Chapter 4

I woke up in a familiar room. The soft sunlight filtering through the curtains, the scent of lavender and old books. It was my old bedroom at the Duncan estate, the house where I had grown up, the place that had been my only true home.

Molly was there, sitting in a chair by the window. Mr. Duncan Sr. stood at the foot of the bed, his face etched with a grief so profound it seemed to have aged him a decade overnight. He looked broken.

"Jocelyn," he said, his voice thick with sorrow. "I am so, so sorry. There are no words."

I just stared at the ceiling. The fight had gone out of me, leaving behind a hollow, aching void.

"I want to leave," I said, my voice flat. "After the funeral. I want to go."

"Of course," Mr. Duncan said immediately, his eyes filling with tears. "Of course, my dear. He is unworthy of you. My son... my son is a monster."

Molly came and sat on the bed, taking my hand. Her touch was warm, but I felt nothing. I repeated my mantra, a litany of my only remaining desire.

"Let me go, Molly. Please, just let me go."

She squeezed my hand, tears streaming down her face. "Okay, Jocelyn. Okay. We will."

She understood. She knew this wasn't just about leaving Andrew. It was about escaping the name, the family, the entire world that had taken everything from me.

A few hours later, the door to the bedroom burst open. It was Andrew. He stormed in, his face contorted with rage. Maria was not with him.

"What did you tell them?" he snarled, pointing a finger at me. "What lies have you been spinning to turn my own family against me?"

I didn't answer. I just looked at him, at the man I had once loved, and felt a wave of pure, undiluted hatred. It was so strong it almost made me sick.

But then, I remembered Caleb's face, how he would look at his father with such adoration. "Daddy is the best," he used to say. I remembered Jayden, tucking a crayon drawing into Andrew's briefcase. "For Daddy at work."

The hatred was still there, but it was tangled with the ghosts of my children's love for him. The conflict paralyzed me.

My silence seemed to infuriate him further.

"Are you ignoring me?" He lunged forward, grabbing me by the shoulders and shaking me. "You think you can just come here and play the victim?"

He threw me onto the bed and climbed over me, pinning my wrists. His face was inches from mine, his breath hot and smelling of whiskey.

"You're going to stop this pathetic act," he hissed. "You're my wife."

He tried to kiss me, to force himself on me. A primal, instinctual rage surged through me. I bit down on his lower lip. Hard.

He recoiled, yelping in pain and surprise, touching his bleeding lip. He stared at me as if I were a stranger, his eyes wide with fury and disgust.

"You're insane," he spat.

I finally found my voice. It was cold, dead, and sharp as a shard of glass.

"They're dead, Andrew. Caleb and Jayden... are dead."

He stared at me for a long moment, the blood dripping from his lip onto his shirt. Then he scoffed, a look of utter contempt on his face.

"A pathetic lie to get my attention because I'm having a baby with Maria," he said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "You're disgusting."

He stood up, adjusted his suit, and stormed out of the room, slamming the door behind him.