(Lily POV)

The diner's fluorescent lights buzzed overhead as I refilled coffee for the third time in ten minutes. My swollen feet ached in the cheap sneakers I'd bought at a thrift store. My back screamed with every movement. At seven months pregnant, I shouldn't be doing this kind of work. But I didn't have a choice.

"More coffee, Emma?" The regular at table four, a kind elderly man who always tipped well held up his cup.

Emma. That was my name now. Emma Clarke. Not Lily Morrison. Not the woman plastered all over the news five months ago as Tony Stark's mistress and gold-digging liar.

"Coming right up, Mr....