Chapter 3

The pain in my thigh was a constant, throbbing reminder.

Ethan acted as if nothing monumental had happened.

He'd occasionally bring me food, his demeanor one of forced patience, as if I were a difficult patient he was begrudgingly tending to.

"You need to get your strength back, Sarah," he'd say, placing a tray down.

"Brittany needs you to be able to manage things when she comes home with the baby."

I'd just stare at him, the fight leached out of me, or so he thought.

Inside, every cruel act, every dismissive word, was fuel.

James's calls were my lifeline.

Brief, coded conversations.

He was making arrangements.

He was coming.

"Soon, Sarah," he'd said on the last call, his voice a calm anchor in my storm.

"Just hold on a little longer."

I focused on that.

And on one more thing I needed to do.

My parents' bakery.

Ethan had the controlling shares, something he'd acquired through a predatory loan to my father years ago, then called in when my father got sick.

The original share certificates, my parents' copies, were somewhere in his massive, disorganized study.

He'd once laughed, saying he used them as coasters.

One evening, when Ethan and Brittany were out at yet another celebratory dinner, I forced myself out of bed.

My leg ached with every step.

The main house was quiet, staff dismissed for the night.

Ethan's study was a monument to his ego – dark wood, leather, oversized everything.

I started searching, my hands shaking, adrenaline overriding the pain.

Desks, drawers, bookshelves.

It felt hopeless.

Then I saw it.

Under a stack of glossy property brochures, a faded, slightly sticky manila envelope.

My heart hammered.

I pulled it out.

Inside, the share certificates for "Miller's Fine Pastries."

And tucked behind them, something else – a copy of our prenuptial agreement.

I'd forgotten its exact terms, signed in a haze of youthful infatuation.

I scanned it quickly.

There was a clause, something about assets brought into the marriage.

The bakery, while diminished, was still technically mine if certain conditions of dissolution were met.

Ethan had clearly overlooked this, confident in his control.

I clutched the envelope to my chest.

This was it.

This was leverage.

This was a piece of my past, and maybe, a key to my future.

My phone buzzed.

A text from James.

"Flight booked. Landing tomorrow afternoon. City Hall, 4 PM. Be ready."

Relief, so potent it almost buckled my knees, washed over me.

Tomorrow.

I made my way back to the guesthouse, the envelope hidden under my clothes.

I lay in bed, the pain in my thigh a dull ache, but my mind was clear, focused.

Ethan thought he had broken me, remade me into his compliant possession.

He was about to find out how wrong he was.

He had taken my music, my babies, my mother's ring, even my skin.

He would not take my parents' legacy.

He would not take my future.