Chapter 4

The night before my flight, I knew I had to act. I told Mark I was feeling exhausted and wanted to go to bed early.

"Of course, honey," he said, his voice dripping with fake sympathy. "Get a good night's sleep. Your flight to your parents' place is at ten in the morning. I'll take you to the airport myself."

He thought he was sending me away, a broken woman going home to mommy and daddy. He had no idea I was never coming back.

Earlier that day, I had printed out a standard separation agreement I found online. It was simple, straightforward, and legally binding. It cited irreconcilable differences and waived any right to spousal support on my part. I just wanted to be free.

I gathered a stack of mundane papers from Mark' s desk-investment reports, utility bills, things he would sign without a second thought. I carefully placed the separation agreement in the middle of the stack.

I walked into his study, the papers in my hand. "Mark, can you sign these before I go? I won't be able to deal with them while I'm away."

He was on his laptop, probably messaging Sarah. He glanced up, annoyed at the interruption. "Fine, just leave them."

"No, they need to be signed tonight," I insisted gently. "Some of them are time-sensitive."

With an exaggerated sigh, he took the stack of papers and a pen. He scribbled his signature on the top page without reading it. He flipped to the next, signed it. Then the next. My heart pounded in my chest as he got closer to the separation agreement. He didn't even pause. He signed his name, Mark Anderson, on the line next to mine, a flourish of ink that sealed his fate and my freedom. He pushed the stack back at me.

"There. Happy now?" he asked, already turning back to his screen.

"Very," I whispered, taking the papers with a trembling hand. I slipped the signed agreement into my travel bag.

The next morning at the airport was a masterclass in his manipulative theater. He held my hand, his face a mask of sorrow. He pulled me into a tight hug at the security gate.

"Call me as soon as you land," he said, his voice thick with false emotion. "I love you, Evelyn."

"I know," I said, pulling away from his repulsive touch.

I boarded the plane and found my first-class seat, just as he'd promised. I buckled my seatbelt and stared out the window, a wave of relief washing over me. It was over. I was free.

I must have dozed off, because when I woke up, the sun was in a different part of the sky. I looked at the flight map on the screen in front of me. My blood ran cold. The plane wasn't heading east, towards my parents' home. It was flying south. Towards West Africa.

Panic seized me. I looked around. Liam had arranged this. This was my escape. But then a different, more terrifying thought crept in. The flight path wasn't tracking towards the capital city where the NGO was based. We were heading towards a remote, unpopulated region. The same region where the free clinic was. The same region where I was attacked.

This wasn't an escape arranged by Liam. This was a trap arranged by Mark.

The plane began its descent. I looked out the window and saw it-the small, dusty airstrip carved out of the scrubland. And next to it, the low, dilapidated building of the clinic. The place where my life had been torn apart.

The plane landed with a jolt. The door opened. Two large men in military-style fatigues climbed aboard. They weren't soldiers. They were mercenaries. They walked directly to my seat.

"Dr. Reed," one of them said, his voice flat and menacing. "You're coming with us."

I was frozen in my seat, terror locking my limbs. They grabbed my arms, their grips like iron, and hauled me out of my seat. I fought, I screamed, but no one on the small private jet moved to help. They were all part of it.

They dragged me down the steps and across the tarmac, my feet stumbling in the dirt. The sun was brutal, the heat oppressive. They forced me towards the clinic, the scene of my worst nightmare. My heart hammered against my ribs, and the tremor in my hands returned with a vengeance.

They pushed me through the front door. The inside was just as I remembered it-shattered glass still littered the floor in the corners. They shoved me into the same small examination room. One of the men held me down while the other pulled out a syringe.

"No," I whimpered, the sound pathetic even to my own ears. "Please, no."

He ignored me. He ripped the sleeve of my shirt and plunged the needle into my arm. A strange, disorienting warmth spread through my body. My mind grew foggy, my limbs heavy and uncoordinated.

They let me go, and I stumbled against the wall, my legs refusing to hold me. The room started to spin. They dragged me out of the clinic and threw me into the back of a dusty jeep. As the drug took full hold, my control over my own body vanished. My muscles twitched and spasmed. A thick line of drool trickled from the corner of my mouth, and I couldn't stop it. My dignity was being stripped away, layer by agonizing layer, and there was nothing I could do.

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