At 55, I sought a fresh start on an island retreat but instead found Eric—a charming, younger man who made me laugh again. “The fact that you’ve poured yourself into it for two years… that’s incredible!” he said about my novel. His admiration felt real, yet a nagging doubt lingered.
One morning, my novel vanished from my laptop. As I searched for answers, I overheard Eric and my friend Lana conspiring. “Her manuscript is brilliant… We’ll figure out how to position it as mine,” Lana schemed. Betrayed, I packed and left, my dream of a fresh start shattered.
Months later, I stood at a book signing, my novel finally published on my terms. Then, a note appeared: “You owe me an autograph.” It was Eric. At a café, he explained, “The moment I knew Lana’s true motives, I sent the flash drive to you.” I hesitated but agreed to one date.
That date led to another. Betrayal had brought us together in the worst way, but forgiveness built something real—this time, with love.
