A Second Chance To Save Our Lives

My daughter Jodie died in my arms. The doctor' s words were a death sentence: "Severe neglect. Malnutrition. Multiple internal injuries."

But my husband, the famous life coach Julian Maynard, didn't mourn. He issued a public statement.

He called Jodie a "challenging child" and twisted her death into a tragedy about mental health, all to enhance his compassionate image.

He even publicly forgave the boy who had tormented her, the same boy he brought into our home to teach Jodie "resilience."

My own life ended in a fire, a final, violent release from a world of his making.

As the flames consumed me, I couldn't understand. How could the man I loved build his legacy on the grave of our daughter and the ruins of my life?

Then, I opened my eyes. The divorce papers sat on the table, his signature a stark black stain. It was years earlier. Before the fire. Before Jodie died.

Chapter 1

Kylie POV:

The clerk slid the divorce papers across the mahogany table, my ex-husband' s signature already a stark, black stain against the crisp white. It wasn' t a painful echo. It was just a fact.

My hand didn't tremble when I picked up the pen.

"Ms. Gutierrez, are you sure about the terms?" my lawyer, Mr. Harrison, asked, his voice a low rumble. "Mr. Maynard is offering a very generous settlement. Alimony, the house, a significant portion of his assets... he' s even willing to discuss future investments."

I didn't look up. "The only thing I want from Julian Maynard is my daughter."

Mr. Harrison paused. He was used to women fighting over money, not for a child when a fortune was on the table.

"Are you absolutely certain?" he pressed, his brow furrowed. "No financial compensation at all? Just full custody of Jodie?"

I finally met his gaze, my eyes cold. "Absolutely. I don' t want a single penny of his blood money. Just Jodie."

He cleared his throat, a sound that seemed to carry the weight of his surprise. "Very well, then." He pushed the papers closer. "Sign here."

My signature was firm, a testament to a resolve forged in fire and tears. It wasn't a choice; it was a reclamation.

"It's done," I stated, pushing the signed documents back.

Mr. Harrison' s assistant, a young woman with wide, curious eyes, quickly composed herself. Her initial shock, however, was clearly visible. People didn't just walk away from millions. Not in their world.

"Such a brave woman," I heard her murmur to Mr. Harrison as I stood to leave. "Giving up everything for her child."

Brave? No. Desperate.

The cool air outside the law office hit me like a slap. The bustling city streets, the blare of car horns, the indifferent faces rushing past-it all felt too loud, too bright. I shielded my eyes against the harsh afternoon sun, a dizziness washing over me. The dates blurred, the faces were wrong, but the feeling was achingly familiar.

My stomach churned. I needed to know.

I spotted a newspaper stand on the corner. My heart hammered against my ribs, a frantic bird trapped in a cage. Please, let it be real. Please, let it be true.

I grabbed a paper, my fingers fumbling with the coins. The date. That's all I needed.

My breath hitched. It was just as I remembered. Years before. Before the fire. Before Jodie...

A headline screamed from the front page: "Julian Maynard: The Compassionate Guru Forgives All." Underneath, a photo of Julian, his perfect smile radiating false benevolence, next to a blurry image of the boy who had set the fire.

I scoffed, a bitter, hollow sound. Forgive all? He had orchestrated all.

I remembered his grand speech, the carefully rehearsed words about empathy and healing, all while my ashes were still cooling. A public spectacle designed to enhance his image, built on the smoldering ruins of my life and the grave of our daughter.

"Compassionate," I muttered, crumpling the paper. What a joke. His love was a performance, a meticulously crafted illusion. It was always about him, his image, his ego. And I, like an idiot, had bought into it.

"Mommy!"

Jodie. Her voice, so sweet and clear, cut through my dark thoughts. I looked up, and there she was, standing in the doorway of the house-our house, for now. She was wearing the faded blue dress, the one I had tried to mend so many times. It was too short, a painful reminder of how quickly she was growing, how much I had missed, how much I would almost lose.

Next to her, Darryl Taylor, Fanny' s son, swaggered in a brand-new tracksuit, a gaudy superhero logo emblazoned across it. He was a few years older than Jodie, taller, broader. He held a brightly colored, expensive-looking toy in his hand, flaunting it.

Jodie' s eyes, wide and innocent, followed his movements. A flicker of longing, quickly masked by resignation, crossed her face. My heart ached, a sharp, physical pain.

"Darryl, stop showing off," Fanny' s voice cooed from inside. She emerged, dressed in a silk robe, a satisfied smirk playing on her lips. She caught my eye, and her smile widened, a silent challenge.

Darryl, emboldened, just snickered, then deliberately dropped his toy, letting it clatter loudly before kicking it. Jodie flinched.

My fists clenched. The image of Jodie' s hollow eyes in the future, her small body bruised and broken, flashed through my mind. It was a wound that would never heal.

Julian. He had brought them here. Fanny, his ex-girlfriend, and her monstrous son. Under the guise of "building a blended family," of teaching Jodie "resilience." It was all a twisted game, a cruel experiment fueled by his narcissistic need for control and validation.

I remembered the day he'd first suggested it. "Kylie, darling, think of the growth! Jodie will learn so much about sharing, about compassion. And Darryl needs a strong male role model, someone like me."

I had been so naïve, so blinded by my love for him, so desperate for him to see me, to see Jodie. I had swallowed his self-help jargon, hook, line, and sinker.

Then came the slow, insidious erosion of Jodie' s world. Her room, once her sanctuary, given to Darryl. Her favorite toys, "shared" until they were broken or simply vanished. Her clothes, always the hand-me-downs, while Darryl and Fanny paraded in new designer outfits bought with Julian's money.

I remembered Jodie' s fifth birthday. She had wished for a single red balloon and for her daddy to sing "Happy Birthday" to her. Julian had been "too busy," on a retreat with Fanny and Darryl, of course.

She cried herself to sleep that night, a silent, heartbreaking sob that tore at my soul. The next day, she woke up with a fever. Julian, when I finally reached him, had simply said, "She's just a problem child, Kylie. Always seeking attention."

Problem child. That phrase, a poison Julian had dripped into her ears, had become her identity in his twisted narrative. He had even framed her for cyberbullying Darryl, a ludicrous accusation that led to her first psychological evaluation.

And then, the end.

Her small hand in mine, frail and cold. The doctor' s words echoing in my ears: "Severe neglect. Multiple internal injuries. Malnutrition."

My world had shattered. But Julian, ever the performer, had issued a statement. "My deepest condolences to Kylie. Jodie was a challenging child, but I always believed in her potential. This tragedy is a reminder of the fragility of mental health."

He had twisted it, made it her fault. Made it my fault for not being able to "manage" her.

I remembered the fire. The desperate, choking smoke. The searing pain as the flames devoured me, a final, violent release from a life of silent suffering. And Julian, ever the grieving widower, publicly forgiving Darryl, the very person who had taken everything from me.

But this time. This time it would be different.

Jodie looked at me, her small face streaked with dirt, her eyes still holding that glimmer of hope. "Mommy, did you fix it?"

My heart clenched. Fix it? My sweet girl, you have no idea what "it" truly means.

"Yes, baby," I said, my voice hoarse. "Mommy fixed it."

Darryl laughed, a harsh, grating sound. "Fixed what? Your broken car? Daddy said you're useless."

Fanny emerged from the house, her eyes narrowed, a predatory glint in them. "Julian, dear, Kylie' s home. And she seems to be having one of her... episodes."

Julian. He finally appeared, his charismatic smile in place, though it didn't quite reach his eyes. "Kylie, darling. How was your... appointment?" He emphasized the word, making it sound like a mental evaluation.

"It was enlightening, Julian," I said, my voice steady, betraying none of the earthquake raging inside me.

Jodie, still clutching her worn teddy bear, looked from me to Julian, then at Darryl's new toy. Her little shoulders slumped.

I knelt down, pulling her into a tight hug. "Jodie, remember what we talked about?"

She looked up at me, her eyes wide. "If Daddy doesn't come to my play, it's okay. You'll be there."

My stomach dropped. No, baby. That' s not what I meant at all.

"No, sweetie. I mean, if he disappoints you again, we leave. Remember?" I whispered, my voice barely audible.

Jodie nodded slowly, her gaze still fixed on Darryl, who had now started dismantling his toy, deliberately letting pieces fall.

Just then, a sleek, expensive sports car pulled into the driveway. Julian' s eyes lit up. "Ah, just in time!"

A woman with fiery red hair and a dazzling smile stepped out, holding a large, beautifully wrapped gift. "Julian, darling! Look what I found for Darryl! And this little number for Fanny!" She held up a shimmering designer scarf.

Jodie' s eyes, full of a fleeting hope, darted towards the gift. Darryl, seeing her look, snatched the gift from the woman's hand.

"This is for me!" he declared, tearing open the paper. It was a top-of-the-line drone, small but clearly expensive. He immediately started playing with it, ignoring everyone else.

The red-haired woman, Julian' s publicist, I remembered, then handed Fanny the scarf. "You look absolutely divine in red, Fanny. Julian picked it out especially for you."

Fanny preened, wrapping the silk around her neck. "Oh, Julian, you spoil me!"

Jodie watched, her small frame rigid. Her shoulders hunched further. The hope in her eyes died, replaced by a familiar, crushing disappointment.

"Mommy," she whispered, her voice cracking, "I want to leave. Please."

My heart shattered, then reformed, harder than before. Not this time, Julian. Not this time.

I stood up, pulling Jodie closer. "We are leaving."

Julian, distracted by Fanny and the publicist, barely registered my words. "Leaving for where, Kylie? Don't be dramatic. We're a family here."

"Not anymore, Julian," I said, my voice low and steady. "Jodie and I are done with this charade."

He finally looked at me, a flicker of something, perhaps genuine surprise, in his eyes. "Kylie, you can't just leave. You're unstable. And Jodie needs stability."

Fanny stepped forward, a smug look on her face. "Julian's right, Kylie. You're not well. You can't just take Jodie."

"Watch me," I said, my voice laced with a cold fury. "Just watch me."