Chapter 1

The charity gala was suffocating. I stood by the french doors, a glass of untouched champagne in my hand, watching my husband, Andrew Duncan, laugh with his mistress, Maria. He had his arm wrapped around her waist, a casual, possessive gesture that screamed to the whole of New York society that I, Jocelyn Fuller Duncan, was irrelevant.

This was my life. I was a former foster kid who had aged out of the system, only to be taken in by the formidable Duncan family. Their patriarch, the retired senator Mr. Duncan Sr., had a debt to my father, a cop who died saving his life. He raised me, gave me a home, a family. I fell in love with his son, Andrew. We were childhood sweethearts, and our marriage was supposed to be the fairytale ending.

Instead, it became Andrew' s prison. He saw it as the final act of his father's control over his life, a debt being paid with his happiness. And he made sure I paid for it every single day.

Suddenly, a small commotion broke out near the dessert table. My five-year-old twin sons, Caleb and Jayden, were there. They had accidentally bumped into Maria, spilling a plate of chocolate mousse down the front of her expensive white gown.

Maria shrieked. "Look what you've done, you little monsters!"

Andrew' s face turned to stone. He strode over, not to check on our sons, but to console his mistress. He didn't even look at the boys, who were staring up at him, their eyes wide with fear.

Later that night, after we returned to our cold, silent mansion, Andrew cornered me in the hallway.

"They're out of control, Jocelyn," he said, his voice dangerously low. "They embarrassed me. They embarrassed Maria."

"They're five, Andrew. It was an accident."

"I've made a decision," he cut me off. "I'm sending them to a behavioral correction camp. A place in the desert. It'll toughen them up, teach them some discipline you've clearly failed to instill."

My blood ran cold. I knew the kind of places he was talking about. Brutal, military-style boot camps for troubled teens, not for five-year-old boys.

"No," I whispered, shaking my head. "Andrew, you can't."

I fell to my knees, grabbing the hem of his pants. It was a humiliating, desperate act. "Please, Andrew. Don't do this. Punish me. Do whatever you want to me, but leave the boys out of this. They're just babies."

He looked down at me, his eyes filled with a chilling disgust. He kicked his leg free from my grasp.

"Get up, Jocelyn. You're pathetic," he sneered. "This is because you're a permissive mother. This is what happens. They're going. It's already arranged."

He turned and walked away, leaving me crumpled on the marble floor.

The next morning, two large men in uniforms came to the house. Caleb and Jayden were crying, clinging to my legs, not understanding what was happening. They were ripped from my arms.

"Daddy!" they screamed, reaching for Andrew as they were dragged out the door. "Daddy, help us!"

Andrew just stood there, watching, his face a mask of cold indifference. He didn't even say goodbye.