Chapter 7

Annabella sat in the driver's seat of her car in the dim parking garage, her hands gripping the steering wheel so hard her knuckles turned white.

She didn't push the ignition button. She just sat there in the silence, the concrete walls of the garage pressing in on her. Exhaustion washed over her body like a heavy, suffocating wave.

She rested her forehead against the cold leather of the steering wheel. She closed her eyes. Instantly, her brain dragged her back to a rainy night five years ago.

The memory was visceral. She could smell the rotting garbage and stale urine of the Lower Manhattan alleyway. She could feel the freezing rain soaking through her clothes.

Two men, their eyes wide and erratic from drugs, had backed her into a dead end. One of them held a rusted switchblade, the metal catching the dim light of a streetlamp.

She remembered screaming. She remembered the backhand slap that threw her to the wet pavement. Mud and blood had mixed in her eyes, blinding her.

Just as the man lunged forward with the knife, a massive shadow had sprinted into the alley. The stranger had kicked the attacker in the chest, sending him crashing into a dumpster.

In the chaos of the fight, the switchblade had plunged into the left side of the stranger's chest. Blood had instantly soaked through his white shirt, turning it a dark, slick crimson.

The stranger had grunted in pain, but he hadn't moved. He had stood directly in front of Annabella, shielding her body with his own, until the wail of police sirens echoed down the street. The attackers had scrambled away into the dark.

Annabella had been shaking so violently she couldn't stand. Before she could wipe the mud from her eyes to see his face, the man had clutched his bleeding chest and stumbled away into the pouring rain.

Three months later, at a corporate networking event, she had seen Ethan. He was wearing a dress shirt with the top three buttons undone.

Right there, on the left side of his chest, was a freshly healed wound, the skin still pink and tender, with the faint track marks of stitches recently removed. It was in the exact spot the knife had entered the stranger.

When she had asked him about it, her voice trembling with emotion, Ethan hadn't said a word. He had just looked at her, smiled softly, and rubbed the scar.

From that second on, Annabella had locked herself in a cage of gratitude. She had let him dictate her career. She had tolerated Donie's constant disrespect. She had paid her debt with her soul.

Annabella opened her eyes. The memory shattered. She stared at her pale face in the rearview mirror.

She let out a harsh, bitter laugh. The whole thing was a sick joke.

The man who took a knife for a stranger in a dark alley was a hero. The man who abandoned his bride at the altar and demanded she bleed for his mistress was a coward. They couldn't be the same person.

And even if they were, five years of total submission was enough. She had paid for that blood with her own tears. The debt was canceled.

The heavy, suffocating guilt that had lived in her chest for five years vanished. The chains snapped.

Annabella sat up straight. She locked her spine. Her eyes were clear, sharp, and completely devoid of fear.

She reached out and pressed the push-to-start button. The engine roared to life, the deep vibration humming through the floorboards.

She shifted the car into drive and slammed her foot on the gas pedal. The car shot out of the dark garage and into the blinding evening sunlight of the Manhattan streets.

She reached for the radio dial and cranked the volume to the maximum. A tempestuous, aggressive movement of classical music blasted through the speakers, the frantic, soaring violins drowning out the noise of the city traffic, perfectly matching the cold, calculated storm raging inside her.

She needed to go back to the office. She needed to pack up her desk and get her law degree off the wall before security locked her out.

As she stopped at a red light, a sudden, sharp pain stabbed her in the lower right side of her abdomen.

She gasped, her hands flying off the steering wheel to clutch her stomach. The pain was hot and piercing, like a hot needle twisting into her guts.

She squeezed her eyes shut, panting through her teeth. It's just stress, she told herself. Just a stomach cramp from the adrenaline crash.

She pressed her hand hard against her stomach, trying to massage the pain away.

The light turned green. She gritted her teeth, put her hands back on the wheel, and drove toward the company, completely unaware of the deadly crisis building inside her body.