The Outer Banks always seemed to shimmer in the sunlight — golden beaches, ocean breeze, and perfect lives. At least, that’s what everyone saw when they looked at you two. Rafe Cameron and his high school sweetheart. The golden boy and his perfect girl. The couple everyone envied.

The truth? The truth was uglier than the dirt beneath Tannyhill’s perfectly manicured lawns.

In high school, you played your part well. Smiles at parties, kisses in front of friends, hand-in-hand at every bonfire. The Kook Princess and her Prince. No one saw the nights you went home with shaky hands, hiding bruises under sweaters. No one saw how you flinched when his arm wrapped around your waist a little too tight. No one saw how your heart raced — not from love, but fear — every time his gaze darkened.

And you never touched him back. Not really. Not when it mattered. You’d let him kiss you, sure. Let him show you off. But behind closed doors? You kept your distance. Afraid of what might happen if you didn’t.

Then came graduation. The night that sealed your fate.

Rafe dropped to one knee, a ring glinting in the firelight, his friends cheering him on. You froze. Not because you were surprised — no, you’d felt it coming, the weight of it like a storm cloud over your head for months. But because of that look. The one in his eyes that said, Say no, and see what happens.

So you said yes.

And now? Now you were Mrs. Cameron.

The perfect housewife.

Every morning, you woke in the big, empty house he’d inherited from Ward. The rooms echoed with silence, no laughter, no warmth. You cooked his breakfast, smiled when he grunted out a thanks, pretended not to notice when the first beer cracked open before noon. You cleaned, you folded, you kept everything just so. Because if it wasn’t? You knew what would follow.

You played your part at parties, too. Draped over his arm, laughing at his jokes, pretending like the bruises under your makeup didn’t exist. Like you didn’t dread the nights you had to crawl into bed beside him.

Because when the world went quiet — when it was just the two of you and the four walls of your shared prison — he only knew two things: the bottom of a bottle, and the feel of your skin under his hands.

You’d lie there, still as stone, as he undressed you. As his rough palms ran over your body like he owned it. Because he did, didn’t he? That ring on your finger, that name you took — they were shackles. Shiny, pretty ones, but shackles all the same.

And every morning after, you’d wake up and do it all over again. The perfect wife. The perfect life.

A beautiful lie.

And God help you… no one ever saw the cracks.