Chapter 7: The Past Comes Knocking

The bracelet stayed on her wrist all night. Hazel twisted it absentmindedly as she stared at the ceiling in the dark, the tiny silver clover catching moonlight with every flick of her fingers. Michael hadn't said anything after she kissed his cheek. But his eyes had followed her with a softness she didn't recognize… and didn't quite know what to do with.

The next morning, she woke to the smell of toast and eggs.

Toast and eggs.

Hazel bolted upright.

Michael didn't cook.

She padded into the kitchen, still in her robe, and paused at the doorway.

There he was.

In grey sweatpants, a t-shirt, and an apron.

Cooking.

"Okay," she said, arms crossed, "who are you and what have you done with the cold, emotionally stunted man I married?"

He glanced over his shoulder. "I watched a YouTube video. Nearly set the pan on fire, but—success."

She laughed. "You cooked me breakfast?"

"I thought it was my turn."

Hazel raised a brow. "We don't have turns."

"We do now," he replied, placing the plate in front of her. "One balanced chaos at a time."

She smiled, trying not to let her heart melt like the butter on her toast.

But just as she lifted her fork, the doorbell rang.

Michael frowned. "Expecting someone?"

"Nope."

He moved toward the door and opened it without thinking.

Hazel looked up from her seat—then froze.

The woman standing in the doorway was tall, elegant, and so put-together she made Hazel feel like a high schooler in a hoodie. Long caramel hair, piercing green eyes, perfect posture.

"Hello, Michael," the woman said with a warm, practiced smile. "Long time no see."

Michael's entire body went rigid. "Ava."

Hazel stood slowly, watching him, then the stranger. "Friend of yours?"

Ava turned to her, smile still intact but eyes sharp. "Oh. You must be the... wife."

Hazel stepped forward, extending a hand. "Hazel Graze. And you are?"

"Ava Langford," she said, shaking her hand lightly. "Michael's ex-fiancée."

Silence. The kind that screams.

Hazel blinked. "Fiancée?"

Michael cleared his throat, stepping between them. "It was years ago. It ended."

"Did it?" Ava mused. "Because from where I'm standing, it feels unresolved."

Hazel crossed her arms. "Funny. Feels pretty resolved on this side of the door."

Ava's gaze narrowed. "No offense, Hazel, but you don't exactly look like Michael's type."

Hazel smiled, syrupy sweet. "Good thing I'm not here to be his type. I'm here to be his wife."

Michael stepped in, voice cool and authoritative. "Ava, what do you want?"

"I want to talk. Alone."

Hazel turned to him, lifting an eyebrow. "You want that too?"

He looked between them, jaw tense. "No. But I'll listen."

Hazel stepped back. "Take your time, darling. But just know—if she tries to crawl back in, she'll have to step over my bunny slippers first."

Michael held back a smirk.

As Ava sauntered inside, Hazel walked past them toward the balcony, heart thudding louder than her footsteps. She told herself it didn't matter. That Michael could talk to ghosts if he wanted.

But somewhere deep in her chest…

a familiar ache started to grow.

And for the first time since their marriage began, Hazel felt something sharp, terrifying, and completely unexpected.

She didn't want to lose him...