague from the marketing department.

Visibly pregnant.

My breath hitched. The world tilted.

The next day, numb, I drove past the complex again.

I saw them leaving, Mark' s arm around Brittany.

They walked into a women' s health clinic down the street.

The betrayal was a gaping wound.

I drove home, the image of them seared into my mind.

As I walked into the quiet house, the phone rang.

An unfamiliar number.

"Is this Sarah Miller?" a man' s voice asked.

"Yes?"

"My name is John Pike. I' m a private investigator. I' ve been hired by the Rossi family."

Rossi? The name meant nothing to me.

"They' ve been searching for their daughter, Isabella, for twenty years. She was lost during a Thanksgiving Day parade in New York City."

My mind struggled to process his words.

"Years ago, you submitted a DNA sample to an ancestry database. Your foster mother, a Mrs. Peterson, encouraged you, I believe?"

"Yes... she always wondered about my family."

"Well, Ms. Miller, your DNA showed a near-perfect match to Alexander and Victoria Rossi."

He paused. "There was also a distinctive silver charm bracelet found with the child. Does that mean anything to you?"

The bracelet. Mrs. Peterson kept it in her little jewelry box. I still had it.

My hand went to my throat.

"Yes," I whispered. "I have it."

"The Rossis are very eager to meet you. They own Rossi Construction and Development."

Rossi Construction. Landmark buildings across the East Coast. Immensely wealthy.

My biological parents.

I was Isabella Rossi.