Chapter 3

The next morning, Mark Davis walked into my hotel suite. He didn't use a key card; one of Chloe's goons let him in and then locked the door behind him.

He was trying to look confident, but his hands were trembling slightly. He was holding a briefcase.

"Chloe sent me," he said, avoiding my eyes. "She wants to be generous. She understands you've been through an ordeal."

He opened the briefcase on the coffee table. It was filled with cash. Maybe a hundred thousand dollars. To the man I was six years ago, it would have been a lot of money. To the man I was now, it was pocket change. It was an insult.

"You think this fixes it?" I asked, my voice flat.

"It's a gift," he said, swallowing hard. "A way for you to get a fresh start. All you have to do is sign the NDA. You disappear, and this is all yours."

I laughed. It was a cold, empty sound. "A fresh start. Is that what you and Chloe got? A fresh start with my money?"

"That's not what happened," he mumbled.

"Don't lie to me, Mark. I'm not the same naive idiot you knew. I know exactly what happened. Tell me, how old is your daughter?"

He paled. "Why does that matter?"

"Because a man deserves to know the details of his own ruin. Your son is almost six. That means Chloe was pregnant when she was crying on television, talking about her 'missing' fiancé. So when did you two get together? Was it before our trip? During? Or did you comfort her so well right after I was taken?"

"You have no right-"

"I have every right!" I stood up, and for the first time, he looked genuinely scared. "Was it all a plan? Get rid of me, take the money, and start your perfect little life?"

"No! It wasn't like that!" he stammered. "We thought you were dead!"

Just then, the door opened again. It was Chloe. She looked furious.

"Mark, get out," she ordered without looking at him. He scurried out of the room like a chastised dog.

Chloe stared at me, her eyes like chips of ice. "You are going to sign this document," she said, holding up the NDA. It wasn't a request.

"No."

"Yes, you are," she said, stepping closer. "Because if you don't, I will paint you as an obsessive, deranged ex-fiancé who came back from God knows where to stalk me. I have the best lawyers money can buy. I have the media in the palm of my hand. I will ruin you in a way that makes your last six years look like a vacation."

She threw the papers and a pen on the table. "I have two children, Liam. I will do anything to protect them and what I've built. Anything."

I looked at her, at this woman I once would have died for. And in that moment, I knew she meant it. My word against hers, the beloved tech CEO and grieving fiancée. I had no public profile, no credibility. She could destroy me.

For now.

I picked up the pen. My hand was steady. I signed my name on the line. It felt like signing my own death warrant all over again.

"Good," she said, snatching the papers. "See? That wasn't so hard."

"So I can go now?"

She laughed. "No. I don't trust you. The deal was you stay here until after the IPO. This just finalizes the financial side of things. My men will remain outside. Room service has been cancelled. Don't try anything stupid."

She turned and left, the lock clicking shut behind her.

I was alone again. Trapped. Even after signing her disgusting agreement, I was still her prisoner.

Hours passed. The sun set, casting long shadows across the luxurious room. A gnawing hunger started in my stomach. I tried the room phone. It was dead. They had truly cut me off.

I sat on the edge of the bed, the silence of the room pressing in on me. I thought about my sacrifice. I thought about the beatings, the starvation, the years of filth and despair. I did it all for her. I did it because I loved her, and I believed she loved me.

That belief was a joke. A cruel, sick joke.

My life wasn't just stolen. It was sold for parts. My freedom, my money, my story-she had taken it all and built a monument to herself. And now she was starving me, caging me, to protect it.

I wasn't just angry anymore. The hatred had burned through my soul and left a cold, hard resolve in its place. I wasn't the victim in her story. I was the architect of her downfall. She just didn't know it yet.

The hunger in my stomach was a dull ache, but the hunger for retribution was a fire that was starting to burn white-hot.