Updated Nov 27, 2025 • ~11 min read
The diary arrived via courier two weeks after Dominick’s arrest.
Detective Mitchell had arranged for Poppy to receive copies of relevant pages—the ones that detailed Dominick’s behavior, Rosa’s plans to leave, her final days. The police needed the original as evidence for trial, but they’d photographed every page.
Poppy held the manila envelope for a long time before opening it.
This was Rosa’s most private thoughts. Her fears, her hopes, her last words before Dominick silenced her forever. Reading it felt intrusive, voyeuristic.
But Poppy needed to know. Needed to understand the woman whose shadow she’d been living in.
She settled onto the couch in Rochelle’s apartment—her temporary home until she figured out what came next—and opened the envelope.
The diary pages were handwritten in neat, flowing script. Rosa’s handwriting was nothing like Poppy’s messy scrawl. More evidence that they were different people, despite the physical resemblance.
The first entry Detective Mitchell had included was dated six months before Rosa died.
May 3rd
Dominick was strange today. We were having lunch and I mentioned Sarah’s wedding in Portland next month. Just casual conversation—I’m in the bridal party, of course I’m going.
He got very quiet. Then said, “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
When I asked why, he said wedding season is busy for his business. He needs me here for networking events. But there’s nothing on his calendar that weekend. I checked.
I’m going anyway. I already RSVP’d. But the way he looked at me when I said that…
It wasn’t anger exactly. More like disappointment. Like I’d failed some test I didn’t know I was taking.
I don’t like it.
Poppy felt a chill. She’d experienced similar moments with Dominick. Times when his charm would slip and something colder would show through. She’d always brushed it off, convinced herself she was being oversensitive.
Rosa had noticed too. And ignored it too.
The next entry was three weeks later.
May 24th
Dominick went through my phone last night. I woke up at 2 AM and he was sitting in the dark, scrolling through my messages.
When I confronted him, he said he heard it buzzing and was just checking if it was important. But my phone was on silent. And he’d gone through everything—texts, emails, even my work correspondence.
He found messages with Marcus from the museum board. Just professional stuff about an upcoming exhibition. But Dominick accused me of being “too friendly” with him.
We fought. He apologized. Said he was insecure because of his divorce, because his ex-wife cheated.
I want to believe him. But this doesn’t feel like insecurity. It feels like surveillance.
Poppy’s hands trembled. She’d given Dominick access to her phone voluntarily, thought it was romantic that they had nothing to hide from each other.
Now she understood. He hadn’t wanted intimacy. He’d wanted control.
She skipped ahead, looking for entries closer to November. Found one from late October.
October 23rd
I got the job. THE JOB. Associate Curator at the Getty Museum.
I should be celebrating. This is everything I’ve worked toward. Dream position, incredible salary, Los Angeles sunshine.
But I’m terrified to tell Dominick.
I know he’ll try to talk me out of it. He always does when opportunities come up that would take me away from him. Last year it was the fellowship in Florence—he convinced me I’d regret leaving my position at the Waverly. Before that, the museum tour in Tokyo—he said long distance would ruin our relationship.
I listened both times. Stayed. Chose him over my career.
Not this time. I can’t. If I don’t take this job, I’ll spend the rest of my life wondering what I gave up for a man who can’t even let me go to Portland for a weekend.
I’m taking it. And I’m moving.
I just have to figure out how to tell him without it becoming a war.
Two weeks later:
November 6th
Things have gotten worse since I gave my notice at work. Somehow Dominick found out—probably from someone at the gallery who mentioned it—and now he won’t stop calling. Texting. Showing up unannounced.
Yesterday he came to my apartment at 11 PM. I didn’t let him in. He stood outside my door for twenty minutes, alternating between begging me to reconsider and telling me I was making the biggest mistake of my life.
Mrs. Patterson from across the hall peeked out, concerned. I was embarrassed.
Leah thinks I should file a restraining order. But what would I even say? That my boyfriend is upset I’m leaving? That’s not illegal.
I just need to make it to December 1st. Then I’ll be in California, far away, starting fresh.
Three weeks. I can survive three weeks.
Poppy’s vision blurred with tears. Rosa had been counting down. So close to freedom.
She’d never made it.
The next entry was dated November 12th—two days before Rosa died.
November 12th
Dominick knows about the lake house. About my plan to spend the weekend there, packing up my things, saying goodbye to our place.
He insisted on coming with me. Said we should have “one last weekend together.” His words, not mine. The way he said it gave me chills.
Part of me wants to cancel. Go to Leah’s instead. Never be alone with him again.
But another part—the part that still remembers the man I fell in love with three years ago—wants closure. Wants to believe we can end this amicably.
I’m an idiot. I know I am.
But I’m going. Tomorrow night. We’ll talk, I’ll get my things, and then I’ll drive back to the city. Final chapter closed.
After that, just two more weeks until I’m free.
She never got those two weeks.
The last entry was November 13th. Written in the late afternoon, hours before Rosa died.
November 13th—4:47 PM
We’re at the cottage. The conversation didn’t go the way I hoped.
I tried to be gentle. Explained that this isn’t about him, it’s about my career. My dreams. I suggested long distance—we could try to make it work.
He said if I leave, I’m taking everything with me. The lake house, the money he’s been “protecting” by putting it in my name. Said I owe him for the past three years.
I told him I don’t want his money. Never asked to be involved in his financial schemes. I just want to go.
He grabbed my wrists. Hard enough to leave marks. Said, “You don’t get to just walk away from me, Rosa. That’s not how this works.”
I’ve never been scared of him before. Not really. But the look in his eyes…
I’m leaving. Now. Not waiting until tomorrow. I’m packing my bag and driving back to the city tonight.
He’s in the other room. I can hear him making phone calls. Don’t know who he’s talking to, but his voice is cold. Calculated.
I need to go. Right now.
If something happens to me—if I don’t make it home—it wasn’t an accident. No matter what it looks like.
Dominick did this.
The entry ended there. Rosa had written her own epitaph, documented her own murder hours before it happened.
And then she’d gotten in her car and driven into the rain, not knowing that Dominick had already arranged for her brakes to fail.
Poppy set down the pages, her whole body shaking.
Rosa had known. Had written it down. Had tried to leave evidence.
But the diary had been hidden under the floorboards, unfound for five years. And without it, Dominick had gotten away with murder.
Until Poppy.
Her phone rang. Sabrina Novak.
“Have you read the diary pages?” The lawyer asked without preamble.
“Just finished.”
“Then you know. Rosa documented everything. With that diary and the emails we found, the prosecution’s case is airtight. Dominick’s lawyer is already reaching out about a plea deal.”
“He doesn’t deserve a deal.”
“Agreed. But it might spare you from having to testify. From reliving all of this in court.”
Poppy hadn’t thought about that. The trial. Having to face Dominick again, this time in a courtroom. Having every detail of their relationship picked apart by lawyers.
“When’s the trial?” Poppy asked.
“Probably six months from now. Plenty of time to prepare.”
Six months. Half a year of waiting for closure. Of being the viral bride turned murder witness.
“There’s something else,” Sabrina continued. “Fletcher Holloway was arrested this morning in Arizona. He’s agreed to testify against Dominick in exchange for a reduced sentence.”
“What did he say?”
“Everything. Confirmed that Dominick paid him ten thousand dollars to tamper with Rosa’s brakes. Provided dates, details, text messages. He kept documentation, probably as insurance in case Dominick ever tried to throw him under the bus.” Sabrina’s voice carried grim satisfaction. “Which is exactly what Dominick tried to do in his first interview with police. Said Fletcher acted alone, that he didn’t know anything about it.”
“So he’s lying. Even now. Even with all the evidence.”
“Sociopaths usually do. They genuinely believe they can talk their way out of anything. That their version of reality is the only one that matters.”
Poppy thought about all the times Dominick had smoothly explained away her concerns. The phone he was always protective of. The weekends he’d spend at the lake house “alone.” The way he’d steer conversations away from his past.
All lies. All manipulation.
And she’d believed every word.
“Poppy?” Sabrina’s voice softened. “You okay?”
“No. But I will be.”
After they hung up, Poppy picked up the diary pages again. This time, she focused on one specific entry from early in Rosa’s relationship with Dominick.
March 18th—Three years before her death
Met someone new. His name is Dominick. He’s older—48 to my 22—but age doesn’t seem to matter when we’re together.
He’s sophisticated, successful, attentive in ways I’ve never experienced. Last night he took me to dinner at Marcello’s—the place I’ve always wanted to try but could never afford. We talked for hours about art, travel, life.
He asked what my dreams were. I told him about wanting to work at a major museum, curate important exhibitions, make a mark in the art world.
He said, “I’ll make sure you get everything you want.”
I think I’m falling for him.
Poppy felt a pang of recognition. That’s exactly how it had started for her too. The grand gestures, the intense attention, the promises.
She’d thought she was special. Thought Dominick had chosen her because of who she was.
But he’d run the same playbook on Rosa. Probably on other women before her.
Poppy wasn’t special. She was just the latest in a pattern.
The thought should have devastated her. Instead, it freed something inside her.
Because if she was just part of a pattern, then this wasn’t about her being stupid or blind or naive. This was about Dominick being a skilled manipulator who’d perfected his routine over years.
Rosa had been brilliant, careful, observant. And she’d still fallen for it.
Poppy had been no different.
But she’d also been luckier. Because unlike Rosa, Poppy had run. Had investigated. Had survived.
She picked up her phone and opened her notes app, starting to write.
Not for social media. Not for the book deal. Just for herself.
Her own diary entry. Her own record of what happened.
My name is Poppy Knight. Two weeks ago, I ran from my own wedding when my groom called me by his dead girlfriend’s name.
I thought that was the worst thing that could happen.
I was wrong.
The worst thing was learning that the man I loved was a murderer. That I’d been sleeping next to a killer for two years. That I’d almost legally bound myself to someone capable of calculating, premeditated violence.
But I survived. Rosa didn’t, but I did.
And now I get to live. To make different choices. To be my own person, not someone’s replacement or victim or cautionary tale.
This is my story. Mine. Not Dominick’s. Not Rosa’s ghost.
Mine.
And it’s not over yet.
The writer keeps using the same phrases over and over in every chapter.
I got the same remark for multiple readers, I was aiming to echo earlier discoveries, but I can see now that it’s just confusing, I will be sure to not repeat phrases in future stories 🙂