Updated Nov 27, 2025 • ~8 min read
The week after the verdict, Poppy cut her hair.
Not a trim. Not a style refresh. She walked into a salon and told them to cut off eight inches, change the color from dark brown to honey blonde, do something—anything—that would make her stop seeing Rosa every time she looked in the mirror.
The stylist, recognizing her from the news, understood without asking questions.
Three hours later, Poppy stared at a stranger in the mirror. Shorter hair. Lighter color. Different.
It didn’t help.
Because the problem wasn’t her reflection. The problem was that Poppy no longer knew who she was looking at.
For two years, she’d been Dominick’s girlfriend. The woman he wanted her to be. She’d adopted his preferences, his schedule, his vision of their future. She’d become smaller, quieter, more compliant.
And the worst part? She hadn’t even noticed. Had thought she was choosing it herself.
Now, sitting in Rochelle’s apartment with a new haircut and a guilty verdict and absolutely no idea what came next, Poppy felt like she was floating. Untethered. A ghost of a ghost.
“You okay?” Rochelle asked, setting down a cup of tea Poppy hadn’t requested but probably needed.
“I don’t know who I am.”
It came out more honest than Poppy intended.
Rochelle sat beside her. “What do you mean?”
“I mean… before Dominick, I was ambitious. I had opinions. I wanted to travel, to pursue my career, to—” Poppy’s voice cracked. “I don’t even remember what I wanted. I became so focused on being what he needed that I lost track of being me.”
“That’s what abusers do. They reshape you until you fit their narrative.”
“But I let him. I chose him. I gave up parts of myself voluntarily.”
“Because he manipulated you into thinking that’s what love looked like.” Rochelle took her hand. “You’re not responsible for his abuse.”
“I’m responsible for not seeing it sooner.”
“Poppy—”
“I’m serious. I pride myself on being smart, observant, careful. And yet I missed every single red flag. The controlling behavior, the isolation, the gaslighting.” She laughed bitterly. “God, I even thought it was romantic that he always wanted to know where I was.”
“Because that’s how he sold it. As caring, not controlling.”
Poppy knew Rochelle was right. Her therapist had said the same thing in slightly different words. But knowing it intellectually didn’t stop the shame that burned through her every time she thought about it.
Two years. Two years of her life, given to a murderer.
Her phone buzzed. Another message from her publisher’s team, asking about the book she’d agreed to write. They wanted a first draft in six months. Wanted her to detail everything—meeting Dominick, the relationship, the investigation, the trial.
Wanted her to commodify her trauma for public consumption.
Poppy had signed the contract. Had agreed to donate most of the advance to the Rosa Petrov Foundation. It was supposed to turn something terrible into something meaningful.
But every time she sat down to write, the cursor blinking on a blank page, she froze.
What story was she even telling? The story of a naive woman who fell for a con artist? The story of a victim who became a survivor? The story of a ghost who replaced a ghost?
She didn’t know.
“I think I need to get away,” Poppy said suddenly.
“Away where?”
“I don’t know. Somewhere that doesn’t remind me of Dominick. Somewhere I can figure out who I am without his voice in my head.”
Rochelle was quiet for a moment. Then: “Mom’s been talking about renting that beach house in Oregon. The one we used to visit as kids. What if you went there for a while? Took some time to just… be?”
The beach house. Poppy had forgotten about it—a small cottage right on the coast where they’d spent summers before life got complicated. Before college and careers and terrible relationship choices.
A place that had nothing to do with Dominick or Rosa or any of this mess.
“Would Mom really let me use it?”
“Are you kidding? She’s been looking for an excuse to get you out of the city. She thinks you need space.”
Space. Time. Distance from the trial and the media and the constant reminders of what she’d survived.
“Okay,” Poppy decided. “Yeah. I’ll go.”
Two days later, she was packed into her car—a new used Honda, bought with money from the book advance. All her belongings fit in the trunk and backseat. Proof of how little she’d accumulated that was truly hers.
The drive to Oregon took nine hours. Poppy spent it in silence, too emotionally exhausted for music or podcasts or anything but the sound of tires on asphalt.
The cottage was exactly as she remembered. Weathered shingles, a deck overlooking the ocean, the constant sound of waves. Inside, it smelled like salt air and old memories.
No roses. No photos of Dominick. No ghosts.
Poppy dropped her bags and walked out to the deck. The ocean stretched endlessly before her, gray and wild under an overcast sky.
She’d loved the ocean as a kid. The power of it. The way it was always changing but also always the same.
When was the last time she’d been to a beach? Before Dominick, probably. He’d preferred mountains, luxury resorts with pools. She’d adapted, as always.
But sitting here now, listening to the waves crash against rocks, Poppy felt something shift inside her. A tiny crack in the numbness that had encased her since the trial.
She was here. Alive. Free.
It wasn’t much. But it was something.
Over the next few weeks, Poppy developed a routine. Wake at dawn. Coffee on the deck. Long walks on the beach. Reading—books she’d wanted to read for years but never had time for. Writing, when the words would come.
No social media. No news. No contact with anyone except Rochelle and her therapist, who did weekly phone sessions.
Just Poppy and the ocean and the slow, painful work of remembering who she was.
She started small. Made lists in a journal.
Things I liked before Dominick:
- Spicy food (he hated it)
- True crime podcasts (he thought they were morbid)
- Running in the morning (he preferred I worked out at his gym)
- Painting (I haven’t touched a brush in two years)
The list was depressing in its length. All the pieces of herself she’d set aside to make room for him.
But it was also a map. A way back to the person she’d been.
She started running again. Just short distances at first, her endurance shot from inactivity. But slowly, her strength returned. By week three, she was doing five miles along the coastal trail, her lungs burning in the best way.
She bought art supplies at a local shop and set up a makeshift studio on the enclosed porch. Her first attempts were terrible—she’d lost all her technical skill. But it didn’t matter. She was creating something that had nothing to do with Dominick or Rosa or the trial.
Something that was just hers.
One morning, a month into her stay, Poppy woke and realized she hadn’t thought about Dominick for an entire day. Not once. The day before had been full of painting and reading and a conversation with her therapist about self-forgiveness, and somewhere in all of that, he’d simply… not existed.
It wouldn’t last. She knew that. The trauma would resurface. Triggers would appear. Healing wasn’t linear.
But for one full day, she’d existed as herself. Not as a victim or a survivor or a cautionary tale.
Just Poppy.
That night, she finally opened her laptop and started writing the book.
Not the story they wanted—the dramatic investigation, the viral video, the murder trial.
She wrote about identity. About how insidious abuse could be. About waking up one day and not recognizing yourself. About the slow, painful process of rebuilding.
She wrote about Rosa too. Not as the ghost who’d haunted her relationship, but as a real woman. Talented and ambitious and trapped. Someone who’d deserved better.
The words poured out, raw and honest and nothing like the polished narrative the publishers probably expected.
But it was true. And truth was all Poppy had left.
At the end of the first chapter, she paused. Read what she’d written.
And for the first time in months, she felt something other than grief or anger or shame.
She felt proud.
This was her story. Not Dominick’s. Not Rosa’s shadow.
Hers.
And she was finally ready to tell it.
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