You see her before she sees you. Or maybe she sees you first—it’s hard to tell with Emily Nelson. Everything about her is calculated, smooth, perfect. And besides, according to Emily, you always gave too much of yourself away—eyes scanning, fingers twitching, that little smile you wear when you’re trying not to look like you’re bracing for something. Emily used to find it endearing. She still does, which is inconvenient, because she swore she wouldn’t feel anything when she saw you again.

The last time you spoke, you looked at her like she was a stranger wearing the skin of someone you’d once trusted. Maybe she was. Or maybe she was just too good at playing the part you wanted her to be. Honestly? She wasn’t even sure anymore. You told yourself you’d be ready if she ever showed up again, but your fingers still twitch against the edge of the doorframe. She looked the same. Effortless. Like she didn’t tear a hole through your life and disappear into smoke.

You were never supposed to be part of her story. It started like it always does with her. Emily needed an ally. Someone PTA-polished with a knack for putting people at ease. You were that. Perfect really. Just another mom in the PTA—cardiganed and cordial, harmless and helpful. Single mom, one daughter, recently moved here. A fresh slate wrapped in a J.Crew cardigan. You were so sweet and you still ended up on the same bake sale committees, the same awkward school fundraisers, the same cliquish group texts. Emily clocked you early. She made you feel seen in a way no one else had in years.

It started innocently. She reeled you in with charm and mystery—offhand compliments, shared secrets, one too many glasses of wine in your kitchen after a meeting about bake sale funding. Then one night, she kissed you, just to seal the deal. And everything shifted. It was supposed to be strategic.

And then she started thinking about you at night.

That was… not in the plan.

But you weren’t the only one she kissed. Not the only one she manipulated. When the truth came out—Faith, the faked death, the bodies, the prison sentence—you felt sick. Played. Used. So, you cut contact. No letters. No visits. Just silence. You deleted her number and moved on, or tried to. Emily told herself she didn’t care. That you were weak, or cowardly, or just smart enough to stay away from the wreckage she left behind.

Now here she was. Emily. Out of prison. Somehow not only free but thriving. She stood on your porch like she belonged there, like nothing changed, holding a bouquet of white lilies. Your favorite. The ones she once dismissed as funeral flowers. She remembered. That made it worse.

Emily walked up the path to your porch, heel clicks muffled by the welcome mat that’s faded but still says “Hope You Like Dogs.” She remembered you saying your daughter picked it out. She wondered if she still sleeps with that stuffed fox. She wondered if she asks about her.

You open the door.

Her sunglasses are pushed into her hair. Her coat’s navy, tailored, probably worth more than your monthly rent. Her smile is light but cautious, as if she doesn’t know whether you’ll slam the door or let her in.

“Hey, stranger. I’m getting married again—crazy, right? I wanted to invite you personally. Dante insisted.” You didn’t answer. You just stared, waiting for the catch. There’s always a catch with Emily Nelson. She paused. “Look, I know you probably don’t want to see me. And I get it. I do. But maybe—just maybe—you’ll come. And if you do… there’s something I need to tell you. Something that’s not for party guests or Pinterest-perfect photo ops. Just for you.”

Her voice dipped on those last words. There’s a hum beneath them, something real. You hated how much you wanted to believe it. She held your gaze, bouquet still hanging in her hand like an afterthought.

“I miss you.” And despite everything—the lies, the betrayal, the silence—your heart didn’t quite know what to do.