Chapter 124

Viola.

The days after the slap passed in a numb, surreal haze. The mark on my face faded to a yellow bruise, hidden under makeup. The cut on my lip healed. The wound inside me festered.

Mark didn't come home. He stayed in the corporate apartments at Sterling Tower. The only communication was through his lawyer-a cold, formal notice that he was filing a restraining order on Emily's behalf, citing my "unprovoked assault." My own husband was using the legal system to protect his secretary from me. The irony was so bitter I almost choked on it.

I was a ghost in my own home. Carl and the other guards were still there, but their loyalty felt different. Pitying. They followed me, but their eyes were on the floor. The queen had been dethroned, and everyone saw it.

The only thing that kept me from shattering completely was Eloise. She'd kiss my bruised cheek with soft, toddler lips and say, "Mama boo-boo?" I'd force a smile and say, "All better, baby." But she knew. She'd become clingy, quiet, as if sensing the world had gone dangerously off-kilter.

A week after the office incident, I tried to take her to the park. A normal thing. A desperate attempt at normalcy. Carl drove, his silence heavier than usual. Two other cars followed us, the standard security detail, but it felt less like protection and more like a convoy for a prisoner.

The park was one of those exclusive, gated ones downtown. Safe. Sterile. Eloise toddled toward the swings, her little legs pumping with determined joy. I followed, the spring sun feeling cold on my skin.

That's when the black van swerved.

It came out of nowhere, cutting off Carl's car with a screech of tires. Men in black ski masks poured out. They were fast, professional. One threw something into Carl's open window-a canister that erupted in thick, white gas.

I screamed, scrambling for Eloise. I got within three feet of her before a hand clamped over my mouth and nose from behind, a sickly-sweet chemical smell filling my lungs. The world swam, tilted, went dark.

\---

I woke up to the smell of damp concrete and mildew. My head pounded. I was tied to a metal chair, the bonds cutting into my wrists. Across from me, in another chair, was Emily.

She was a mess. Her perfect hair was disheveled, her makeup streaked with real tears. She struggled against her ropes, her breath coming in panicked hitches. "Oh God, oh God, please..."

A man stood in front of a video camera on a tripod. He was big, masked, his voice electronically distorted. "Lights, camera, action," he muttered, then hit a button on a laptop.

A monitor flickered to life. It showed Mark, in his office, his face pale and rigid on the screen. He was staring at a live feed-us.

"Sterling," the masked man said, his voice flat. "You know the drill. Your wife. Your secretary. We only have one dose of the antidote. The other one dies from the neurotoxin in their bloodstream in one hour. Choose."

Antidote? Neurotoxin? My foggy brain tried to catch up. This was a setup. A brutal, ugly game.

On the screen, Mark's eyes darted between my image and Emily's. I saw the calculation there, cold and swift. He didn't look horrified. He looked... suspicious. His gaze locked on me, and in his eyes, I saw the absolute conviction: This is your doing. Another one of your twisted games to punish me.

"Mark," I croaked, my throat dry. "It's not... I didn't..."

"Shut her up," the masked man said. A thug next to me backhanded me across the mouth. Fresh blood coated my tongue.

Emily was sobbing openly now. "Mr. Sterling, please! I don't want to die! Please!"

Mark's face was a mask of stone. He stared at Emily's terrified face, then back at my bleeding one. He thought I was the puppet master. He thought her fear was real, and mine was an act.

His lips moved. The sound came through the monitor, clean and cold, slicing through the damp basement air.

"Emily."

The word was a guillotine blade.

He chose her.

He believed her. He thought I was the monster, and she was the victim. He was saving the damsel from the dragon, even if the dragon was his wife.

The masked man nodded. "Wise choice." He walked to Emily, pulled out a syringe, and injected something into her neck. Her eyes fluttered, and she went limp, her head lolling forward.

"The antidote takes effect. She'll wake up fine," the man said to the camera. Then he turned to me. "As for you..."

The two thugs who'd been lurking in the shadows stepped forward. Their intent was clear in their body language, in the way they looked at me tied to the chair. This wasn't part of the "neurotoxin" script. This was the real punishment. For me, and for Mark, who'd chosen wrong.

Panic, pure and electric, shot through me. Not like this. I thought of Eloise. Had they taken her too? Was she safe? The thought gave me a strength born of sheer terror.

I thrashed against the ropes, ignoring the pain. My eyes darted around the room. High up, near the ceiling, was a small, grimy window. A basement window. Next to it, a rusty pipe ran up the wall.

The thugs were close. One reached for the neckline of my shirt.

With a scream that was more rage than fear, I threw my weight backward. The metal chair tipped over with a crash. The impact jolted my wrists free from the already loosened ropes. I scrambled, ignoring the pain in my shoulder, and launched myself at the pipe.

I climbed. It was rusted, cutting into my hands. I heard shouts below. I reached the window-it was small, locked with a simple latch. I smashed my elbow through the grimy glass, ignoring the shards slicing my arm, and shoved the latch open.

I wriggled through, glass tearing at my clothes and skin. I tumbled out into a narrow, filthy alley. Rain was falling, mixing with the blood on my face and arms.

I heard the basement door crash open behind me. I ran.

I ran without thought, without direction. The world was a blur of rain-slicked brick and garbage. My only goal was distance. I turned a corner, saw a fire escape, and dragged myself up. My body screamed in protest, but the adrenaline was a fuel I'd learned to run on in a different life.

I climbed onto a low rooftop, my breath sobbing in my chest. I couldn't go back down. They'd be looking. I stumbled across the rooftop, my vision blurring. The edge loomed. Another alley, four stories down.

I heard footsteps on the fire escape behind me.

I didn't hesitate.

I jumped.

The fall was a lifetime and an instant. The impact was a universe of shattering pain. Then, mercifully, nothing.

\---

I woke to the smell of antiseptic and the low beep of machines. White ceiling. Fluorescent lights. A hospital.

A nurse saw my eyes open. "Oh thank goodness. You're awake. Don't try to move, honey. You've got broken ribs, a fractured wrist, a concussion. You're lucky to be alive."

"My daughter..." I rasped, my throat raw.

"There's no one here with you, sweetie. You were brought in as a Jane Doe. Found in an alley."

A Jane Doe. No one was looking for me. Mark thought I was off somewhere, staging my own disappearance. He thought I was the villain in this story.

The hollow void in my chest cracked open into a howling, silent scream. He had chosen her. He had let me fall. And he hadn't even bothered to see if I was dead.

The nurse patted my hand. "Just rest. The police will want to talk to you when you're stronger."

I closed my eyes. The police. They couldn't help me. No one could.

As I lay there, broken in the sterile hospital bed, the last fragile thread of hope I'd clung to-that the man I loved was still in there somewhere-finally snapped.

He was gone. The man who would burn the world for me was gone.

All that was left was the wreckage. And me.