Chapter 2

The days that followed were a special kind of hell. I was discharged from the hospital, a "blind" man returning to a world that was no longer his. Chloe led me by the arm into the apartment we had shared, her voice a constant stream of solicitous concern.

"Careful with that step, honey. The sofa is just to your left. Let me get you some water."

Meanwhile, Mark was a near-constant presence. He would stop by under the pretense of offering support, clapping me on the shoulder and telling me how strong I was.

"You're a fighter, Ethan. We're all so proud of you."

But I saw them. When Chloe would turn her back to get me something, I'd see Mark's hand slide down to the small of her back. I'd see the quick, hungry look they exchanged over my head, thinking I was oblivious. Each stolen glance, each secret touch was a fresh stab of pain. They were so brazen, so confident in my blindness, that their cruelty became a performance I was forced to watch from the front row.

My apartment, a space I had designed for comfort and clarity, now felt like a cage. Every object held a memory, and every memory was now tainted. I started to look for more proof, needing to confirm the nightmare I was living. It wasn't hard to find. They were careless.

One afternoon, Chloe was in the shower, and Mark had just left after one of his "support" visits. I walked silently into our home office. Her laptop was open on the desk. My fingers, which they believed were clumsy and unsure, moved quickly over the trackpad. I found their email exchanges. Hundreds of them, going back months, long before the "accident." They were filled with declarations of love, plans for secret meetings, and a growing frustration with my existence.

Then I found it. An email from Mark to Chloe, dated two days before my wedding.

Subject: The lighting issue.

The contractor is set. He knows what to do. It will look like a total freak accident, a structural failure. Just make sure you're not standing directly under it when it happens. I'll take care of the rest. Soon, my love, we'll have everything we've ever wanted.

I felt a wave of nausea. It was there in black and white. Cold, premeditated, and utterly evil. They didn't just betray me; they tried to break me, to reduce me to a helpless dependent for their own greed.

Chloe came out of the bathroom, wrapped in a towel, humming a cheerful tune. She walked over and kissed the top of my head.

"How are you doing, my love?" she asked, her voice dripping with fake sweetness. "Is there anything you need? I was thinking we could start looking at venues again. We deserve the most beautiful wedding, especially after all this."

I had to force my muscles to stay relaxed, to keep the grimace off my face. "That sounds nice, Chloe," I said, my voice carefully neutral. "Whatever you want."

I could feel her smile against my hair. She thought she had me. A broken man, completely under her control. The contrast between her tender words and the cold, hard evidence on the laptop screen was sickening.

My mind was a storm of grief and fury. I kept my face a placid mask, but inside, I was screaming. Every moment was a battle to maintain my composure. I had to continue playing the role of the blind man, the trusting fiancé. It was the only way. My blindness was now my greatest weapon. It allowed me to be invisible, to listen, to watch. It was the key to my eventual revenge.

I would sit on the sofa, my head tilted as if I were listening to the television, and I would watch them. I catalogued every lie, every secret touch, every whispered conversation they thought I couldn't hear.

At night, I would lie awake, the memories of our life together playing in my head. I remembered the first time I met her, her bright laugh at a mutual friend's party. I remembered our first date, the way she looked at me with what I thought was genuine adoration. I remembered proposing to her, the happy tears in her eyes as she said yes.

Were any of those moments real? Or was it all part of a long, calculated deception?

The sweetness of those memories now tasted like ash in my mouth. The love I felt had curdled into a cold, hard knot of hatred in my stomach. They had taken everything from me, or so they thought. But they didn't take my mind, and they didn't take my will. And they had no idea who I really was. They saw a simple architect, an orphan with a modest inheritance. They were about to find out how wrong they were.