Bound By Bloodlines

Faye Matthews POV:

Tonight was the third anniversary of my engagement to Carter Hayes.

I had made plans with Carter to go to a famous restaurant for our anniversary candlelight dinner.

Before departure, I checked the passenger seat again.

The gift box sat there, a perfect square of dark blue tied with a silver ribbon.

Inside was a Patek Philippe watch, the one Carter had been talking about for months.

Just then, my phone lit up, and when I checked, it was a text message from Carter.

"Hey babe, team's calling for a last-minute practice. I'm going to be late. Can you go to the restaurant first?"

This excuse had appeared too frequently recently, to the point where I was starting to doubt it.

An instinct I'd been ignoring for months screamed at me.

I opened the "Find My Device" app.

We'd set it up when we were still deliriously in love, for "safety."

The little blue dot representing Carter's phone wasn't at the training facility.

It was five miles from our restaurant, at a scenic overlook known for one thing.

A place for lovers.

I started the car.

The windshield wipers swiped frantically, as if trying to clear away the lie in front of my eyes.

I didn't listen to Carter and drive to the restaurant.

I drove straight to that overlook.

At the end of the road, I saw Carter's car.

His black Porsche 911.

Tucked away in the most secluded corner, the car's body rocked with a gentle, rhythmic motion.

A white fog of condensation clouded the windows.

My heart didn't just sink.

It plummeted.

I took a deep breath, the air sharp and cold in my lungs.

Then I pushed open my door.

The icy rain hit me instantly, plastering my hair to my scalp and soaking my shoulders.

I walked toward the car, my heels clicking a lonely, sharp rhythm on the wet pavement.

Through the blurred glass, I could see two silhouettes, tangled together.

I pulled out my phone, shielding it from the rain with my body, and took photo after photo—the license plate, the rocking car, the fogged windows, the unmistakable silhouettes inside.

Then I switched to video, recording the steady rhythm of the car, the wet pavement, the timestamp on the screen. Evidence. Cold, undeniable evidence.

After all of this is done,I reached the driver's side and rapped my knuckles hard against the window.

The movement inside stopped.

A few seconds ticked by, each one a lifetime.

Then, the window slowly lowered.

Carter's face, panicked and pale, appeared.

Before he could stammer out a single word, the person in the passenger seat turned.

That signature mane of flaxen blonde curls, that face I'd looked at for twenty years—my adoptive mother's own daughter, Sienna Reynolds.

She saw me.

There was no guilt on her face.

Just the corner of her mouth twitching into a triumphant, mocking smile.

She was showing off her prize.

"Faye," Carter began, his voice a jumbled mess. "It's not what you think. Sienna was drunk, I was just..."

"Shut up!" I cut him off.

My face was a blank mask.

I walked back to my car, picked up the beautiful gift box, and returned to his window.

In front of them, I opened the box.

I took out the watch, its polished face gleaming even in the dim light.

Then I let it drop.

It landed with a soft splash in the muddy puddle at my feet.

Next, I pulled the three-carat diamond ring from my finger.