Because here's the thing about secrets in a town like Eden: they never stay buried forever.

And when this one comes to light, it's going to burn everything in its path.

Starting with the Sullivans.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

They say stories find their storytellers. Mine found me at five, scribbling against blank sheets of paper in the backyard. Dad would ask Mum what the hell a five-year-old could be writing about for hours, and she'd just shrug and say, "Who knows? But let her go."

That was probably the first time anyone acknowledged I was a storyteller at heart, without actually realizing it.

Fast forward to twenty-nine-year-old me, squished in the backseat of a car in rural India, heading to the airport with my ancient playlist pumping through my headphones—the same playlist that's existed since I was fifteen, just like Nate and Nora's story. I started typing away in my Notes app like a woman possessed. When my best friend Elisha, leaned over and asked what I was up to, I blurted out, "I think I'm going to write my first book by the end of the year."

She just smiled and said, "Of course you are. That doesn't surprise me one bit." In that moment, something clicked—like a small, familiar voice inside me (the same one that had been with me since I was five) whispered “finally!" with the excitement of a child who'd been waiting far too long for the grown-up to catch up.

Music has always been my creative catalyst—as it is for Nate. A song hits, and boom, my brain explodes with possibilities. The right melody can crack me open, revealing stories that have been patiently waiting in the darkness. Each chord progression unlocks something deep within, revealing the soundtrack to life itself—our lives, fictional lives, lives I've only dreamed of living. It's in these moments that five-year-old Mon takes the wheel, dancing through my thoughts with unbridled imagination, reminding me how to see the world through her eyes again. With an open sense of curiosity and wonder.

My mum waited over fifteen years for this book to exist, checking in every so often with that knowing look in her eyes. But fate choreographs to its own rhythm, doesn't it? Somewhere in my twenties, between heartbreaks and triumphs, I learned to surrender to life's perfect timing. To trust that stories reveal themselves exactly when they're meant to. To listen when little Mon would tug at my consciousness, reminding me of the promises I'd made to her about the stories we would tell.

At thirty, writing this book became a love letter to existence itself—to every messy, beautiful, chaotic moment that led me here. It became a conversation between my adult self and little Mon, who has always been my most honest critic and fiercest champion.