Chapter 4

The world twisted, and I was standing in the cold, soundproofed silence of the panic room.

My own personal hell.

But I wasn't the one in chains.

Chloe was. She was strapped to the same chair I had occupied for years, her face bruised and swollen, her designer clothes torn.

And Ethan was there, standing over her. He held a pair of pliers. His face was a mask of insane, focused grief. He wasn't the controlled executive anymore. He was a pure, howling animal of rage.

"You said your heart was weak," he was saying, his voice chillingly calm. "I had the doctors at the clinic send me your files. The real ones. Your heart is perfect. Stronger than hers ever was."

He gestured with the pliers. "You lied. You did it just to kill her. To hurt her."

Chloe sobbed. "I did it for you, Ethan! She was in the way! I wanted it to be just us!"

"Us?" he laughed, a terrible, broken sound. "There was never an 'us.' You were a tool. A placeholder. A scarecrow to keep the damn crows away."

He raised the pliers. "She's gone because of you."

"No, she's not."

My voice was quiet, but in the total silence of the room, it was like a gunshot.

Ethan froze. He turned around slowly, his eyes wide with disbelief. He saw me standing there. Whole. Alive. Not in a wheelchair.

His face, contorted with rage, melted into something I hadn't seen in years. A raw, desperate, delirious joy.

"Sarah," he breathed, the pliers clattering to the floor from his numb fingers.

He took a step toward me, his hands outstretched. "You came back. You came back to me."

I took a step back.