Renewed Vows in Crisis

The woman's words echoed in my mind as I wandered the streets of a Seattle I no longer recognized. Eight years. My parents had been dead for eight years. The realization hit me in waves, each one more devastating than the last.

I found myself in a small café, my hands wrapped around a cup of coffee that had grown cold. The patrons around me tapped at devices that looked like something from a science fiction movie, speaking into thin air and gesturing at screens I couldn't see.

"Excuse me," I approached the counter, forcing a smile. "I need to use a computer. I can pay."

The barista—a young woman with purple hair—looked at me strangely. "You don't have a tablet or phone?"

"Mine... doesn't work here," I said, avoiding the truth that my phone was essentially a relic from another decade.

She hesitated, then nodded toward a corner. "There's a public terminal. Five dollars for thirty minutes."

My fingers trembled as I typed Sterling's name into the search bar. The screen flickered, then filled with results. Most were for people I didn't know, but then I saw it—a massive billboard advertising "Evermore Group" with Sterling's face smiling down from above a crowded street.

"That's him," I whispered, enlarging the image.

The caption read: "Evermore Group CEO Sterling Marshall named Businessman of the Year."

I scrolled through more images, each one confirming what I feared and hoped in equal measure—Sterling was alive, successful, and apparently thriving in this future timeline.

But why hadn't he looked for me? Why was he using a company name I'd never heard of?

Then it hit me. "Evermore." I broke it down in my mind—"evening" plus "more." My name was Isabel, which meant "consecrated to God," but my nickname had always been "Izzy," which sounded like "easy." Sterling used to joke that I was his "evening person" because I always brightened his nights.

Evening. More. Evermore.

He hadn't forgotten me. He couldn't have.

I printed the address of Evermore Group's headquarters and asked the barista to call me a taxi. The ride was short—just six blocks—but it felt like crossing an ocean.

The building rose forty stories above the street, all glass and steel and imposing architecture. I stood outside for twenty minutes, gathering my courage, before walking through the revolving doors into a lobby that could have been a museum.

"Can I help you?" A security guard approached, his uniform crisp and his expression kind but suspicious.

"I'm here to see Sterling Marshall," I said, trying to sound confident.

"Do you have an appointment?"

"No, but he'll want to see me. I'm Isabel Hart. His wife."

The guard's expression shifted from polite to pitying. "Ma'am, Mr. Marshall is very particular about unexpected visitors. Let me call his assistant."

Before he could reach for his phone, the elevator doors opened, and Sterling stepped out.

My heart stopped.

He looked the same—perhaps a few more lines around his eyes, his hair slightly shorter than I remembered. He wore a charcoal suit that emphasized his broad shoulders, and he was laughing at something beside him.

A woman stepped into view—tall, elegant, with glossy black hair cascading down her back. She wore a red dress that clung to her curves and heels that made her nearly as tall as Sterling. She was looking up at him with undisguised admiration.

I didn't think. I moved.

"Sterling!" I called, my voice echoing across the marble lobby.

He turned, his eyes finding mine. For one breathless moment, I saw recognition flash across his face—then it vanished, replaced by cool indifference.

I rushed toward him, tears blurring my vision. "Sterling, it's me! Isabel! What happened? Where have you been? Why didn't you—"

"Excuse me," he said, his voice cutting through my torrent of questions like ice. "I'm sorry, do I know you?"

The words hit me like a physical blow. I stopped inches from him, searching his face for any sign of the man who had once loved me beyond reason.

"Sterling," I whispered, reaching for his arm. "It's me. Your wife."

He stepped back, placing himself slightly behind the elegant woman who was now watching our exchange with thinly veiled interest.

"I think you have me confused with someone else," he said, his tone polite but distant. "This is Vanessa Chen, my fiancée. We're late for a meeting."

Fiancée.

The word sliced through me, leaving me hollow and breathless.