Chapter 8 Chapter 8
Chapter 8
SELENE
I woke to an empty bed and sunlight streaming through the windows. Derek had already left for work—or wherever he went when he claimed to be working. The indentation his head had left on the pillow was the only evidence he'd been there at all.
My hand moved immediately to my stomach, that gesture becoming as automatic as breathing. "Good morning," I whispered to the baby. "Let's figure out how to get us out of here."
The determination I'd felt last night hadn't faded with sleep. If anything, it had crystallized into something harder, more focused. I had a plan now. I just needed to execute it.
I showered and dressed carefully, choosing casual clothes that wouldn't draw attention—jeans and a simple sweater. Then I stood in front of my walk-in closet, really seeing it for the first time in months.
Row after row of designer dresses, their tags still attached to some of them. Shelves lined with shoes I'd worn once, if at all—Louboutins, Manolos, Jimmy Choos. Handbags displayed like art pieces—Hermès, Chanel, Louis Vuitton. Drawers full of jewelry—diamond earrings, sapphire bracelets, pearl necklaces.
A fortune in possessions. A gilded cage made of silk and leather and precious stones.
I pulled out my phone and started researching. How much was a Birkin bag worth on the resale market? What about Cartier jewelry? The numbers made my head spin—tens of thousands of dollars for items I barely used, items that sat in my closet gathering dust while I played the role of Derek's perfect wife.
But these weren't really mine, were they? They were gifts from Derek, purchased with Derek's money, chosen by Derek's assistants. Everything I wore, everything I owned, everything I touched—it all came from him. Even the clothes on my body right now had been paid for with his credit card.
The realization made me feel sick. I had nothing of my own. No bank account he didn't have access to, no income, no savings. I'd been so focused on trying to be a good wife, on managing the household and attending charity functions, that I'd never stopped to think about my own financial independence.
Or lack thereof.
I started pulling items from the closet—bags I'd only carried once, jewelry I'd received for birthdays and anniversaries. I selected carefully, choosing pieces that Derek wouldn't immediately miss. The emerald earrings he'd given me last Christmas, still in their original box. A Chanel bag I'd never liked, too flashy for my taste. A diamond tennis bracelet that had always felt too heavy on my wrist.
I packed them into a large tote bag, my hands shaking slightly. This felt dangerous somehow, like I was stealing even though these things had been given to me. But I pushed the guilt aside. I needed this money. My baby needed this money.
The drive to the first pawn shop took forty minutes. I'd deliberately chosen one in a part of the city I never visited, far from the upscale boutiques and restaurants where I might be recognized. The neighborhood was industrial, the streets lined with warehouses and small businesses.
The pawn shop was wedged between an auto repair shop and a laundromat, its windows covered with iron bars. A neon sign flickered: "CASH FOR GOLD."
I sat in my car for a full five minutes, gathering my courage. Then I grabbed the tote bag and went inside.
The shop was dim and cluttered, every surface covered with items people had traded for cash—watches, televisions, musical instruments. A man stood behind the counter, middle-aged with graying hair and sharp eyes that immediately assessed me from head to toe.
"Help you?" he asked, his tone skeptical. I clearly didn't belong here.
"I'd like to sell some things," I said, trying to sound confident. I pulled out the Hermès bag first, placing it on the counter.
The man's eyes widened slightly. He picked up the bag, examining it closely, turning it over in his hands. Then he set it down and looked at me with something like pity.
"Mrs. Sterling," he said quietly.
My stomach dropped. "How did you—"
He pointed to the bag. "It's personalized. Your initials are embossed on the interior leather. Very discreet, very expensive." He pushed the bag back toward me. "I can't accept this."
"Why not? It's mine. I'm allowed to sell my own possessions."
He shook his head. "It's not that simple. This bag is custom-made, one of a kind. Anyone who knows luxury goods would recognize it immediately. And if your husband found out I'd purchased it from you..." He trailed off, but the implication was clear. "Mr. Sterling is a powerful man. He could have my shop closed within a day. I'm sorry, but I can't help you."
I gathered the bag with trembling hands, my cheeks burning with humiliation. "I understand. Thank you anyway."
The second shop was across town, smaller and more run-down than the first. But the response was the same. The owner—a woman this time—took one look at the Chanel bag and shook her head.
"I know who you are," she said gently. "And I know who your husband is. I can't risk it, honey. I'm sorry."
The third shop. The fourth. Each rejection felt like a door slamming in my face, like the walls of my cage growing thicker. By the fifth shop, I was barely holding back tears, clutching bags full of items that were worthless to me because of the very exclusivity that had made them expensive.
The fifth shop owner, a young man with kind eyes, actually seemed regretful. "Look, Mrs. Sterling, in any other circumstance, I'd jump at the chance to buy these pieces. They're worth a fortune. But your husband's name carries weight in this city. People know not to cross him. And accepting his wife's personal items without his permission? That would definitely be crossing him."
"They're my items," I said, my voice breaking. "He gave them to me. They're mine to sell."