Chapter 3

The days leading up to the Golden Rose were a special kind of hell.

Living with David became a performance of its own. I had to smile, to accept his touch, to play the part of the loving wife while my insides churned with revulsion.

He was a master of the craft.

He would cut my food for me at dinner, a tender gesture that was now a grotesque reminder of my dependency, of the hand he had stolen.

"You need to keep your strength up, darling," he'd say, placing a piece of steak in my mouth. "Your left hand is doing the work of two. It needs fuel."

I would chew and swallow, the food tasting like ash.

He would draw my baths, filling the tub with scented oils meant to soothe muscles I'd strained in secret, torturous practice sessions. He thought I was preparing for a ten-minute guest spot. He had no idea I was preparing for war.

One evening, he sat me down on the sofa, his expression serious and caring.

"Ollie," he began, taking my hand. "I need to ask you for a favor."

"Anything, David," I said, my voice perfectly modulated to sound sweet and compliant.

"Sarah is under a lot of pressure," he said, his brow furrowed with fake concern. "She's so young, and this 'Triple Crown' thing... it's a huge weight on her shoulders. The media is already starting to pit you two against each other."

He squeezed my hand. "I was thinking... maybe you could issue a statement. Something about passing the torch. Endorsing her. It would quell the speculation and let her focus on her music. It would be such a graceful, generous thing to do."

He wanted me to publicly abdicate. To hand his lover the crown on a silver platter.

The audacity of it took my breath away.

"Of course, David," I said, forcing a small, sad smile. "If it will help Sarah, I'll do it. She's very talented. She deserves to have her moment."

His face lit up with relief and pride. "That's my girl. Always so selfless. I'll have my PR team draft something for you."

He kissed my forehead, a Judas kiss that made my skin crawl.

That night, after he fell asleep, I went into his office. I had hired a private investigator the day after my discovery, a shrewd, no-nonsense man named Jake Riley. He had already started digging, but I needed more. I needed something concrete.

David's office was his sanctuary, a sleek, minimalist space that reeked of power and control. I started with his desk, then his file cabinets. Nothing. It was all business, all meticulously organized.

Then I saw it. A locked drawer in his personal credenza. It was the one place he'd told me he kept "sentimental things." I' d never had a reason to open it before.

Riley had taught me a few things. A paperclip and a bit of patience, and the lock clicked open.

Inside, there was no "sentimental" clutter. There was only one thing: a series of beautiful, leather-bound photo albums.

My heart hammered against my ribs. I pulled out the first one.

The cover was embossed with a single name: Sarah.

I opened it.

The first photo was of a much younger Sarah, maybe sixteen, standing awkwardly by a piano. David was beside her, his arm around her, beaming. The photo was dated nearly ten years ago.

I turned the page. Sarah at her first recital. Sarah winning a small, local competition. Sarah graduating from the conservatory. Page after page, year after year, it was a meticulously documented shrine to her life, her career. David was in almost every photo, a constant, proud presence in the background.

He had been obsessed with her for a decade.

I flipped through another album. This one was filled with press clippings about her, every review, every mention, all carefully cut out and preserved. He hadn't just been her mentor; he had been her architect.

Then, I saw the last album, the thinnest one. It was filled with handwritten notes on conservatory letterhead. Plans. Timelines. Strategies for her career.

My eyes scanned the pages, my blood running cold. It was a step-by-step playbook for her rise to fame.

And then I found the page that made me stop breathing.

It was a timeline for the year of my accident.

There was a series of goals listed for Sarah: Win the Chamberlain Concerto Competition. Secure a recording contract with Deutsche Grammophon. Become the face of Steinway' s new campaign.

Next to each goal was a checkmark.

And then, at the bottom of the page, a final entry, circled in red ink.

'O. R. problem must be solved. Path must be cleared by June.'

O. R. Olivia Reynolds.

I looked at the date next to the entry. It was just weeks before the accident.

My eyes darted to a small calendar notation on the same page, also circled in red. 'Sarah' s Birthday - June 15th.'

The date of my car crash was June 14th.

The night before her birthday.

It wasn't just about clearing a path. It was a gift. He had crippled me as a birthday present for his lover.

The room swayed. I clutched the desk to steady myself, a wave of nausea washing over me. This was more than just ambition. This was a sickness. A twisted, monstrous devotion that saw my life as disposable.

I carefully put the albums back, locked the drawer, and left the office without a sound.

The time for grief was over. The time for quiet investigation had begun.

I picked up my phone and sent a message to Jake Riley.

'I have what you need. Focus on the financials. Find out how he paid for it.'

The game was on. And I was no longer playing defense.

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