Days passed in a blur, each one heavier than the last. After that conversation with Zoe, Stacy felt the weight settle deep in her chest—the quiet truth sinking in that maybe, in some way, they were never meant to be.
Now, with the wedding barely a week away, and Stacy felt like she was unraveling. She was about to marry a woman she didn't love. Meanwhile, the woman she truly loved was furious with her—rightly so. Or at least, that's what Stacy had intended all along. If Zoe was angry, hurt, distant, maybe she could finally move on. That was the plan.
She should be relieved—happy even—because this was what she wanted, wasn't it? But seeing Zoe's pain, the raw edge of her anger, made something inside Stacy ache in response. She wanted to vanish, disappear into the shadows. But she couldn't—not yet.
So instead, she went to her family home, answering her mother's dinner invitation—hoping that warm food and familiar voices might quiet the noise in her chest, even just for a night.
The scent of roasted rosemary chicken and freshly baked bread greeted her the moment she stepped inside, warmth curling around her like an old, familiar blanket. The dining room was cozy, softly lit by a chandelier casting gentle patterns across the polished wood table.
"I'm so glad you made it, darling," her mother said, her voice bright with genuine happiness as she set down a steaming plate.
Stacy gave a tired smile. "I missed your cooking, Mom."
Her mother's eyes twinkled. "Really? Well then, eat plenty. You need the energy."
Stacy laughed softly, the sound brittle but real. "Will do."
She glanced around. "By the way… where's Dad?"
Stephen, her younger brother, shrugged, leaning back in his chair with a smirk. "He was with Mr. Jones. Something about the business deal they're planning."
"As usual," Stacy muttered, a dry edge to her voice. "Business never takes a day off, huh?"
Her mother waved off the comment, gently nudging the conversation forward. "Don't mind him. Let's just enjoy dinner."
Stephen grinned, reaching for his glass. "Yeah. And after this, how about a game of Scrabble? Stacy, you in?"
Stacy glanced at her mom, who nodded encouragingly.
"Ready to lose?" Stephen teased, his eyes sparkling with playful challenge.
"You're on," Stacy replied, a genuine smile breaking through the tension for the first time that evening.
Later, the dinner plates were cleared, replaced by a well-worn Scrabble board spread across the living room coffee table. The soft glow from the fireplace flickered over the scattered tiles as laughter echoed softly around the room.
Stacy reached for a tile, but her mind suddenly snapped to something else—a document she needed from the Jacobs deal, from the time when her father was still CEO.
"Hey, Mom…," she said, glancing up. "I just need to grab a document from Dad's study. Something from the Jacobs deal."
Her mother smiled warmly, brushing it off. "Alright, dear. Don't take too long."
Stephen grinned. "Don't get distracted by Dad's secret stash of old files."
Stacy laughed softly and stood, shrugging on her blazer. "I'll be quick."
With that, she slipped away from the cozy room, leaving behind the flickering firelight and the quiet comfort of family as she headed toward her father's study.
Stacy stepped into the dimly lit study, the familiar scent of leather and old books clinging to the air. She moved toward the antique desk where her father kept most of his files, searching for the folder she'd intended to collect.
As she opened a lower drawer, her hand brushed something tucked in the back—aged leather, slightly frayed.
A journal.
Curiosity tugged at her. Her father was not the type to keep sentimental things.
She flipped journal open and began to read.
The words were raw, handwritten, and painfully honest. Stacy's fingers trembled slightly as she flipped through the pages, her brow furrowing with each line. At first, she thought the journal might be about her mother—her heart tightening at the thought. But as she read further, confusion flickered across her face. This wasn't about her mother at all.
The entries were about another woman—someone her father had loved deeply. The longing and guilt spilled from the pages, thick and undeniable. Yet, in the end, he had chosen the legacy. The family. The name. Duty over love.
A bitter ache settled in Stacy's chest.
Just like what he was trying to make her do.
As she turned to the last page, a photograph slipped out.
She froze.
The woman in the picture—smiling, her arm looped around a much younger version of her father—looked achingly familiar.
Stacy narrowed her eyes, breath catching.
It was her.
Zoe's mother.
Her pulse quickened. The photo had been inside the journal—that meant the woman her father had written about was Zoe's mom.
Then—a sound behind her.
The door swung open.
"What are you doing?" her father barked, eyes locking immediately on the journal in her hands.
He crossed the room in seconds and snatched it from her grasp.
"You went through my things?"
"I was looking for documents. I didn't mean to find that. But I did." Her voice was quiet but steady.
His face darkened. "That's not for you to read."
"Why?" she challenged. "Because it shows you were once like me? That you loved someone your father didn't approve of—and you let him rip her away from you?"
Her father stiffened.
"You know nothing about that."
"I know enough." Stacy stepped closer, her eyes burning.
"You broke her heart. You gave her up to protect an image. A legacy. You let fear decide for you. And now you want that fear to decide for me."
His jaw clenched. But he said nothing.
"You should be the one to understand me," she continued, voice cracking. "Not fight me. Not punish me. You 'were me' once."
Silence.
The only sound was the ticking of the old grandfather clock by the window.
Her father's gaze dropped to the journal. His fingers gripped it tightly.
"I did what I had to do," he said quietly.
"My father made me choose—the family, the future, the name. He called it duty. And I believed him. So I let her go. There was no room for weakness... not in his world."
"Love isn't weakness," she said. "Fear is."
Still, he didn't speak.
Stacy shook her head, pain etched across her face.
Then she turned to leave—but paused at the doorway.
"One more thing."
He looked up.
She met his eyes.
"The woman you loved—the one you left?" A pause. Then:
"She's Zoe's mother."
The silence that followed wasn't empty. It was seismic.
His face went pale, eyes wide.
"What?" he whispered.
But Stacy was already walking away, leaving him in the study, alone—the weight of everything he'd lost pressing down like gravity.