Life was already complicated enough—juggling a fresh breakup, two small children, and nursing school left little room for anything else. After surviving a seven-year abusive relationship, my focus was solely on two things: my daughters and graduating. Romance wasn’t even on my radar. So to say I wasn’t ready for the whirlwind that was Camden Mulberry would be an understatement.
But it wasn’t love at first sight.
God bless my best friend—she just wanted me to be happy after the hell I had endured. She knew I needed something good. Something light. Something that could bring me back to life. She just didn’t realize how captivating he would be.
“You need a night out,” Jenna declared one Friday evening, plopping onto my couch like she owned it. She kicked off her shoes, curled her legs beneath her, and grabbed a throw pillow. “A real date—with someone who isn’t a complete disaster.”
I laughed, shaking my head. “I don’t have time for that.”
“Well, too bad. Because I already set it up.”
“What?” My head snapped up.
She grinned mischievously. “Just dinner. With a guy I know. He’s normal, I swear. Has a good job, a kid, and doesn’t scream red flags like the last one.”
I sighed, rubbing my temple. “I don’t know…”
Jenna’s expression softened. “Look, I had to sit back and watch you go through hell. I saw him break you down piece by piece, and it killed me that I couldn’t do anything. Do you know how hard that was? To see my best friend trapped in something she didn’t deserve?”
I swallowed hard and looked away.
She reached for my hand. “You got out, and I am so damn proud of you. But you deserve more than just surviving, babe. You deserve to be happy. You deserve someone who makes you laugh—who makes you feel safe and wanted.”
My throat tightened. “I don’t even know if I’d recognize that if I saw it.”
“Well then,” she said, squeezing my hand, “this is just dinner. A small step toward remembering that good men exist.”
I hesitated. It had been so long since I’d done anything for myself.
“Fine,” I relented. “But if it’s a disaster, you owe me.”
“Deal.” She smirked. “Oh—and wear something hot.”
I chuckled, knowing full well that everything about this date scared the hell out of me. But I trusted Jenna. If she thought he was worth meeting, he couldn’t be that bad… right?
The night of the date finally arrived, and saying I was nervous would be an understatement. My stomach had been in knots all day. My hands shook every time I tried to apply mascara or fix my hair. But as the sun dipped below the horizon, I slipped into the outfit Jenna had picked for me—something sleek, a little sexy, but not over the top.
Back then, it didn’t take much for me to feel put together. I was only 5’2”, petite, with long brown hair that fell in soft waves down my back. My bright, icy blue eyes always seemed to stand out the most—like they gave away more than I was ever willing to say. My skin was fair, with a light dusting of freckles across my nose and cheeks, no matter the season. I never thought of myself as anything special—not a head-turner by any means—but I had that familiar, girl-next-door look. Approachable. Easy to talk to. The kind of girl guys felt safe with.
Camden was attractive in that effortlessly confident way—dark eyes, an easy smile, and a presence that quietly commanded attention. He walked into the restaurant like he belonged there, a quiet self-assurance radiating off him. But our first dinner? It was… nice. Pleasant. Nothing extraordinary.
“So, nursing school?” he asked, swirling his drink.
“Yeah,” I nodded. “Full-time, plus my girls. It’s a lot, but it keeps me busy.”
“I respect that. Not many people push through when life gets hard.”
I gave a small smile. “Yeah, well, I’ve had my fair share of hard.”
His eyes flickered—curiosity, maybe—but he didn’t press. Instead, he leaned back in his chair. “I get it. Life throws some serious punches.”
I tilted my head. “And have you taken any?”
He let out a low chuckle. “Oh, plenty. Co-parenting, balancing work, and raising a kid I get on weekends.”
I smiled. “How old is he?”
“Seven. And very opinionated.”
“Sounds familiar.”
He raised a brow. “You got a little firecracker at home?”
“Two,” I said, sipping my drink. “My oldest is five going on fourteen. Keeps me on my toes. And my two-year-old? Pure energy. I’m always chasing her around.”
“I love that. Nothing better than a strong-willed kid. And those toddlers can be exhausting, can’t they?”
I huffed out a laugh. “That’s putting it nicely.”
“Hey, it means she knows what she wants. She’ll be unstoppable.”
Something in his voice made me pause. He wasn’t just saying it to be polite—he meant it. It was a small thing, but it struck me.
The conversation flowed so easy. We talked about our kids, our jobs, even our favorite foods. He made me laugh—really laugh—for the first time in what felt like forever.
When the night ended, he walked me to my car.
“Tonight was fun,” he said, hands tucked casually into his pockets.
“It was,” I agreed.
He smiled—that easy, confident grin. “Drive safe, alright?”
And that was it. No sparks. No fireworks. Just two people sharing a meal and going their separate ways.
Camden was nice—charming even—but there was no overwhelming pull, no moment that made my heart race. Just a pleasant evening with a good guy.
I didn’t think much about him after that.
My mind was already full—school, the kids, the weight of my past still pressing on me. I was focused on survival. On building a better life for us. Romance wasn’t a priority.
Camden had been a welcome distraction for one night. Nothing more. At least I thought.
Months passed before I heard from him again. I saw the occasional photo of him and his son on Facebook, but otherwise, Camden faded into the background of my busy life.
I hadn’t given our dinner much thought—it had been nice, but forgettable. Life moved on. I assumed Camden had too.
Then, one evening, my phone rang.
“Hey, stranger,” he said, his voice smooth and familiar.
I smirked. “Camden Mulberry. To what do I owe the honor?”
“Well,” he started, a teasing edge in his tone, “I remember you saying you were a Celtics fan. A big Celtics fan.”
My interest piqued immediately. “Yeah… and?”
“And I happen to have two tickets to tomorrow night’s game. Pretty damn good seats.”
I sat up a little straighter. “No way.”
“Way.”
“Are you serious? You just happened to get tickets?”
He chuckled. “What can I say? I have connections.”
I didn’t even hesitate. “I’m in.”
“Damn, not even gonna play hard to get?”
“Not when it comes to the Celtics,” I admitted.
He laughed. “Fair enough. I’ll pick you up at six.”
The moment we stepped into the arena, I was buzzing. The energy, the crowd, the smell of overpriced popcorn—it was my happy place.
Camden nudged me as we found our seats. “I take it you’ve been to a few games before?”
“A few?” I scoffed. “Try dozens. But never seats this good.”
He grinned. “Glad I could impress you.”
The game tipped off, and I was in it. Every shot, every rebound, every bad call—I was locked in. I shouted at the refs, cheered on fast breaks, and at one point, I jumped out of my seat, grabbing Camden’s arm as I screamed at the buzzer.
He was watching me more than the game. I could feel it.
“You’re something else,” he said, shaking his head with a grin.
I tore my eyes away from the court just long enough to smirk. “Told you. This is serious business.”
But the best part of the night wasn’t the game. It was him.
Between quarters, we talked. Effortlessly. We laughed about our kids’ quirks, swapped embarrassing childhood stories, even debated the best pizza place in Boston.
At one point, he leaned in, eyes flicking between mine. “I like this side of you.”
I raised a brow. “What side?”
He shrugged. “The one that gets so caught up in something she loves that the whole world disappears.”
Something in my chest tightened—the way everything seemed so seamless and easy with him.
In the final minutes, the Celtics sealed the win. Without thinking, I grabbed Camden’s arm again, squeezing it in excitement. He laughed, shaking his head, but he didn’t let go.
As we made our way out of the arena, still buzzing from the victory, I spotted a sweatshirt in the team store window—a beautiful, limited-edition piece, thick and perfectly oversized, with a sleek embroidered logo. It was the kind of sweatshirt you kept forever.
I ran my fingers over the fabric, already picturing myself in it. God, I want this.
“You should get it,” Camden said, watching me.
I sighed, checking the price tag. “Yeah, I should—but I also have two kids, tuition, and a long list of priorities.”
He didn’t respond right away. Instead, he smirked and walked past me toward the register.
I frowned. “What are you—”
Before I could finish, he was already handing his card to the cashier.
“Camden—no! You don’t have to do that.” I grabbed his arm, trying to stop him, but he just chuckled and shook his head.
“Too late.” He handed me the bag, his grin easy, like it was nothing. “You deserve nice things, Alivia.”
I stared at him, a mix of surprise and something warmer blooming in my chest. No one had ever done something like that for me before—not without expecting something in return.
For a moment, I hesitated. Then I took the bag, holding it in silence.
“Thank you,” I murmured, still stunned by his gesture.
Outside the arena, the crisp night air wrapped around us, but I barely felt it. I was still riding the high of the game.
“You know,” Camden said, sliding his hands into his pockets, “celebrating a Celtics win properly requires a drink.”
I raised a brow. “Oh yeah? And what does that entail?”
“A bar. A dance floor. And the best night of your life.”
I smirked. “That’s a bold promise.”
He stepped closer, eyes warm and teasing. “Stick with me, Liv. I don’t make promises I can’t keep.”
And for the first time in a long time, I let go.
We found a packed bar, music vibrating through the floorboards. I hadn’t danced in years, but with Camden, it felt effortless. He spun me, pulled me close, made me laugh until my stomach hurt.
One drink turned into two. Two turned into three. The world blurred around us, but I didn’t care. For the first time in forever, I was having fun—real, heart-thumping, soul-lightening fun.
I had spent so long surviving, I’d forgotten what it felt like to truly live.
And Camden? He was making me feel again.
By the time we left the bar, I was exhausted—but in the best way.
“Come back to my place,” Camden offered as he walked me to his truck. “I’ll drive you home in the morning.”
I hesitated, but only for a second. I should have said no. But something about him—about this night—felt safe.
“Okay,” I said softly.
His house was warm and inviting—nothing extravagant, but comfortable. Lived-in.
“You want a T-shirt to sleep in?” he asked.
I nodded, and he handed me one from his dresser, turning his back while I changed.
When I crawled into bed, he surprised me by lying down beside me—on top of the covers, giving me space. No expectations. No pressure.
I lay there for a moment, staring at the ceiling, my body still buzzing from the night. Sleep had never come easily for me, especially not in unfamiliar places.
But then Camden shifted closer, his hand resting lightly on my back. He traced slow, comforting circles over the fabric of his shirt against my skin.
“Relax,” he murmured. “Just sleep.”
And somehow, I did. I fell asleep faster than I had in years, lulled by the steady rhythm of his touch and the warmth of his presence.
When I woke the next morning, sunlight spilling through the blinds, I felt something I hadn’t felt in a long time.
Peace.
Something about being with him just felt right. I knew in that moment—I wanted to be with him all the time.
And it wasn’t long before that’s exactly what happened.
Camden swept me off my feet with a confidence I had never known. His words, his gestures, the way he looked at me—it was like he had been waiting his whole life to find me. Like I was the missing piece he had been searching for, and now that he had me, he wasn’t letting go.
“Do you even realize how incredible you are?” he’d whisper against my skin, his lips brushing the curve of my shoulder. “Being with you feels like winning the lottery.”
And I believed him. Every single word. Every thoughtful gesture.
His presence was intoxicating. He moved through the world with an ease I envied—making decisions effortlessly, never second-guessing himself. I had spent so much of my life walking on eggshells, questioning my worth, that being adored so openly, so unapologetically, felt like stepping into the sunlight after years of darkness.
After everything I had endured in my past relationship, Camden’s love felt like a miracle. He made me feel safe. Wanted. Cherished. It was in the way he pulled me close when we walked down the street, the way his hand found the small of my back like he was claiming me as his. The way he spoke about our future like it was inevitable—like he couldn’t imagine a world where I wasn’t beside him.
But it wasn’t just his touch or his words—it was how he made me feel even when he wasn’t there.
Every morning, before I opened my eyes, there was an email waiting for me.
“Good morning, beautiful. I barely slept last night because I was too busy thinking about you. About us. Do you know how rare it is to find something this real? I never believed in soulmates before you. Now, I can’t imagine a life without you. I love you. I adore you. And I can’t wait to see you later.”
His words wrapped around me like a cocoon, pulling me deeper into the illusion he was weaving. Each message was a love letter, a carefully crafted promise, a declaration of devotion so intense it left no room for doubt.
“I know we moved fast, but tell me—doesn’t it feel like we were always meant to find each other? Like we were just waiting for the right time?”
It was a drug—a measured dose of love, admiration, and worship, administered daily.
And it worked.
We moved fast. Too fast. But at the time, it didn’t feel that way. It felt natural, like we were following something bigger than ourselves. Within two months, we were living together, so consumed by each other that even a day apart felt unbearable.
Time away from him felt like withdrawal—like losing something vital I had already become addicted to.
Friends and family warned me.
This is too quick. Are you sure about this? You barely know him.
But I didn’t care. I laughed off their concerns, convinced they didn’t understand what I had found. What we had found.
All I cared about was the way Camden made me feel.
And damn, it was a good fucking feeling. Like free-falling. Like the rush before impact.
I wasn’t thinking about the landing—I was too high on the fall.
At first, everything was perfect.
Camden was everything I had ever wanted—attentive, affectionate, utterly enamored with me. It felt like we had built our own little world, one where nothing else mattered.
But over time little things started to change.
It wasn’t obvious at first. It was subtle—like a shift in the wind. Some days, he was still the Camden I had fallen for—bubbly, talkative, effortlessly charming. He’d pull me into his arms with a grin, text me all day, send me sweet emails, and plan surprises that made me feel like the luckiest woman alive.
But then, just as suddenly, something would be different.
There were days when he seemed… off. Not angry, not distant—just quiet. Like something heavy was pressing on him that I couldn’t see or reach. He’d stare past me, lost in thought.
If I asked what was wrong, he’d brush it off.
“Nothing, babe. Just tired.”
But it was more than that. I knew it. I felt it.
Sometimes I’d press further, placing my hand over his. “Camden, talk to me. You’ve barely said a word all night.”
He’d exhale slowly, his fingers tightening around his beer bottle. “I don’t know, Liv. Just… thinking.”
“Thinking about what?” His jaw tightened for a moment before he shook his head. “It’s nothing, really. You always do this—you assume something’s wrong when I’m just having a normal day.”
A normal day. That’s what he called it. But how could it be normal when yesterday he made me laugh until I cried, and today he could barely look at me?
We’d argue about it lightly—not full-blown fights, just enough to leave me wondering if I was the one overanalyzing things. He never seemed to notice his own shifts, never acknowledged how different he could be from one day to the next. And because he didn’t see it, I started questioning whether I was imagining it all.
But no matter his mood, one thing never changed—he loved having me on his arm. He loved the idea of other men seeing what was his.
It wasn’t jealousy—not the way I had expected. He never got angry when other men looked at me. In fact, he enjoyed it. He wanted people to notice.
One night, as I was getting ready for dinner, I slipped into a simple black dress—classy, understated. When I stepped into the living room, Camden looked up from his phone, his gaze sweeping over me.
“You look beautiful,” he said, though something unreadable lingered in his expression.
“Thank you.” I smiled and stepped into my heels.
His eyes flickered—approval? Amusement? He set his phone down, stood, and walked over to me. Gently, he traced a finger along the strap of my dress, his touch barely there.
“You should wear that red one,” he murmured, his lips brushing my ear. “The one that hugs your curves just right.”
I pulled back slightly, studying his face. “What’s wrong with this one?”
“Nothing,” he replied with a slow smile. “I just love seeing you in something that makes people stare.”
I frowned, my stomach tightening. “Camden…”
“What?” He chuckled, brushing a strand of hair behind my ear. “I love showing you off. Can you blame me? Look at you.”
I didn’t know how to respond. It made me feel… strange. Flattered, but also exposed.
Still, I changed into the red dress.
At first, I mistook it for admiration.
I ignored the unease creeping in—the quiet voice of instinct whispering that something wasn’t right.
Why question something that felt this good?
When we were together, the rest of the world disappeared. The highs were intoxicating, the connection so intense I confused the pressure for passion. He made me feel wanted in a way I never had before, like I was the center of his universe.
I convinced myself this was what love was supposed to feel like—overwhelming, all-consuming, impossible to resist.
I used to think the intensity showed how much he loved me. That the way he held on so tightly was some kind of proof—proof that I finally meant something to someone. That being his meant I was safe. Wanted. Protected in a way I never had been before.
I told myself it was passion, not control. Loyalty, not possession.
I didn’t see the red flags… or maybe I did, but I was too desperate for affection to admit it.
Because when you’ve been starved of love for so long, even the wrong kind can feel like everything you’ve been waiting for.
I thought I had finally found something real.
I didn’t know it at the time, but I couldn’t have been more wrong.