Chapter 1 The Distance Between Us

• Chapter One
• Izzy
• The Distance Between Us
• I was the center of their world.
• Not in a self-important way—no, it was more fragile than that. More sacred. Like they’d been waiting for me long before they ever knew my name.
• When I was nine, the Richmonds chose me.
• After a string of rejections, after being told I was too old, too quiet, too complicated, I was starting to believe the words written in my case file more than the girl staring back at me in the mirror. A foster kid no one wanted. Too much grief, too many questions, too few answers.
• I still remember my mother—Bailey. She smelled like jasmine and wore her sadness behind a tired smile. She died when I was five. Cancer. My father followed not long after, his own demons swallowing him whole. I don’t remember much about him except for the anger. And then... nothing.
• No aunts. No uncles. No soft hands reaching out. Just state custody and paper trails.
• Then came Leo and Nora Richmond.
• Leo was calm. Soft-spoken. He spoke to me like I was someone worthy of listening to. He had this way of looking at me like he saw me—even when I didn’t know who I was yet. And Nora... Nora was fire and silk. A defense attorney with razor-sharp wit, who gave the best hugs in the universe. She was fierce in her love, as if daring the world to try and take me from her.
• I belonged to them. And they belonged to me.
• They didn’t just adopt me—they rebuilt me.
• I never once questioned it. Not when they tucked me in every night. Not when they showed up to every school recital, every scraped-knee emergency, every heartache and triumph. They were there. Always. And so, I gave them everything in return—obedience, success, gratitude. Love.
• But no child understands the full cost of love. Not until much later.
• As I got older, I started to feel the weight of it—their sacrifices, their pride, their unspoken hopes stitched into every conversation about the future. The pressure to be more than just okay. To make it all worth it.
• It wasn’t resentment. It was… responsibility.
• Then Carl walked in.
• We met at a charity gala my mother dragged me to when I was in law school. He stood across the room like he belonged in another life—one filled with corner offices and impossible brilliance. He had this quiet intensity that caught me off guard. Not loud. Not charming. Just... aware.
• He noticed things. Like the way I picked at my bracelet when I was anxious, or how my voice dropped when I was uncomfortable. It was unsettling. Intimate. And soon, inevitable.
• Falling for him was like slipping underwater—scary, beautiful, and all-consuming.
• He was everything I wasn’t allowed to want at the time—older, wildly accomplished, emotionally complex. But he saw me. Not the version I showed the world. Not the Richmonds’ perfect daughter. Just... Izzy.
• We married three years ago in a garden that smelled like wild roses and champagne. My mother cried. My father gave Carl a handshake that lasted longer than most speeches. I believed it would last forever.
• And maybe it still could.
• But right now, it doesn’t feel that way.
• Carl’s a cardiac surgeon. One of the best in the country. He’s always chasing the next miracle. And I’m a defense attorney, often fighting for people society has already condemned. Our worlds are heavy. And somewhere along the line, we stopped sharing the weight.
• Most days, we’re like ghosts in our own home. Passing in hallways, kissing through yawns and paperwork. I live for the rare nights when we cook together, when his laugh lights up the kitchen, and he looks at me like he used to. But they’re getting fewer.
• And the silence in between? It's starting to echo.
• Tonight, I woke from an evening nap I don’t remember falling into. The apartment was quiet—too quiet.
• The kind of quiet that doesn’t soothe you. The kind that makes you feel abandoned in your own life.
• I wandered into the kitchen barefoot, poured myself a glass of wine, and stood by the floor-to-ceiling window of our penthouse. The city sparkled below like a promise I no longer trusted.
• It was beautiful. But it didn’t feel mine.
• Sometimes I wonder what life would’ve been like if I’d chosen differently. A simpler path. A quieter career. A partner who wasn’t half-married to his job. Maybe even no career at all. Just... peace. But I don’t think peace was ever written into my story.
• I stared into the glass, the wine trembling in my hand. My reflection looked older than I felt. Tired in places makeup can’t fix.
• And then—his voice.
• “Dinner’s ready,” Carl called softly from the kitchen.
• I blinked, turned away from the window, and tucked my thoughts into the quiet corners of my mind where I hide everything I’m not ready to face.
• He was plating our meal, sleeves rolled up, jaw tight. A man used to saving lives but utterly helpless in the face of an unraveling marriage.
• We sat. Ate. Talked about cases and clients and things that didn’t matter. The space between us felt like an ocean.
• Finally, he set down his fork. His eyes met mine, and I felt the weight of the question before he even asked.
• “Izzy, what’s going on with you?”
• He said it gently, but his tone carried an edge of fear.
• I opened my mouth—but the truth caught in my throat like a shard of glass. I couldn’t tell him. Not yet.
• “I’m fine,” I whispered. “Just tired.”
• He didn’t believe me. But he nodded anyway.
• Later, we sat on the couch, bodies close, souls far apart. He scrolled through emails. I pretended to watch a show I couldn’t follow.
• The clock ticked. The city blinked.
• And something inside me splintered.
• I knew it in my bones—this wasn’t just a rough patch. It was a reckoning. Something was coming. A truth too big to hide. A secret I’d buried too deep.
• And I wasn’t sure if our love could survive it.