After I Died I Moved On

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I had been married to Declan PierceNew Yorks most elusive billionaire heirfor three years, standing in as the understudy for my own sister.

Our daughter was the miracle he had spent those three years desperately praying for.

Then, last week, my sister won Best Actress at the Academy Awards. Standing at the podium, gripping her Oscar, she suddenly went off-script and dragged up ancient history.

She stared right into the camera and said she and her first love once shared a child, but tragically, he was still entirely in the dark about it.

Everyone in our elite circle knew the truth: six years ago, she was the runaway bride who left Declan standing at the altar, humiliated and broken.

And everyone knew that when I nearly bled out giving birth to our daughter, Declan had climbed the grueling, icy steps of St. Judes Sanctuary upstatefalling to his knees in prayer with every single step, walking thousands of paces just to beg a higher power for my survival.

The media, smelling blood and scandal, whipped into a frenzy, digging up the ghosts of Giselle and Declans past.

When the paparazzi cornered him, Declan just offered a chilling, dismissive smile and muttered, "Shes out of her fucking mind."

He told a reporter she had played too many tragic heroines, couldn't stand seeing real people happy, and publicly stated he wouldn't entertain an interview about her until she was in the ground.

Anyone who actually knew Declan Pierce knew he was now utterly, hopelessly obsessed with his wife, and that he worshiped the ground our daughter walked on.

But no one expected Giselle to actually swallow a lethal handful of pills.

And on the night the news of her suicide attempt broke, Declan Piercewithout a single warning signslashed his own wrists.

The news of Declans suicide attempt came from his chief of staff.

"Mrs. Pierce, its critical. We need you at the hospital to sign the surgical consents."

It seemed the cuts were deep. A Romeo chasing his Juliet into the dark.

The summer night was humid, suffocating.

Today was my twenty-fourth birthday.

Just this afternoon, Declan had sent me a barrage of photos: the massive floral arrangements, the custom jewelry, a wooden music box hed spent three months carving by hand.

And two boxes of strawberry-flavored condoms.

Through the screen, his face still held that boyish charm, though fatherhood had sharpened his jawline, giving his devastating good looks a mature edge.

He had smiled at the camera, looking absolutely wicked.

"Baby, just looking at you makes me weak. Youre going to have to take very, very good care of me tonight. Promise?"

I promised.

"I booked our favorite place. Do not be late, Joanna." He had feigned a haughty arrogance.

"When have I ever been late?" I replied.

On any normal day, I wouldn't have cared if he was delayed. I would have assumed a board meeting ran long.

But earlier that evening, Giselle had sent me a text, dripping with arrogant confidence.

He just hasn't seen me in a while, Jo.

Dogs are simple creatures. The Pavlovian response just needs a little trigger.

I sat at our reserved table in the Michelin-starred restaurant, watching the dinner crowd cycle through three different turnovers.

From romantic fantasy to hollow waiting.

I had even, to my own profound shame, prayed to a God I barely believed in. Let me win. Just this once. Please let me win.

But I lost.

Declan probably didn't even realize how pathetic his excuse sounded.

And Giselle's tactic of "accidentally" pocket-dialing me? Even more pathetic.

Through the line, I heard it with sickening clarity. The wet, rhythmic sounds. The frantic, punishing collisions.

Since taking over his family's empire, very few things could make Declan Pierce lose his iron-clad composure.

But over the phone, he sounded like a feral, starving dog, growling low in his chest.

"I hate you. God, I fucking hate you, Giselle. Why did you come back?!"

Then, I heard my sister murmur my name.

Instantly, the audio tightened.

Declans voice turned lethal, laced with pure rage. "Don't you ever fucking mention my wife."

"If your mouth is that bored, keep it shut."

At eight o'clock that night, Declan finally called me back.

"Baby, the merger is still a mess. Its probably going to cross midnight. Wait for me? Please wait for me."

I had once told Declan a secret.

Whenever I was completely, overwhelmingly heartbroken, I would force myself to stay awake until midnight.

Because when the clock struck twelve, it was a new day. And in a new day, the pain of yesterday didn't have to exist anymore.

But at midnight, the carriage turns back into a pumpkin.

There are no fairy tales.

When I didn't answer immediately, his tone shifted to a strange, frantic anxiety. Like he was desperate to anchor himself to something.

"Joanna, please. Just tonight. I need you to wait for me."

Through the baby monitor, I could hear Poppy blowing soft little milk bubbles in her crib. She had my fingers in her tiny grip.

"Is Poppy asleep?" Declan asked, his voice cracking slightly. "Tell her Daddy is coming home soon."

I thought to myself: Even the unluckiest person in the world can't lose every single bet for decades straight, right?

"Okay, Declan," I whispered. "I'll wait."

That was eight PM.

Now, the antique grandfather clock in our penthouse struck twelve.

Americas newly crowned Best Actress had swallowed a bottle of pills in her Hollywood hills mansion.

And the ruthless CEO of Pierce Global, Declan Pierce, had "coincidentally" slashed his wrists, rushed to Mt. Sinai in critical condition.

The top ten trending topics on Twitter were a bloodbath.

Wedged right in the middle was a hashtag bearing my name: #DeclanAndJoannaCenturyOfLove.

Century of love.

That was what he called it after I survived my hemorrhaging during childbirth. Declan had poured millions into restoring the historical St. Jude's Cathedral, just to have a massive marble cornerstone engraved with our initials at its entrance.

During the year it became a trend to buy celestial bodies, he bought a star and named it after me.

It was placed right in the heart of the city, at a massive planetarium exhibit where millions of New Yorkers passed by.

Declan had held my hand and said, "I want every person who walks by, and every celestial body in the universe, to know that we are going to spend a century together."

Fuck him.

Fuck all of it.

Walking from the penthouse down to the private garage, my phone never stopped vibrating.

Most were unknown numbers. Journalists, hungry for the bloody details of a high-society tragedy.

They wanted to know why, less than an hour after the golden girl of Hollywood took pills, the untouchable Declan Pierce followed suitespecially when his medical records showed zero history of mental illness.

It started a year ago. When Giselle won her first major award, a Vanity Fair reporter asked if she had any regrets in life.

She smiled tearfully and said, "My first love doesn't know this, but... we almost had a baby together."

At that time, I was only ten days postpartum, recovering from a massive hemorrhage.

Declan had walked miles on his knees up that mountain to pray for me, and practically moved heaven and earth to drag a retired surgical genius out of seclusion to save my life.

Declan had a lingering injury in his leg from his youth. The grueling climb ruined it entirely. For a year, he walked with a noticeable, heavy limp.

When the media dug up Giselle and Declans past, they shoved microphones in his face, desperately trying to spin a narrative of lingering, star-crossed love.

Declan didnt give them the satisfaction.

He looked dead into the cameras and smirked. "Shes sick in the head."

"The woman has a rap sheet of exes longer than Fifth Avenue, didn't you do your research? If she wants PR, she picked the wrong target."

"Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to go home and kiss my wife and daughter."

The media retreated. The backlash against Giselle was severe.

My parents summoned me to their Upper East Side townhouse, and my mother slapped me across the face.

"Declan is worth billions now! Your sister has the awards, but she lacks the commercial backing. She needs the PR!" my mother hissed. "A little fake nostalgia doesn't hurt anyone."

I stood my ground. "I asked Declan. He refuses to play along."

That night, Declan had cried.

He had wreaked havoc inside my body, then softly, reverently kissed the faded surgical scar on my lower abdomen, his eyes wet and shining in the dark.

"Baby, how could you even think of handing me over to someone else?" he whispered, voice trembling. "We made a daughter together."

My parents, of course, never believed he loved me.

"Declan used to treat your sister like she hung the moon," my father scoffed. "You think he doesn't know exactly what he's doing by punishing her publicly?"

I used the exact words Declan had drilled into my head to fire back at them: "You said it yourselfthat was the past. Declan is my husband now. I come first."

And our daughter comes second.

Yet, a year later.

The joke was on me.

Wow. So this was destiny. I had fought so hard, built so much, but I was still no match for the phantom of his first love.

On the drive to the hospital, neon lights blurred through the windshield.

Waiting at a red light, my mind was a chaotic static.

My ears rang with the unhinged, screaming voicemails my parents had left me.

"We never should have brought you back!"

"If your sister hadn't begged us to be kind to you!"

"You were missing for yearswho knows what kind of trash raised you!"

"Declan belonged to Giselle first! Youve always been a jealous little bitch. If she dies, you better go to hell with her..."

The truth was, Giselle couldn't handle losing.

People always romanticize the path they didn't take.

She told me she regretted running away. She begged me to give Declan back.

"He only married you because you look like me, Jo," she texted. "You're just a knockoff."

Declan saw that text.

He was usually so gentle with me, but that day, his fury was terrifying.

"Joanna, are you a fucking doormat?!" he yelled. "Someone is trying to steal your husband, and you're just sitting there!"

When it came to fighting for love, I suffered from learned helplessness. I didn't know how to fight.

Declan dragged me into his chest, burying his face in my hair. He snatched my phone.

"Watch and learn," he muttered.

He typed out a reply and hit send:

Declan says if you have the guts, come for him yourself. Get help.

After sending it, he looked down at me with a triumphant, arrogant smirk.

Beneath the billionaire suit, I could still see the reckless boy he used to be.

"Joanna, remember this. If I just wanted a stand-in, I would have married you the day she ran out on me."

"I wouldn't have waited until I realized you were the one, and I wouldn't have spent two whole years chasing you."

It was true.

After Giselle bailed on the wedding, Declan drowned in whiskey and self-pity. He looked like a drenched, abandoned stray.

When the families decided I would take her place to save the merger, I was secretly thrilled. I had loved him in silence for years.

I went to his apartment. He pinned me against the wall, kissing me with a punishing, bruising desperation.

But when he pulled back, his eyes were dead. Ice cold.

"You want to fuck?" he slurred. "Giselle's little understudy?"

He knew I had too much pride. He knew Id run.

We were engaged, but I retreated into my shell, playing the quiet, obedient fiance.

As time passed, I realized I needed to protect my own heart. I tried to move on. I started dating a guy from my grad program.

But that day, Declan snapped.

He tracked us down, dragged me out of the hotel, beat the guy to a pulp, and threw me into the back of his Maybach. When the world blurred and we crossed the line in the backseat, he didn't say Giselle's name.

He groaned my name.

In this vast, empty world, the list of people who would firmly, unconditionally choose me was tragically short.

I thought Declan was one of them.

But right now? Right now, the grief was so heavy it felt like it was crushing my ribs.

Tears pooled, making the streetlights refract into blinding stars. The ringing in my ears grew deafening.

So much so that when the massive freight truck ran the light and barreled directly toward my driver's side door...

I didn't even hit the brakes.

I just sat there, hands resting lightly on the wheel.

Quietly accepting the absurd, pathetic end to my story.

I never expected that waking up at eighteen again was something that could actually happen to me.

In five days, my sister would run away from her wedding.

And then, with the lofty grace of a queen tossing a bone to a peasant, she would hand Declan Pierce over to me.

"I've seen the way you look at his photos, Jo. You must be losing your damn mind with happiness right now."

I sat in my quiet, cramped bedroom and looked around.

From the cheap jewelry on the dresser to the clothes in the closetevery single piece was a hand-me-down from Giselle.

She debuted in Hollywood at sixteen. By twenty, she was a rising starlet.

Brands threw PR packages at her. Whatever she found ugly or off-season, she tossed into my room.

"What are you standing there for?"

Giselles sharp voice snapped me back to reality. "Are you deaf? I told you to give me back that studded Valentino bag."

She had called it tacky a month ago. But a major pop star just wore it in a paparazzi shot, the price skyrocketed, and suddenly she wanted it back.

I should have learned this lesson years ago.

Everything she gave me only came with usage rights, never ownership.

Once an item belonged to her, it was hers forever. Declan included.

"Are you fucking deaf?! I said get the bag!"

She shoved me hard. I stumbled backward, my hip slamming into my desk.

Actresses who look perfect on camera are usually starving and miserable in real life. Deprived of food, their resentment bleeds out onto everyone around them.

A sharp, biting pain flared in my palm.

I lifted my hand. Blood.

My desk was covered in my crafting tools, and my palm had slammed directly onto the tip of an X-Acto knife.

Fresh, bright blood welled up, thick and warm.

The color of a poisoned rose.

It didn't hurt. Not really.

Not compared to the agonizing, crushing pain of being pinned inside the mangled steel of a car wreck, waiting to die.

Suddenly, a gust of wind seemed to sweep into the room.

My wrist was seized by a trembling, familiar hand.

The scent of cedar and citrus hit me.

"Does it hurt? Jo, talk to me. Does it hurt?"

Declan's voice cracked, thick with a frantic, suffocating panic.

"Let me... let me fix it."

He was twenty years old right now.

In his most arrogant, reckless, foolishly romantic era.

I glanced past him to see Giselle rolling her eyes.

"I told you not to come over, Declan."

"You hopped the gate and almost broke your leg. Don't play the victim and cry to me about it."

With that, she spun on her designer heels and marched downstairs.

But Declan didn't run after her.

His head remained bowed, his trembling fingers awkwardly trying to press a cotton pad against my palm.

The blade had gone deep. Blood kept seeping through the white cotton, refusing to clot.

Declans hands started to shake violently.

Then, his shoulders began to heave.

He was so close I could hear his ragged, uneven breaths.

"Let me do it," I said quietly, pulling the soaked cotton away. More blood spilled out.

Suddenly, Declan let out a harsh, visceral gag. He slammed one hand against the wall to steady himself, while his other hand gripped my wrist so tightly it bruised, his knuckles turning white.

"What's wrong with you?" I asked, staring at him.

He lifted his face. He was deathly pale. He shook his head slowly.

"Nothing... just... I'm a little dizzy from the blood."

When our eyes met, his breathtaking face was contorted in absolute agony. A mix of terror, devastating grief, and the violent shock of a near-miss.

His eyes were bloodshot and brimming with tears.

"You're alive. You're alive..." he whispered, like a prayer.

He raised both hands, hovering them just an inch away from my cheeks, desperate to touch me but completely terrified I would shatter.

Dizzy from blood.

Gagging.

The twenty-year-old Declan Pierce was ruthless, violent, and loved a street fight. He grew up boxing and throwing punches to establish dominance. He was never afraid of blood.

Only the twenty-six-year-old Declan Pierce was afraid of blood.

Because in the delivery room, he had watched my heart monitor flatline. He had watched a massive pool of crimson soak through the stark white hospital sheets beneath my lifeless body.

Ever since that night, the sight of red sent him into violent panic attacks. He would involuntarily break down in tears.

Once, during a major board meeting, a slide showed a massive red pie chart. He suffered a panic attack, abandoned his executives, and drove at a hundred miles an hour just to find me. He buried his face in my lap and sobbed, ensuring I was still breathing.

"I can't do Christmas this year, Joanna," he had wept. "Everything is red. Every day I wake up terrified I'm going to lose you. I can't take it anymore."

So.

He came back too, didn't he?