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Stella Morrow jolted back to consciousness as the network director’s voice sliced through her daze.
“Ms. Morrow, you beat thousands for this–becoming America’s inaugural primetime anchor. Are you truly considering throwing away this historic opportunity?”
Her gaze dropped to the offer letter stamped with the network’s crimson seal.
She was Reborn!
The realization crashed over her as she snatched the document.
“I accept the position!”
Director Harris exhaled visibly.
“Thank God. The nation’s inaugural prime–time news broadcast debuts in two weeks. As its lead anchor, you must report to WDCB Studios before then.”
He offered a congratulatory handshake that didn’t reach his eyes.
“Your husband will be proud. A colonel’s wife anchoring the nation’s premiere newscast? Quite the power couple.”
Stella’s lips curved without warmth as she walked out.
In that other lifetime, the Great Depression had starved their Oklahoma farm to dust.
When Stella’s parents abandoned her beside Route 66, Colonel Reynolds and his wife found the shivering child during a winter convoy.
They brought her to Fort Benning’s officer quarters–where polished dress boots lined every foyer and West Point acceptance letters framed the walls.
Fort Benning’s elite quarters became Stella’s sanctuary, their only son Finn already a West Point cadet with campaign ribbons on his dress blues.
Over years of polishing silver and starching uniforms, the Colonel’s wife decided Stella embodied “old–fashioned virtues.” When their son Finn returned from West Point, she announced, “The girl’s practically family. Time you made it official.” Twenty–year–old Finn slammed his bourbon glass onto the mantel. “A shotgun wedding? This isn’t the Dark Ages, Mother!” Colonel Reynolds slammed his officer’s swagger stick into the parquet flooring.
“Think this is a goddamn request, boy? You wed her before winter’s end- his West Point class ring.
or face à court–martial for filial desertion!” Finn clenched
The old general still held nuclear codes to his inheritance. He bent his head- |—a soldier surrendering to superior firepower.
The chapel ceremony was bleak as December sleet. When the minister asked, “Do you take this woman?” Finn stared past Stella’s veil. “I do.”
He never kissed her.
Their vows dissolved into the hollowness of his parents‘ ballroom, where Stella watched him carry blankets into his study.
The freeze never thawed.
His battalion consumed him, his rare homecomings ending in his leather–bound study.
Only twice had duty overridden disgust–births fulfilling the Reynolds bloodline.
When he deployed to the Pacific Command, he took only Celeste Brooks–his childhood friend turned Chief Medical Officer. “The children need stability,” he declared, already folding uniforms. “File for commissary support.”
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Thus began Stella’s purgatory: predawn medications for his failing parents, shuttling Liam and Fiona to Dalton Academy, eight–hour shifts at Brentwood Mills, tutoring algebra by lamplight–all while massaging swollen ankles, boiling linens, simmering bone broth.
Three decades bled into one gray dawn.
The day Finn returned, she wore her only silk dress to San Francisco Station. He emerged with Celeste on his arm, her children–Fiona Reynolds and Liam Reynolds catapulting past Stella to hug the doctor. “Aunt Celeste! You came home!”
That night, his shadow filled her doorway. “Divorce paperwork arrives Monday. Celeste kept this family intact. She deserves my
name.”
Fiona spat at Stella’s feet, “Arranged marriages are barbaric!” Liam just smirked. “Aunt Celeste studied at Harvard. She actually contributes. What are you?”
Alone at her vanity mirror, Stella saw the answer in the glass: the ghost Finn would dismiss years later as “the housekeeper.”
But they never knew about the textbooks hidden under her sewing kit.
While scrubbing floors, she’d memorized civics texts.
While boiling sheets, she recited Frost and Hughes.
While they slept, she wrote AP essays until dawn–winning Columbia’s journalism scholarship only to decline it. For the family, she’d
lied.
When she refused the divorce, Finn took the children and Celeste to officers‘ housing. Stella remained drowning in the silent Brentwood
manor–until flame swallowed her.
Final sight: Finn on national television, accepting the Medal of Honor beside Celeste.
“This medal belongs to my true anchor,” he declared as reporters asked about his first wife. He shrugged. “The housekeeper? Barely
more than the wallpaper.”
Fire consumed her prayer: Next life, Finn Reynolds–I’ll show you what irrelevance looks like in HD.
The manor’s foyer dripped with silence now. Crack A bucket’s handle snapped above the doorway. Ice water exploded over Stella’s shoulders.
Fiona’s laughter ricocheted off the vaulted ceiling. “Direct hit!”
Liam leaned against the staircase, all military–brat swagger. “Should’ve hurried home, mother. Dr. Brooks has been waiting.”
Stella wiped freezing water from her eyes.
Celeste Brooks rose from the Chesterfield sofa, honey–blonde hair catching the chandelier light. “Darling, that’s no way to treat your mother!”
Fiona burrowed into Celeste’s silk blouse.
“She’s not our mother! Be our real mom?” Liam fist–bumped the doctor. “She doesn’t even speak French. You save lives at Johns Hopkins!”
Stella knelt slowly.
Her fingers curled around the metal bucket as ice slithered down her neck.
When she stood, her eyes didn’t waver.“Done. They’re yours now.”
Boot heels struck marble behind her. “Explain.”
Colonel Finn Reynolds stood silhouetted against twilight, rows of ribbons gleaming on his chest. His winter at twenty below-
traced the water darkening Stella’s dress. “You’re soaked–what’s wrong?”
Fiona sprinted to him. “Mother attacked us!” Liam flanked him like a junior officer. “She said she’s quitting this family!”
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Finn’s jaw hardened into parade–rest lines.
Stella met the glacial stare that once froze her blood. Tonight, it kindled something hotter than fury. Something perilous.
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