Chapter 1

The small church in Oakhaven, Pennsylvania, was full, people standing in the back. Pastor Miller, my father, knew everyone here. Now they were here for him. I sat in the front pew, my fiancé David Vance beside me, his hand on my arm. It felt heavy. My mother was on my other side, a small, broken bird. She hadn't spoken much since Dad passed.

After the service, after the last handshake and soft word of sympathy, I stayed. The church felt empty, colder than I remembered. Dad's ashes were in an urn on the altar. I needed to be near him. David had wanted to stay, but I told him to go, to check on my mother. He was a good man, I thought then.

The candles flickered. I prayed, or tried to. Then the side door creaked open. Not David. Three men, faces hidden by shadows and pulled-down hats. They moved fast. One grabbed me, hand clamped over my mouth. Another kicked over a stand of candles, the small flames sputtering on the old wood floor. The third one picked up Dad's urn.

"Don't scream, little pastor's girl," one hissed, his breath sour. "Or he gets scattered." He shook the urn.

My blood went cold. I stopped struggling.

They dragged me to the church office. They had a camera. For eight hours, they hurt me. They filmed everything. They made me hold Dad's urn while they... while they did things. Each minute was a separate, sharp horror. When they finally left, just before dawn, they threw the urn at the wall. It didn't break, but the sound echoed like a gunshot. They laughed. One said, "This town will love this show."

The video was everywhere in Oakhaven by noon. Social media. Text messages. Whispers. My phone blew up, not with comfort, but with links and cruel comments.

David called. His voice was flat.

"Sarah, I can't. The wedding... it's off."

He didn't ask if I was okay. He just said he couldn't marry me, not now.

The teaching position at the Oakhaven Community Center, the one Dad had been so proud I'd gotten, was gone too. A curt email. "Unforeseen circumstances."

My mother saw the video. Someone, a "concerned friend," showed it to her. She collapsed. The doctor said her heart just gave out from the shock, the grief. She died two days later, holding my hand, her eyes full of a pain I couldn't fix.

I was alone. Utterly ruined. At Mom's small, quiet funeral, Michael Vance, David's older brother, stood a little apart from the other mourners. He owned Vance Construction, the biggest employer in Oakhaven. He was handsome, successful, always seemed in control.

After, he approached me. His eyes were kind, or so I thought.

"Sarah, this is a terrible tragedy. What happened to you, to your parents... it's monstrous."

He offered me his handkerchief. I hadn't realized I was crying.

"You can't stay alone in that house," he said. "Oakhaven... it's a small town. People will talk. You need protection. Stability."

Then he said the words I never expected.

"Marry me, Sarah. I can give you a safe place. I can protect you."

I looked at him. What else was there? No family left. No fiancé. No job. No reputation. Just shame and whispers.

"Yes," I whispered. "Yes, Michael."

It felt like sinking, but also like someone had thrown me a rope. A rope I grabbed with both hands.

Six months later, I was Mrs. Michael Vance. Our house was large, beautiful, cold. Michael was often busy, late nights, business trips. He was respected in Oakhaven. People said he was a saint for marrying me, the fallen pastor's daughter.

One night, he called, voice thick with alcohol.

"Sarah, pick me up. Local Pour. Too much celebrating."

The Local Pour was a sports bar, loud and smoky. I found Michael at a corner table with a man I vaguely recognized, another local businessman. Michael was laughing, too loud.

"She was perfect," Michael slurred, gesturing expansively with his drink. "David's little angel. So pure. Had to knock her off that pedestal, you know? For Jessica."

My breath caught. Jessica Thorne. Her family was prominent, a bit of a rival to the Vances. I'd seen her around, always perfectly dressed, always with a slight sneer.

Michael continued, his voice dripping with ugly pride. "The assault, the video... all my idea. Best way to get rid of her. David wouldn't touch her after that. Job gone too. Cleared the path right up."

He leaned in, conspiratorially. "And those videos? Gotta keep 'em circulating. Keeps her in line. My little, broken bird." He laughed again, a harsh, grating sound.

I backed away, hand over my mouth to stifle a gasp. The floor seemed to tilt. My savior. My husband. He was the architect of my hell. All for Jessica Thorne.

I turned and fled the bar. Tears streamed down my face, hot and blinding. I stumbled onto the dark street, gasping for air. Suddenly, two men stepped out from an alley. They were drunk, aggressive.

"Well, well, look what we have here," one slurred, grabbing my arm. "Little Mrs. Vance, all alone."

Panic seized me. It felt like the church all over again.

Then, headlights. A car screeched to a halt. Michael. He jumped out, face a mask of fury.

"Get your hands off my wife!" he roared.

He was surprisingly quick, strong. He shoved one man back, punched the other. They scrambled away, cursing.

Michael pulled me into his arms. "Sarah, are you alright? Did they hurt you?" He sounded genuinely concerned, his voice soft. He was playing the hero. Again. He helped me into his car, where his driver, Kev, sat silent and pale in the front.