Chapter 4
Erica sat at the kitchen table and took her first bite.
Warm. Hearty. Familiar.
She hadn’t realised how hungry she was until she tasted it. Then it hit all at once, and she ate quickly.
“I haven’t eaten anything like this in ages,” she said, half to herself.
She thought of her usual meals – salads grabbed between meetings, lentils, things chosen for efficiency and health, rather than pleasure.
The taste tugged her backward in time. A school night. The table crowded with plates. Her father leaning back in his chair, her mother ladling gravy, laughing at something one of them had said.
“Mum’s recipe,” Leah said, pleased. “Looks like the walk did you good.” She nudged Maisie, who was craning her neck to watch the television in the next room, where a man appeared to be riding a dinosaur. “Maisie Moo. Eat.”
Erica took another bite of dumpling this time, soft and soaking up the gravy. No matter how many places they’d lived in, travelling with their father over the years, this meal had never changed. It had always tasted like home. Whatever that really meant.
She didn’t realise Leah was watching her until she spoke.
“You okay?”
Erica nodded, her mouth full, and kept eating. The familiar flavours settled something in her, easing the tightness she’d been carrying all day.
Later, Maisie mounted a determined campaign to stay up by negotiating, protesting, bargaining in ways Erica recognised instantly. Leah was unmoved, shepherding her to bed with a calm, well-practised authority.
When the house finally fell quiet, Erica found herself back on the bed, laptop resting on her knees.
The email chime sounded.
Once, that sound had thrilled her. It meant opportunity, momentum, proof she was needed. But tonight it landed like a slap, sharp and unwelcome.
She stared at the screen. Her inbox glowed with a number so high it barely felt real.
Harden up, Erica.
She clicked.
Messages stacked one on top of the other. Urgent. Following up. Just circling back. Normally, she prided herself on never letting it get like this. Control had always been her thing. Now it felt like something she’d misplaced entirely.
Another email from Jenna.
Let’s reconnect!
She snorted softly and didn’t open it. A freelancer she barely remembered – someone who hovered, pitching ideas that never quite landed. Not tonight.
She scrolled, paused, flexing her fingers over the keyboard.
And then she saw it.
Steven.
Just one email. No exclamation marks. No urgency. Somehow worse.
Her chest tightened as she clicked it open.
Subject: Moving Forward
Dear Erica,
I’m sorry things had to turn out this way. We built this business from nothing together, and we always said that if either of us had doubts or a change of heart, we’d voice it.
We’re married, yes, but we’re also partners – at least, we were. I know the business means as much to you as it does to me, but it’s not just yours. I’m 50% of it, and since your departure, I’ve had sponsors and clients chasing me.
It didn’t help that you said those awful things to that interviewer.
What the business was is not what it is now.
The audience wants more – stories that educate, inspire, and explore greatness.
It’s what they’re asking for. I’ve discussed this with everyone involved, and the consensus is that I should carry on.
You almost destroyed everything we built, Erica. Your outbursts, your temper – people saw how badly you were coping. So, please, get better. Take care of yourself. But don’t worry about the business – I’ll handle it.
I’ll have my lawyers contact you soon about buying out your share. I hope you’ll accept.
Take care,
Steven
P.S. Are you staying at your sister’s?
Erica closed the laptop carefully, as though sudden movement might break something.
Her hands were shaking.
Hadn’t he always been good at this? Making things sound reasonable. Inevitable. As if events had simply unfolded, rather than been guided there.
She pressed her palms to her eyes and breathed through the ache in her chest. She had known this was coming. Or at least, she’d sensed it – that dull, persistent unease she’d refused to name. Better not to look. Not to see her own name turned into a warning.
After a moment, she opened the laptop again.
Typed her name into the search bar.
The results came instantly.
Clips. Headlines. Reels.
Not the work she’d poured herself into. Not the long nights, the precision, the careful choices that had built something from nothing. Not the messages from women who said she’d made them braver, more ambitious.
One reel caught her eye.
Top Three Erica Hayes Moments That Prove She’s Just Another Mean Girl.
She hesitated – then clicked.
Her face filled the screen.
Composed. Guard up.
Mean girl? What do you think?
An old interview played.
Interviewer: “Your fans have been so vocal about supporting the show and its mission. How does it feel to know you’ve built such a loyal community?”
Erica: “They love the content. That’s why they’re here. Let’s not pretend liking something online is the same as changing the world.”
She winced. Not because it wasn’t true, but because she could hear what had been cut away. The smile that had followed. The longer answer about responsibility, about impact, about not wanting false sainthood.
The clip jumped.
Another studio. Another chair. Legs crossed, chin lifted.
Interviewer: “What advice would you give to young women hoping to follow in your footsteps?”
Erica: “It’s hard work. Brutal, sometimes. If you’re looking for permission or reassurance, this probably isn’t the industry for you.”
The sentence ended abruptly, her voice sliced mid-thought.
For a beat, there was silence.
Then the text appeared.
Erica Hayes reportedly told her staff they were “too fat” to model her custom T-shirt designs.
Her stomach lurched.
She had never said that. Not like that. Not at all.
The reel ended with its verdict, stamped across the screen like a sentence passed down.
Erica Hayes is the worst human being.
She closed her eyes. The words burned anyway. When she opened them again, another reel had already queued, her face frozen mid-expression on the thumbnail.
That was enough.
She slammed the laptop shut. Heat rushed up her neck, nausea curling low in her gut. Shame crawled over her skin – hot, disorienting. Was this really how she came across? Those interviews felt distant now, from another life. A woman who’d been certain. Sharp. Untouchable.
That was when things had started to slip.
Steven said she’d made a spectacle of herself. That sponsors were nervous. That people had lost faith. And in flashes – unwelcome and brief – she could see it. The pressure. The speed. The sense that the ground was shifting while she was still expected to smile.
She hadn’t adapted. She’d resisted. Dug in. Tried to outpace the change until it overtook her anyway.
And then he’d taken her to the hospital.
Unhinged, he’d said. Not cruelly. Almost kindly.
And hadn’t it felt that way? Like she was watching herself from a small distance, trapped in a body that wouldn’t slow down.
Her throat tightened. The pressure built, sharper now, urgent.
She stood abruptly. Thinking was the problem. She needed air. Space. Motion.
The house was quiet. Leah’s door closed. Maisie asleep.
Keys in hand, she was out the door, into the car, driving without really seeing the road ahead of her. Her breath came fast and shallow, her chest tight, as if something inside her were trying to force its way out.
The road ended where the path began.
She left the car and started walking, legs trembling with purpose. The last of the daylight bled across the horizon, the hills darkening – the same hills she’d watched earlier, when she’d still believed she might steady herself.
Rain needled through her clothes as she climbed. She didn’t slow. Couldn’t.
The path slicked beneath her boots. Her foot slid, her ankle twisting as she went down hard on one knee. Pain flared, sharp and grounding. She swore, pushed herself upright, and kept going.
By the time she reached the top, the wind was howling.
The sea churned below, black and endless. Rain plastered her hair to her face as she stood near the edge, breath tearing in and out of her chest.
Steven’s face surfaced unbidden – the careful concern, the tight line of his mouth.
This is the best place for you, Erica. Trust me.
The words she’d swallowed surged back.
You almost destroyed everything.
Unhinged.
The worst human being.
They beat against her skull. She clenched her fists, nails biting into her palms.
She had trusted him.
And he had walked away with everything she’d built, her work, her name, the life that had once fit her so precisely.
The wind roared.
And for a moment, she didn’t know how she was supposed to stand back up when every version of herself felt stripped away.
She gasped for air.
The night gave nothing back.