Chapter 2

Adrianne Cummings POV:

The air in the basement clung to me, thick and heavy with the scent of dust and decay. Hours bled into one another, marked only by the shifting shadows and the escalating pain in my abdomen. I was fading, I knew it. But still, the cold concrete floor beneath me was a stark reminder of Bradford's absence, his utter forgetfulness. He had been so focused on Flora, on her supposed fragility, that he hadn't even thought to tell his own security team, or anyone, that two hostages had gone in.

I was dying, and he didn't even know I was missing.

A shimmering, ethereal version of myself hovered above my still body, the pain a distant echo, like a phantom limb. From this new, detached perspective, I watched. I watched the frantic activity above ground, the flashing lights painting the night sky, the police finally descending on the gala venue. And then, I saw Arthur Mooney.

Arthur, Bradford' s college friend, a detective, and more importantly, a man who had always respected me. He moved with a quiet urgency, his brow furrowed with a genuine concern that Bradford had never fully shown. He hadn't been on the initial response team; he'd been called in later, likely by someone who actually cared.

I watched him pull out his phone, his fingers flying across the screen. He was calling Bradford. My heart, or what was left of it, clenched.

"Bradford, where the hell are you?" Arthur' s voice, though muffled by the phone, carried the weight of his irritation and growing worry. "They've secured the main floor, but Adrianne's not with Flora. Where is she? Did she get out another way?"

A pause. I knew what Bradford was doing. He was likely with Flora, comforting her, buying her some absurdly expensive treat, convinced I was off somewhere, stewing.

Then Bradford' s voice, tinny and dismissive, crackled through the phone, loud enough for me to almost hear. "Adrianne? She's probably just... making a scene, Arthur. You know how she gets when she feels overlooked. Trying to make me feel guilty for saving Flora."

My ethereal form trembled. A sharp, bitter laugh escaped my spectral lips, unheard. He really thought that? He thought I would fake my disappearance to punish him? The man who was supposedly my partner, my husband, still saw me as a petulant child.

"Bradford, this isn't a game," Arthur snapped, his voice gaining a hard edge. "There's no sign of her. The criminals didn't ask for a ransom for her. They specifically let Flora go, but there's no mention of Adrianne. It's... it's not right."

He' s worried about me, I thought, a strange sense of comfort mixing with the icy despair. He sees it.

Bradford's irritation was palpable even through the phone. "Look, she's probably just hiding out, waiting for me to come crawling back. She's resilient. Always has been. She'll turn up when she's ready to make her grand entrance."

"Bradford, you're not listening!" Arthur's voice rose in frustration. "This is serious. I'm telling you, the circumstances are unusual."

I watched Arthur run a hand through his hair, his frustration turning to a deep-seated anger. He was trying to make my husband understand, to see past his own self-importance. But Bradford was a brick wall.

A faint, whiny voice drifted from Bradford's end of the line. Flora. Of course. Her performative fragility, her weaponized incompetence, always knew how to hook him.

Bradford' s tone shifted instantly, losing its edge, softening into something sickeningly sweet. "Yes, darling? Are you still cold? I'm almost there with your cheesecake, my love. Just a few more minutes."

My spirit recoiled. The stark contrast was a fresh wound.

Then, his voice hardened again as he spoke to Arthur. "Look, Arthur, I'm busy. Flora's had a traumatic night. Unlike Adrianne, she's not a hardened crisis manager. She needs me right now. If Adrianne cared, she'd get in touch. She's just being melodramatic. Tell her to come home when she's done 'making her point.'"

He hung up. Just like that. Disconnected.

Arthur stared at his phone, his face a mask of disbelief and fury. He took a deep, shaky breath, his knuckles white as he gripped the device. He uttered a low, guttural growl, then, in a fit of rage, hurled his phone against the nearest wall. It shattered with a sickening crunch.

He stood there for a moment, chest heaving, before slowly bending down to retrieve the broken pieces. His anger, however, quickly morphed into a grim determination. "Damn it, Adrianne," he murmured, his voice thick with emotion, "I know you wouldn't do this."

He wiped a tear from his eye, then straightened. "I'm coming for you," he vowed, his gaze sweeping the dimly lit areas of the building that had yet to be thoroughly searched. He wouldn't give up.

I watched him, a silent, thankful tear falling from my spectral eye. He was crying for me. Not Bradford. Never Bradford.

Arthur began to search again, meticulously, his flashlight beam cutting through the shadows. He moved with a renewed fervor, checking every nook and cranny, every hidden space. He was looking for me. Really looking. Unlike my husband, who only saw what he wanted to see.

He found it. A hidden stairwell, almost invisible behind a stacked pile of old crates. It led down, deeper underground, into the cold, forgotten belly of the building. His heart pounded in his chest as he descended, his senses heightened.

His flashlight beam wavered, then settled on my body, crumpled on the cold concrete. The sight was horrific. My clothes were torn, my body bruised, a dark pool staining the floor beneath me. He gasped, a guttural sound of pure agony.

"Adrianne?" he whispered, scrambling towards me. His voice was choked with tears. He touched my wrist, his fingers searching for a pulse. There was none. My skin was cold, my eyes open, staring blankly at the low ceiling.

A raw, primal scream tore from Arthur' s throat, echoing through the silent basement. His body shook uncontrollably, his grief a palpable force. He cradled my head, rocking me gently, his tears falling on my lifeless face.

My spectral self watched, a profound sadness washing over me. Arthur, my husband's friend, was the one who found me. Arthur, who cried for me. Bradford, my husband, was probably still feeding Flora cheesecake, convinced I was playing a game. The irony was a bitter taste in my mouth, worse than the blood I had coughed up before I died.

I remembered Bradford's cold eyes, his accusations. His dismissive tone. He had never truly seen me, truly valued me. He always saw Flora as the delicate one, the one who needed saving. And me? I was just Adrianne, the strong one, the one who could always handle it.

His words, "You're tough enough," were a death sentence.