Chapter 3

I found a small, furnished apartment on the other side of town, a place that smelled of old books and lemon polish instead of antiseptic. It was a world away from the cold, glass-and-steel cage I had left. The first thing I did was block Mark's number. Then Lisa's. I unplugged from the life that had cost me so much, creating a small, quiet bubble where I could just breathe.

I spent my days sorting through Emily's belongings, crying over old photographs, and letting the grief wash over me. In the quiet moments, I thought about Mark and Lisa. It made a sick kind of sense. They were two of a kind. Both obsessed with image, both deeply selfish, both skilled at using a veneer of politeness to mask their cruelty. They deserved each other. He could have his perfect, sterile world with his perfect, compliant assistant.

My peace lasted for two weeks.

I was sitting in a small diner near my new apartment, trying to enjoy a simple plate of pancakes, when the bell on the door jingled. A chill went down my spine before I even looked up.

Mark stood there, his expensive coat out of place among the worn linoleum and vinyl booths. Lisa was right behind him, a shadow in a designer dress. They walked toward my table, their presence sucking all the warmth out of the room.

Mark looked at me, his eyes scanning my simple sweater and jeans with open disapproval.

"This is where you're living? And this is what you're eating?" he said, his voice a low command. "It's disgusting. Full of grease and God knows what else."

I didn't answer. I just picked up my fork and took another bite of my pancakes, looking right through him as if he were a ghost. My indifference seemed to enrage him more than any argument could have.

"Are you listening to me, Sarah? You're going to make yourself sick."

He reached across the table, his hand moving to take my plate. I held it firmly.

"Don't touch my food," I said, my voice quiet but steady.

For a second, he looked genuinely shocked that I had defied him. His face darkened. He wasn't used to being told no. He swatted at the plate, not just trying to take it, but trying to knock it out of my hands. The plate clattered, and a stack of pancakes slid onto the sticky tabletop. Syrup pooled around them.

"Mark, don't," Lisa said, stepping forward. She placed a hand on his arm, a practiced gesture of placation. But she chose that exact moment to stumble, her ankle twisting theatrically. She let out a small, pained cry and crumpled toward the floor.

It was so obviously fake, but Mark didn't see it. He saw his loyal assistant, hurt while trying to manage his difficult fiancée. His anger at me exploded.

He lunged across the table and slapped me.

The sound echoed in the suddenly silent diner. My cheek stung, a hot, sharp pain. But the bigger shock was the act itself. He had never hit me before. His control had always been psychological. This was new. This was desperation.

Lisa, from her position on the floor, looked up at Mark with wide, innocent eyes. "Mark, it's not her fault. I just tripped. I'm so clumsy."

She was a master manipulator, playing the victim to fuel his rage against me. She looked at him with such adoration, such loyalty. I watched them, a cold observer to their sick, codependent drama.

I didn't cry. I didn't even flinch. I just looked at the mess on the table, then at Lisa on the floor, and finally at Mark's furious face. A strange calm settled over me.

Without thinking, I picked up my glass of ice water. The water was cold in my hand. I looked directly at Lisa, who was now being helped up by a concerned Mark.

And I threw the water in her face.

Ice cubes and water splashed across her perfectly made-up face, her expensive dress. She gasped, shocked into silence.

Mark stared at me, his mouth hanging open. He looked from my calm face to Lisa's dripping one, unable to process what had just happened. The woman he had controlled for years, the woman who scrubbed herself clean for him every night, had just fought back.

"What the hell is wrong with you?" he finally sputtered, his voice trembling with rage. "You're going to apologize to her. Right now."

"No," I said.

The word was small, but it filled the space between us. It was a complete sentence. A final answer.

"No," I said again, pushing my chair back and standing up. I dropped a twenty-dollar bill on the table to cover the pancakes and left them there, standing in a puddle of water and their own toxic mess.