Beneath the Secret, Behind the Tears - Chapter 9

Kiera was thrown out of the mansion that day, with nothing but the clothes on her back.

It was a poetic, if pathetic, echo of how my own story with the Donovans had begun.

I heard about it weeks later, a brief, sterile report from Debi. I felt nothing.

Kiera s fate was no longer my concern.

My only concern was justice for what she had done five years ago. I gave Debi the go-ahead.

With the new evidence of Kiera’s long-term fraud and the testimony from a now-cooperative Ivan, the district attorney reopened the case.

Kiera’s downfall was swift and absolute. Without the Donovan money and protection, she was just a woman with a history of deceit.

She was arrested and charged. The press, which had once fawned over the Donovans, now feasted on their disgrace.

The Donovans and Ivan, meanwhile, were living in their own private hells. They poured millions into a desperate search for me, but I had covered my tracks too well.

The identity of Aliana Donovan had been legally and digitally erased.

In a small, quiet town on the Oregon coast, a woman named Hope Andersen was building a new life. Me.

It was the name I’d had in my last foster home, the name I’d liked the best. It felt solid. Real.

I worked at a local community clinic, serving families who reminded me of my own fractured childhood.

I rented a small apartment with a view of the ocean. I read books, took long walks on the beach, and for the first time in my life, I felt at peace.

I was defined not by a wealthy family or a powerful fiancé, but by my own work, my own choices.

One cold evening, six months after I had disappeared, I was walking home from the clinic when I saw a figure standing across the street from my apartment building, huddled in the biting wind.

Even from a distance, I knew it was him.

Ivan.

He looked terrible. He was thin, unshaven, and his expensive coat was no match for the coastal chill. He was staring up at my window with a desperate, haunted expression.

I wasn’t surprised. I had known, on some level, that he would eventually find me. His resources were vast. But I wasn’t afraid.

I crossed the street and walked right up to him. “You look cold, Ivan.”

He whipped around, his eyes widening in shock. He looked at me as if he were seeing a ghost.

“Aliana,” he breathed, his voice hoarse.

“That’s not my name anymore,” I said calmly.

He just stared, speechless. I sighed and unlocked the door to my building. “You’d better come up before you freeze to death.”

He followed me numbly up the stairs to my small, simple apartment.

He looked around at the modest furnishings, the secondhand books, a life so different from the one he knew.

“I waited for three days,” he said, his voice cracking. “I just had a feeling.”

“You can save the lies, Ivan,” I said, not unkindly. “I’m sure your P.I. told you exactly where I’d be.”

He flinched but didn’t deny it. He took a step toward me, his eyes filling with tears. “Aliana, I am so sorry. I was a fool. I was…”

“Yes, you were,” I interrupted, my voice even. “But that’s not my problem anymore.”

He reached out and grabbed my hand. His was freezing cold.

“Please. Let me make it up to you. I love you. I realize that now. I never loved her. It was an obligation. A mistake.”

I pulled my hand away. “Stop talking. You don’t get to say you love me. Not now. Not ever.”

I looked at him, at this broken man who had shattered my world.

“My name is Hope,” I said, the words clear and strong.

“Hope Andersen.”

He repeated the name, his voice a raw whisper. “Hope.”

“It means I’m looking forward, not back,” I said. “And you, Ivan, are my past. A past I have no intention of revisiting. Now, say what you came to say, and then leave.”

He sank into the single armchair in my living room, burying his face in his hands. “I was wrong,” he sobbed. “I know that.

I threw away everything for a lie. She lied to me, Aliana. Hope. Leo isn’t my son.”

He looked up at me, expecting sympathy. He found
none.

“So you were betrayed too,” I said, my voice flat.

“Congratulations. Now you know a fraction of what it felt like. Is that all?”

He shook his head, looking desperate. “No. I miss you. I want you back.”

I looked him in the eye. “You didn’t love me, Ivan. You loved the idea of me. The convenient, grateful orphan who wouldn’t ask too many questions. You didn’t want a partner; you wanted a placeholder. You said so yourself.”

His face went white. The finality in my voice, the cold, hard truths, was a judgement he couldn’t escape.