Chapter 3

I was still on the floor when her mother, the matriarch Mrs. Miller, walked in. She didn't even blink at the scene. She just placed a leather folder on the kitchen island.

"Divorce papers," she said, her voice as cold as the marble. "And a check. Consider our debt to your father repaid."

The truth, laid bare. My father's song catalog, his entire life's work, hadn't been a gift. It had been a bailout. They had been on the verge of bankruptcy, and his music saved them. My entire life with them, my "place" in the family, was just the interest on a loan.

Before I could react, Scarlett strode forward and snatched the papers. She ripped them in half, then in quarters.

"No," she said, her eyes flashing. Not with love, but with cold, hard business sense. "A divorce right now? After he just got back? The press would have a field day. It's a PR disaster."

She turned to me, my pathetic form still on the floor. "You're staying. You will clean yourself up, and you will play the part of the loving, grateful husband until I say this is over."

She didn't see that I was broken. She just saw an inconvenient asset.

Later that night, I decided to leave. I couldn't stay in that house another second. I didn't take anything. Just my father's old guitar, the one thing that was truly mine.

I was at the top of the grand staircase when she found me.

"Where do you think you're going?" she demanded.

"I'm leaving, Scarlett."

"You're not going anywhere," she said, stepping in front of me, blocking my path. "You belong to me. This family owns you."

"No, you don't," I said, my voice finally finding some strength. "Not anymore."

I tried to push past her. She grabbed for the guitar. "You're not taking that!"

We struggled. Her perfectly manicured nails dug into my arm. I pulled back, and she shoved me. Hard.

My foot slipped on the top step.

The world turned upside down. I tumbled, the guitar clattering against the marble steps alongside me. Each impact was a fresh burst of agony, a jarring echo of the violence I had just survived.

I landed in a heap at the bottom, a sharp, searing pain exploding in my side. The last thing I saw before I blacked out was her face at the top of the stairs, her expression not of horror or concern, but of pure, frustrated anger.