Chapter 2
Chapter Two
Henrietta (Blythe)
You know what I love about small towns?
How the warmth settles into your bones, sticking around like it has every right to—even if you don’t quite belong.
Though I adore the picturesque streets or the familiar smiles, that’s not it either.
Though those help. It’s the way time stretches a little longer like the world has taken a breath and softened around the edges.
It’s how people pause to talk, share stories, and actually listen.
The way they treat strangers—not as temporary visitors, but like long-lost cousins finally returning home.
When I first left my old life behind, I went to South Carolina.
My driver wasn’t interested in going all the way to Maryland without charging me a small fortune, so I ended up in a random motel off the interstate.
I only stayed there for a week.
It was too close, too risky—I didn’t want him to find me.
After that, I drifted north, ending up in Cedar Hollow, West Virginia, where I nearly bumped into one of his associates.
One almost encounter was enough to send me fleeing again.
It’s been nearly two months of looking over my shoulder and desperately searching for a place to settle.
A place safe enough not just for me, but for .
. .
I touch my belly, anxiety stirring inside.
A few weeks ago, I found out I’m pregnant.
Definitely not something I expected, and one more reason to stay hidden.
If Winston ever discovers that I not only dared to leave him but took away his child, he’ll probably kill me.
Now, I’m on my third fake ID, and my savings are dwindling faster than I expected.
The jobs I manage to find are decent, but they don’t offer benefits.
I need medical insurance.
And a salary that will let me afford a small apartment because a child needs more than a room at a modest motel.
I rub the ache from my lower back as I step off the bus, my legs stiff from the endless ride.
A soft breeze brushes past, carrying the gentle scent of pine and sun-warmed earth.
Grabbing my duffel bag, I pull it tight against my shoulder, feeling the reassuring presence of the few possessions I own—clothes, my battered journal, and a couple of dog-eared books.
I’ll probably leave those behind in exchange for pregnancy guides.
Once upon a time, my bedroom was larger than most studio apartments, complete with its own fridge stocked with overpriced water and imported chocolates.
Back then, even my snack choices were meticulously curated for appearances.
Now, I’m lucky if the motel I crash at has a working air conditioner.
And you know what? I don’t mind.
Not really. Sure, the beds are lumpy, and the neon signs buzz annoyingly all night, but there’s something oddly freeing about it.
Out here, I’m invisible.
Lonely, sure, but at least I can finally breathe.
I’m no longer someone else’s pawn or the punching bag of a sociopath.
There’s no more attachment to Winston Reginald Worthington IV.
Even his name feels like a slap.
I don’t know how I ever said it with a straight face, let alone introduced myself as Mrs. Winston Reginald Worthington IV.
Rarely allowed to use my own name—Henrietta.
He always made it seem like an afterthought, a mere footnote to his existence.
I twist the fraying strap of my duffel bag around my finger, pulling until it stings—a nervous habit I can’t seem to shake.
I know they’re looking for me.
My family. Winston’s family.
They don’t give up easily.
Marrying me off was never about love.
It was about mergers, fortunes, and legacies.
Things I couldn’t care less about.
My father explained it once, going on about securing our empire’s future, but I had already learned how to tune him out.
He lost the right to my obedience a long time ago.
And Winston? God, Winston.
To him, I was never a partner.
Never even a person.
Just a smart investment, another asset in his meticulously curated portfolio.
But that’s over now.
If I have to keep running for the rest of my life, so be it.
I’d rather disappear into nothing than spend another moment trapped in the life my parents built for me—with a man who thought I was .
. . let it go. It’s no longer important.
Focus on this small town and what you can do here.
The past slips further away with each step as the town square comes into view, a snapshot from another era.
The general store stands with its hand-painted sign, the white paint peeling just enough to give it character.
Across the way, a diner flaunts a red-and-white awning, the sort you’d see in an old movie.
People move unhurriedly, pausing to chat on benches beneath the shade of sprawling oaks.
It’s idyllic—almost unsettling.
Like this place has been frozen in time while the rest of the world hurtles forward.
I shift my bag to the other shoulder and start walking.
My throat tightens, though I’m not sure why.
Maybe it’s the realization that I’m here—again—trying to find a piece of myself in a new place.
Or maybe it’s the fear that I won’t.
That I’ll like it too much, but I’ll have to move out too soon.
At the corner, an older man—probably in his seventies—leans against an old truck.
He tips his hat in a gesture so casual it almost feels rehearsed.
“Morning, welcome to our humble town,” he greets me.
I nod, offering a small smile.
“Thank you. I’m just passing through.”
His eyes crinkle at the edges as he studies me like he’s piecing together a puzzle only he can see.
There’s a warmth to his gaze, a quiet understanding that makes me feel seen—and oddly exposed.
“Birchwood Springs has a way of making people stay longer than they plan to.”
“We’ll see,” I reply, my voice light and breezy, though his words linger in the quiet spaces of my mind.
I keep moving, but something about his knowing tone stays with me—a peculiar blend of comfort and unease.
Would I stay here for longer than planned?
I don’t even have a plan.
Instead of worrying about it, I search for a coffee shop to grab some breakfast. Thankfully, I find it right away.
The Honey Drop looks like it’s been plucked straight from a postcard: whitewashed siding, flower boxes bursting with beautiful flowers, and a mismatched collection of chairs scattered across the front porch and the sidewalk.
A few townies sit outside, sipping from steaming mugs and chatting like they’ve known each other their entire lives.
Maybe they have.
The soft chime of the bell above the door announces my arrival.
Inside, The Honey Drop smells like roasted coffee beans, warm sugar, and something faintly citrusy.
The counter is at the back of the room, stretching across it.
It’s lined with glass display cases filled with pastries and snacks.
Behind it, a gleaming espresso machine hisses and hums, its chrome surface reflecting the warm light.
A woman with chestnut waves pulled into a loose bun moves with practiced ease, her movements quick but unhurried.
Her apron, a deep mocha color with The Honey Drop logo stitched in gold, is dusted with flour, and there’s a smudge of what might be coffee or chocolate near her elbow.
“Welcome to The Honey Drop. What can I get for ya?”
I scan the menu written in chalk above her head.
“A coffee—just black—and, um, one of those blueberry scones.”
Delilah, as her nametag says, nods and moves to pour the coffee while I fish a crumpled bill out of my pocket.
I glance around, taking in the small but lively space.
The wooden tables are worn smooth from years of use, each with a tiny vase of fresh flowers.
In the corner, an elderly man reads a newspaper while a group of teenagers huddles by the window, laughing over something on the phone.
It’s not bustling, but it’s alive.
As I wait, the conversation between two women seated near the counter catches my attention.
One is knitting something vibrant and patterned while the other gestures animatedly, her hands moving like punctuation marks.
“I told her she’d regret planting the tomatoes so close to the zucchini,” the gesturing woman says, shaking her head with mock exasperation.
“Now her garden looks like a jungle.”
“She’ll learn,” the knitter replies, a small smile playing on her lips.
“Trial and error, like the rest of us.”
Delilah sets the coffee and scone in front of me.
“Would you like anything else? We have egg sandwiches,” she offers.
“Umm . . .” I look at the bills I have and shake my head.
I can only afford so much.
After this, I have to search for the motel and see what rates they have—that I can afford.
Then, look for a seasonal job.
“Nah, that’s fine.” I hand her the bills.
She gives me a warm smile.
“You’re new to this town. It’s on the house. Sit down, I’ll bring you a sandwich.”
“Oh no, you don’t have to,” I hesitate.
“I?—”
“You sit,” she cuts me off.
Hesitant, I take a seat on the corner.
It doesn’t take her long before she brings me the sandwich and sits in front of me.
“When was the last time you had a decent meal?”
Define decent, I want to say.
I haven’t had a home-cooked meal since the night before I left him, almost two months.
“Probably last night before taking the bus,” I lie.
“Listen.” She lowers her voice and leans closer.
“This place is safe. If you need help with anything, we’re here to give you a hand.”
I hesitate, the words forming before I fully decide to speak.
“Actually . . . do you need any help around here? I mean, part-time or anything? Just for a couple of weeks while I find something a little more solid or decide where to go.”
Delilah studies me for a moment, her gaze shrewd yet kind.
“We could probably use an extra pair of hands during the morning rush. You sure you’re up for it?”
“I’m sure,” I reply, a flicker of excitement sparking in my chest. “When should I start?”
“How about tomorrow? Six sharp.”
I nod, smiling despite myself.
“Sounds good.”
As I fidget with the sugar packet in front of me, I glance up and ask, “Where’s the nearest hotel? One that’s cheap.”
Her expression shifts slightly, a trace of concern slipping through.
“Are you in danger?” she asks.
“No,” I answer, maybe too fast, but the lie tumbles out as effortlessly as it always does.
“I just don’t like to stay in one place.” The words come so naturally now that no one ever questions them.
Delilah doesn’t press further, but I can sense her quiet skepticism.
Maybe she thinks: This poor woman is just not taking life seriously and would rather be backpacking aimlessly through the country without any responsibilities.
And I let people believe so, because the other option might get too much attention.
Attention I don’t need now, or ever.