Updated Feb 23, 2026 • ~5 min read
POV: Rory
I wake up to my husband’s hand on my waist.
Dominic is already awake, watching me with those gray eyes that made me fall in love with him three years ago. The morning light catches in his dark hair, turning it almost bronze.
“Morning, beautiful,” he murmurs.
“Morning yourself.”
He pulls me closer. We fit together perfectly. We always have.
“What time is your first class?” he asks.
“Not till nine. You?”
“Meeting with a client at eight.” He kisses my shoulder. “But I have time.”
“Time for what?”
He grins. That dangerous grin that still makes my stomach flip.
“Breakfast,” he says innocently. “What did you think I meant?”
I laugh and smack his chest. “You’re terrible.”
“You love it.”
I do. God, I really do.
By the time I get to Lincoln High, I’m running late.
My art classroom is chaos—as usual. Seventeen-year-olds don’t do quiet. They do noise and drama and paint everywhere except on the canvas.
“Miss Bennett!” Jade waves frantically. “I spilled cerulean blue all over my project!”
“Use a paper towel. Blot, don’t wipe.”
“Miss, is this perspective right?” asks Marcus.
I check his work. “Your vanishing point is off. See? The lines aren’t converging.”
Teaching high school art wasn’t my dream. I wanted to be a real artist. Gallery showings. Critical acclaim. The whole fantasy.
But life doesn’t always go according to plan.
And honestly? I love this. These kids. Their terrible art and big dreams.
My phone buzzes during third period.
Dominic: “Dinner tonight? Our place?”
Me: “Obviously our place. We live together. We’re married.”
Dominic: “Smart ass. I meant I’m cooking. Something special.”
Me: “What’s the occasion?”
Dominic: “You’ll see.”
I smile at my phone like a teenager.
Isabel—my coworker and best friend—notices. “Let me guess. Husband?”
“How’d you know?”
“You have that disgusting happy-marriage glow.”
“Jealous?”
“Extremely.” She leans against my desk. “So what’s he planning?”
“No idea. Something special, apparently.”
“Anniversary?”
I count back. “Oh my God. It’s our two-year anniversary.”
“And you forgot?”
“I’ve been busy!”
“Busy being adorably in love.” Isabel grins. “You’re so gone for him.”
She’s not wrong.
Dominic and I got married two years ago in a small ceremony. Just family and close friends. Nothing fancy.
I didn’t need fancy. I just needed him.
People thought we moved too fast. We’d only been dating eight months when he proposed. But when you know, you know.
And I knew.
I get home at four and immediately start panicking.
Our anniversary. How did I forget our anniversary?
I have two hours to figure out a gift, cook something impressive, and not look like the world’s worst wife.
I settle for wine and takeout from his favorite Italian place. Not impressive, but honest.
Dominic gets home at six with flowers.
Roses. My favorite.
“For the most beautiful art teacher in Seattle,” he says, kissing me.
“The ONLY art teacher you know in Seattle.”
“Semantics.”
I take the flowers. “I forgot our anniversary.”
“I know.”
“You KNOW?”
“You forgot last year too.” He grins. “I set a phone reminder specifically to beat you to it.”
“That’s… actually very smart.”
“I have my moments.”
We eat dinner on the couch—his homemade carbonara, my store-bought tiramisu. It’s perfect in its imperfection.
“Can I tell you something?” Dominic says quietly.
“Always.”
“I want to start trying.”
My heart skips. “Trying?”
“For a baby.”
Oh.
We’ve talked about it. Kids. Family. The whole future.
But talking is different from doing.
“You’re sure?” I ask.
“Completely sure.” He takes my hand. “I want everything with you, Rory. The whole life. Kids and chaos and growing old together.”
My throat tights. “I want that too.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
He kisses me. Soft and sweet and full of promises.
“Two years down,” he whispers against my lips. “Forever to go.”
Later that night, I’m in bed scrolling through my phone when Dominic’s rings.
He’s in the bathroom. It keeps ringing.
I check the screen.
“ST. MARY’S HOSPITAL”
That’s weird.
“Dom?” I call. “Your phone!”
He comes out, toothbrush still in his mouth. Sees the screen.
And his face goes white.
Actually white. Like he’s seen a ghost.
“Dom?”
He grabs the phone. Answers. “Hello?”
I watch his expression change. Shock. Then horror. Then something I can’t name.
“What?” he breathes. “That’s—that’s not possible.”
Silence while he listens.
“I’ll be right there.” He hangs up. Just stands there, staring at nothing.
“Dominic, what’s wrong?”
He looks at me. And for the first time in two years, I don’t recognize the man looking back.
“I have to go,” he says.
“Go where? What happened?”
“The hospital. I have to—” He’s already grabbing his keys. His wallet. Moving on autopilot.
“Dominic, you’re scaring me.”
He stops at the door. Turns.
“It’s Celeste,” he says.
Celeste.
I’ve never heard that name before.
“Who’s Celeste?”
He looks at me like his whole world just ended.
“She’s awake,” he whispers.
Then he’s gone.
I stand in our bedroom, holding roses from our anniversary dinner, listening to his car pull out of the driveway.
And I have absolutely no idea what just happened.
Who is Celeste?
Why did my husband look at me like he was saying goodbye?
I grab my phone. Google “Celeste Ashford.”
The first result is an obituary.
“CELESTE MARIE ASHFORD, 28, died tragically on June 14, 2022, following a car accident. Beloved wife of Dominic Ashford… (Published by family after life support was removed)”
I stare at the screen.
Wife.
Dominic’s wife.
But I’m Dominic’s wife.
I’m Aurora Bennett-Ashford. We got married two years ago. I have the certificate. The photos. The life we built together.
So who the hell is Celeste?
And if she died four years ago, why did the hospital just call to say she’s awake?
END OF CHAPTER 1
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