The clay is cold between my fingers when I see him through the studio window. Five years. Five years of building this life, of learning to breathe without the weight of his lies pressing against my chest, and Marcus is standing in my garden like he belongs here. He doesn't. My hands freeze on the pottery wheel, the vase I'm shaping collapsing into a misshapen lump. Through the salt-stained glass, I watch him hesitate at the gate, his expensive suit absurdly out of place among the wild bougainvillea and weathered fence posts. He looks thinner than I remember. Older. The silver at his temples catches the late afternoon sun. I should have known this peace wouldn't last. "Catalina?" Rosa's voice drifts from the house. "The lawyer called again about the adoption papers. He needs you to—" She stops mid-sentence when she sees my face. "What's wrong?" She follows my gaze to the window, and I hear her sharp intake of breath. "Dios mío. Is that—" "Yes." My voice sounds distant, like it's coming from underwater. Marcus hasn't seen me yet. He's looking at the hand-painted sign above my studio door: "Catalina's Ceramics." Not "Catalina Whitmore" anymore. I took back my grandmother's surname the day I signed the settlement papers. The day his mother slid that check across her marble desk—eight million dollars to disappear and never speak about what her golden boy had done. I took every penny and vanished. "Should I call Diego?" Rosa asks, already reaching for her phone. Diego. My fiancé. The man who taught me that love doesn't have to hurt, that trust can be rebuilt brick by careful brick. He's at the school right now, preparing his classroom for Monday, completely unaware that my past is standing in our garden. "No," I say, though my heart is hammering. "Not yet." Marcus finally looks up, and our eyes meet through the glass. Even from here, I can see the moment of recognition, the way his whole body tenses. He raises one hand—a tentative wave that makes rage bloom hot in my chest. How dare he wave at me like we're old friends? I stand abruptly, the pottery wheel still spinning, clay water spattering my apron. My legs feel unsteady as I walk to the door, Rosa hovering protectively behind me. "Cat—" Marcus starts when I step outside, using the nickname that once made me melt. "How did you find me?" I cut him off, keeping my voice level. Controlled. I won't give him the satisfaction of seeing me rattled. "It wasn't easy." He takes a step closer, and I see the dark circles under his eyes, the slight tremor in his hands. "I've been looking for two years." "Then you should have looked harder in the opposite direction." I cross my arms. "You signed a contract, Marcus. Your family paid me very well to stay out of your life." "I know. I know, but—" He runs a hand through his hair, a gesture so familiar it physically hurts. "Everything fell apart, Cat. The company, the reputation, everything my father built. It's all gone." Good, I think viciously. "Not my problem." "I'm not here about that." His voice cracks. "I'm here because I need to tell you the truth. About that night. About Melissa. About everything." The name lands like a slap. Melissa. Twenty-three years old, with her wide doe eyes and her hand on my husband's thigh at the charity gala. The girl I found in our bed three weeks later, wearing my robe. "I don't want your truth," I say. "I want you to leave." "Please." He's begging now. "Just give me ten minutes. Then I'll go, I swear. But you deserve to know what really happened. What they did—" "Catalina!" Diego's voice makes us both turn. He's jogging up the path, his teacher's bag bouncing against his hip, his face creased with concern. Someone must have called him anyway. Marcus's eyes widen as Diego reaches us, immediately moving to my side. "Everything okay, mi amor?" Diego asks, but he's looking at Marcus with the kind of protective intensity that makes me love him more. "This is Marcus," I say quietly. "My ex-husband."