Ivy didn’t even let him finish. Without warning, she swung the medical file in her hand and slapped it down–hard–right against his injured temple.
Micah let out a sharp cry of pain, clutching his forehead.
In one swift motion, Ivy slammed the door and locked it, shutting him out.
“Ivy! Ivy!” Micah’s voice kept calling from the other side, desperate and relentless.
Ivy ignored him and dialed the police. Ten minutes later, blessed silence returned to the hallway.
Ivy tried to read, but her nerves were too frayed to focus on the words.
Instead, she climbed up to the rooftop terrace, determined to finish the last strokes of her
painting.
By the time the sun dipped below the skyline, her oil painting–titled *Lock*-was finally complete.
It had only taken her just over two weeks to paint, but the idea had haunted her mind for a year or two already.
With only three days left before the gallery’s submission deadline, she’d made it just in time.
She gazed at the image she’d created: a woman shackled by heavy chains in a filthy hell, eyes empty and lost. Ivy drifted, lost in thought, her mind spiraling back to those three years.
Years of captivity, stripped of dignity. Every day, nothing but stale leftovers to eat. She’d shivered through winters with barely enough clothing, and in the summers, the heat and biting insects were unbearable.
Worse still, there was the constant fear–always having to watch out for those men, animals, who could prey on her at any moment…
How many times had she wanted to starve herself, to end it all? But she couldn’t let go, couldn’t swallow the injustice after Emma’s betrayal.
So she endured, forcing herself through each day like a hollow shell–until the day she finally escaped.
Her phone rang, snapping her out of the nightmare.
She glanced at the screen, lips curling into a cold, sardonic smile.
How fitting. She’d just been cursing those who trafficked her, and now, Emma was calling.
“Hello?”
“Ivy, where are you? I need to see you.” Emma’s tone was sharp, straight to the point–ready for battle.
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Ivy gave a short, icy laugh. “And who do you think you are? You don’t just get to see me whenever you feel like it.”
“What’s wrong, Ivy? Are you afraid to face me?”
“Please. Emma, I’m not falling for that. You’re the one who needs something from me. Acting tough isn’t going to get you anywhere.” Ivy laid it bare.
“You-”
“I’m busy. Don’t call again.” And with that, Ivy hung up.
Emma must be panicking now.
Micah had dumped her, shattering her little fairytale of marrying into wealth.
And along with that, the Windsor family’s hopes of climbing back up the social ladder through marriage were dashed.
Emma wasn’t stupid–she had to realize that the moment she lost her value, the Windsors
would turn on her.
No wonder she was desperate, probably begging Micah not to throw her away.
He refused, so now she was running to Ivy.
But Ivy didn’t care about Emma’s frantic scheming. She only wanted to see her final
downfall–the rest didn’t matter.
She had far better things to do than waste time on people like that.
Downstairs, the front door opened–Katrina was home.
Ivy carefully put away her painting and headed down.
“Ivy, Micah’s back again!” Katrina said as she dropped her purse, exasperated.
Ivy’s brow furrowed.
That bastard just couldn’t give up.
“So what now? Should we call the police again?” Katrina asked.
Ivy shook her head. “No need. Just ignore him.”
He was stuck outside and couldn’t get in anyway.
People like Micah–clingy as flies–the more attention you gave them, the harder they latched
The next morning, Ivy was preparing to head out.
She’d sent an email the night before to a gallery manager she knew, and had gotten an
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enthusiastic reply almost immediately.
After three years away, the manager had been delighted to hear from her.
They arranged to meet today so Ivy could deliver her painting to the gallery, who would then submit it to the exhibition committee on her behalf.