Travis Walker is Travis Shields. It seems my brain still refuses to believe my eyes.
I knew him as Walker—just Walker, a guy from a modest background who worked odd jobs and understood what it meant to struggle.
He told me this over cheap wine I paid for, in apartments I rented, while watching me calculate grocery budgets.
He let me split every check, every utility bill, every grocery run, and I never questioned it because I believed we were both broke together.
Now he stands in Heinrich's foyer, accepting his mother's embrace, and his surname is Shields. For two years, he watched me stress over rent and textbooks while his family accumulated wealth that could have bought my education a hundred times over.
Heinrich's hand tightens at my elbow, but I barely feel it. Travis turns from his mother, follows Sarah's gesture toward the receiving line, and his eyes find mine.
He smiles and extends his hand. "Skye Fraser. What a remarkable coincidence." His grip is firm but not crushing. "Mother, Father—you didn't tell me Skye was Mr. Becker's stepdaughter."
I know he is lying. He did not look surprised when our eyes met.
Sarah beams. "You two know each other? How wonderful! Small world, isn't it, Zack?"
"Very small indeed," Zack says, pumping my hand. "How did you meet? School? Work? One of those charity galas?"
"We dated, actually." Travis answers before I can find my voice. "A few years ago now. We were both young, finding ourselves. Different paths, no hard feelings."
No hard feelings.
As if the bruises he left on my wrists were love notes. As if the systematic dismantling of my self-worth was just a phase we both went through. As if his hand connecting with my face was a minor disagreement.
I search the room for Kai—an instinct I despise—and find him across the foyer, engaged in conversation with an elderly woman. He hasn't noticed Travis. Hasn't noticed me freezing in place.
I don't need him. I don't need anyone.
Heinrich shifts beside me. "Well, isn't that something? Skye never mentioned knowing the Shields family."
"No reason she would have." Travis's smile reaches his eyes without warming them. "I went by Walker back then—my grandmother's maiden name. A youthful attempt at independence, wanting to make my own way without the family reputation preceding me."
Youthful attempt at independence. The weight of all the bills I split while he watched and said nothing.
"That's very admirable," Diane offers. "Starting fresh, proving yourself. Skye understands that impulse, don't you, darling?"
"Yes," I manage. "I understand it very well."
"And what have you been doing with yourself, Travis?" Heinrich asks, his voice measured. "Zack tells me you've been working abroad."
"Singapore, mostly. Banking. Nothing as noble as education." Travis glances at me. "Though I've always admired teachers. Such thankless work, isn't it, Skye? All those long hours for so little compensation."
The concern in his voice is flawless. Anyone listening would hear admiration. I hear the subtext: You're still settling for less.
"The rewards aren't always financial," I say, my voice steadier than I feel.
"No, I suppose they aren't. You always were idealistic that way. It was charming, really. One of your more endearing qualities."
Travis is handsome in the way that photographs well and hollows out over time, and I feel the old vertigo threatening.
He behaves like a gentleman. Asks about my teaching, congratulates Heinrich on his "charming new family."
But I know his tells. The way his left hand flexes when he's restraining irritation. The particular rhythm of his blinking when he's constructing a lie. The angle of his shoulders, slightly too square toward me.
I sense the facade like a pressure against my skin, the old Travis coiled beneath this polished surface.
"You'll have to tell me everything about your work sometime," he says, leaning closer. "Over dinner, perhaps. I'm sure we have much to catch up on."
The implication is clear: he knows I won't refuse in front of his parents, Heinrich, my mother. He knows I'll smile and agree and spend the meal calculating exits.
This was his specialty—trapping me in social situations where resistance would require explanations I wasn't prepared to give, performing his affection publicly while privately eroding my certainty that I deserved better.
But I'm different now, aren't I?
"I'm quite busy with my students," I say, forcing my voice to steady. "Whitmore keeps me occupied."
"Surely you can find one evening. For old times' sake." His smile sharpens. "I insist."
He always insisted. On restaurants I couldn't afford. On opinions I wasn't allowed to hold. On staying when every instinct screamed to leave.
"That sounds lovely," Sarah interjects. "Travis, you should take her to that new French place. What was it called?"
"Le Petit Jardin. Though I'm sure Skye prefers simpler fare. She always did have modest tastes."
The insult is buried deep. But I hear what he means: cheap. Beneath me.
"I've developed more refined preferences since we parted," I say, forcing a smile.
"Have you?" His eyes hold mine a beat too long. "That's wonderful to hear. Growth is so important, isn't it? I always thought you had such potential."
The word potential lands like a reminder of every conversation where he outlined everything I could be if only I tried harder, listened more, wanted less.
I'd believed I was lucky to have him. Believed it with the fervor of someone who'd never been chosen before, who interpreted his attention as charity and his criticism as investment in my improvement.
"You're too kind," I say, trying to maintain composure. "And how is Catherine? Or was it Claire? I lose track."
His smile doesn't waver, but I see the flicker. "Neither, actually. I've been focused on work. Some of us channel our energy into building things rather than dwelling on the past."
This son of a bitch.
The implication stings: I'm the one stuck in the past. Never mind that moving on required scraping him off my psyche like burnt residue from a pan.
"How admirable. Though I seem to recall you were always excellent at building things." I pause just long enough. "Narratives, especially."
Sarah laughs, oblivious. "You two are so witty together! I can see why you were a couple."
If only she knew that the wit was survival. That every clever response was a shield I'd forged in the fire of his disapproval.
"Skye always kept me on my toes," Travis says warmly, his hand brushing my elbow in a gesture that looks affectionate and feels like a warning. "She has such a vivid imagination. Remember how you used to overthink everything, Skye? Always seeing problems that weren't there."
Oh, the gaslighting.
He was always gifted at making me doubt my own perceptions. I ended things when he learned about the Dylan Colley scandal and hit me—the first time physical, though the violence had started long before in smaller currencies.
"And you were always so good at helping me see things clearly," I say, my voice honeyed. "A gift, really."
"That's what partners do." His smile sharpens at the edges. "Support each other. I hope you've found someone who appreciates that about you."
My heart races. I need to leave this conversation. I need air. I need—
I need Kai.
I hate myself for the thought. The weakness it implies, the dependency I swore never to feel again. Travis spent two years teaching me that needing someone was dangerous.
Kai has moved near the bar, his profile turned away. Relaxed, unaware, completely disconnected from the catastrophe unfolding twenty feet away.
"It's rather warm inside," I hear myself say, turning to my mother. "Would you mind if I stepped out for air?"
"Of course not, dear." Diane touches my arm with maternal concern, already distracted by the next arriving guest. "Travis, make sure she finds the fountain—it's quite lovely lit up at night."
"Happy to," Travis says, tightening his grip at my back before I can refuse, steering me toward the garden doors with the pressure I remember too well.
I walk ahead of him into the dark, counting my breaths, preparing for whatever performance comes next.
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