Joanne’s senses sharpened, her body going on high alert. What the hell is Fiona playing at?
Still, she kept her expression neutral. "Congratulations," she said, because wasn’t that the appropriate response?
Fiona let out a soft chuckle, one hand resting on her stomach in an almost absentminded caress. "Yeah..." Her smile was layered—motherly, wistful, maybe even a little uncertain.
Joanne caught her mumbling sothing under her breath, but the words were too quiet to make out.
For a brief mont, Fiona seed lost in thought, her gaze unfocused, her mind drifting sowhere far from this room. Then, as if snapping out of it, she looked up again, this ti with a bright—yet slightly forced—smile.
There were tears pooling at the corners of her eyes. She wiped them quickly, trying to maintain her poise.
Without a word, Joanne grabbed the tissue holder from the coffee table and slid it toward her.
Fiona glanced at it but didn’t take one. Instead, she waved a delicate hand in the air as if physically brushing off the mont. "Sorry, I don’t know why I’m..."
Even that small movent was elegant—graceful in a way that seed entirely effortless.
Joanne stared, realizing for the first ti just how polished Fiona truly was. The woman was femininity incarnate, with every tilt of her chin and every flick of her wrist exuding an air of effortless poise. Housewife training, Joanne supposed.
It made sense. As the only daughter of the wealthiest car dealer in the county, Fiona had likely been raised to be the perfect society wife. She belonged to that world—the world of pristine hos, elegant dinner parties, and quiet manipulations.
Joanne, on the other hand? She could learn grace. She could fake charm. But she would never, ever be this.
And Liam had left her for this?
How?
Why?
"You’re not going to sit?" Fiona asked, arching a brow.
Joanne clenched her jaw but sank into the chair across from her. It was clear now—Fiona wasn’t planning on leaving anyti soon.
The other woman studied her for a mont, then leaned forward slightly, her next words cutting straight to the bone.
"Why are you still single?"
Joanne sighed. "I’m dating Jonathan yer from—"
"Right," Fiona interrupted, waving a dismissive hand. "You don’t love him. What are you even doing?"
Joanne’s irritation flared. "Mrs. Sullivan," she said coolly, "if you’re just here to waste my ti, I kindly invite you to leave my house."
She was already pushing herself up, ready to escort Fiona to the door—
But Fiona’s next words stopped her cold.
"Liam thinks you can’t love Jonathan," she said simply. "I trust his judgnt. He tells everything..." she smirked.
Joanne froze, her fingers curling against the armrest.
Can’t?
She let out a slow breath, forcing herself to remain composed. "Liam Sullivan doesn’t know what’s in my heart. If he did, I wouldn’t have broken his."
"I know you didn’t cheat on him like the rumors say," Fiona interjected.
Joanne let out a humorless scoff. "Those aren’t rumors."
Fiona tilted her head slightly, as if studying her. "Ah, right. That’s what you told him." She paused, watching closely for a reaction. "He doesn’t believe it."
Joanne’s heartbeat stuttered.
Fiona leaned back, crossing one leg over the other. "Let’s not discuss the past, Joanne."
But that was impossible.
Because now Joanne’s mind was already there—pulled back years to a ti when things were different.
Liam had always been there for her. He was three years older, but because she had skipped a grade, and he joined school late, they had only been one year apart in school. He had been her anchor, her safe place. And when she earned a scholarship to Harvard, she had expected sothing from him.
A plea to stay. A fight. Anything.
But he was nothing but supportive.
Years passed and both of them stayed loyal. She couldn’t betray Liam. She loved him. But things changed when he proposed; her feelings changed. She felt like she was dragging him down. And so, in her final year at University, she had done the one thing she knew would make him leave.
She lied.
She told him she had cheated on him with a classmate.
And just like she had predicted, Liam had left.
He had moved on almost imdiately—dating Fiona soon after, proposing within a year, marrying her not long after that.
She didn’t care that she had turned into the cruel and ungrateful small-town girl with big dreams, who abandoned her uneducated boyfriend the mont she arrived in the big city.
As long as it ant Liam wouldn’t spiral down and could move on with his life, she was okay with it. She was indifferent to the hatred she received from the townsfolk, as she had no intention of returning.
Joanne had told herself that Liam believed her lie.
Because if he hadn’t?
If he hadn’t believed her, and he still married Fiona anyway?
Then what the hell had all of this been for?
She looked back at Fiona, her gaze sharp.
What are you playing at, Mrs. Sullivan?
Joanne’s spine stiffened, but she forced herself to stay composed. "Then let’s talk about the present. Why are you here, Fiona?"
Fiona’s expression shifted in an instant. The practiced elegance in her features hardened, her lips thinning into a razor-sharp line. "I hated you, Joanne Smith."
Joanne arched a brow, unimpressed. She crossed her arms, waiting.
Fiona’s voice was quiet but seething. "I hated that you were his first love. That he devoted his entire life to you, only for you to throw him away. I hated that you were his first everything—his first kiss, his first heartbreak, the first woman he ever proposed to. I hated that no matter what I did, I could never be his first."
Joanne let out a short, bitter laugh. "And yet, you’re his wife, Fiona." She gestured toward the glittering rings on Fiona’s left hand. "He shares his bed with you, not . You won. So why are you here?"
Fiona’s gaze didn’t waver.
Then, her next words sliced through the air like a blade.
"I hated that he proposed to on the day you were supposed to get married to Jeffrey frigging Winchester."
The floor beneath Joanne’s feet might as well have vanished.
Her breath hitched. The blood drained from her face.
She barely heard the faint ringing in her ears over the sudden roar of her heartbeat.
How?
No one knew about that wedding.
Not Patrick. Not a single person in this goddamn town.
She had made sure of it.
And yet—Fiona knew.
Which ant Liam knew.
Joanne fought to keep her face blank, but panic clawed at the edges of her mind.
How did they find out?Why now? And most importantly—why was Fiona bringing this up?
Fiona watched her closely, as if savoring every flicker of emotion that slipped through the cracks.
Joanne swallowed against the tightness in her throat, willing her voice to stay steady. "I don’t know what you’re talking about," she said, though the words felt hollow even to herself.
Fiona’s smirk was slow, almost triumphant.
Joanne’s chest tightened.
What the hell is happening?
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