Chapter 3

The private jet didn't crash. It returned.

A few days later, in the middle of the night, the penthouse erupted in a flurry of controlled chaos. It was three in the morning when the sound of a helicopter's rotors beat against the windows, shaking the entire floor.

I was on my mat on the floor, feigning sleep. Through slitted eyes, I saw Sarah burst into the room, already dressed in a sharp business suit, her face a mask of anxiety.

"Get up!" she snapped at the household staff who were scrambling into the hallway. "Mark is not feeling well. Dr. Evans is on his way up. I want everything perfect."

Mark had a simple case of food poisoning from their trip, but Sarah was treating it like a national emergency. A world-renowned gastroenterologist was flown in by helicopter in the dead of night for an upset stomach. It was a display of power and devotion that made my own situation feel even more pathetic.

I was ordered to stay out of sight. I retreated to the small utility closet where they kept cleaning supplies, the smell of bleach a sharp contrast to the luxury outside. I leaned my head against the cool metal shelving, the shame a familiar weight in my gut.

Later, when the commotion died down and the doctor had left, I crept out. The penthouse was quiet again. I found a secluded corner in the vast living room, a spot behind a large sculpture, and allowed myself a moment of weakness. I curled into a ball, my body shaking with silent sobs. I cried for my family, for the life I'd lost, for the man I used to be.

A sudden splash of cold water shocked me out of my grief.

I looked up, sputtering. Sarah stood over me, holding an empty glass. She had used the water from a vase of flowers to douse me. Her face was twisted in disgust.

"Crying again?" she sneered. "Pathetic."

She reached down, grabbed my wet hair, and hauled me to my feet. "I know it was you."

"What?" I asked, confused, water dripping down my face.

"The jet. The 'system malfunction'. That was your work, wasn't it? You tried to kill us. You tried to kill Mark!"

Her grip on my hair tightened, and she shook my head violently.

"Answer me!"

I just stared at her, my mind blank. I couldn't form the words to deny it or admit it. What was the point? She believed what she wanted to believe. Any word from me would just be twisted, used as another excuse for punishment.

"Nothing to say?" she spat, her eyes blazing. "You think you can just try to murder the man I love and get away with it?"

She dragged me by my hair across the marble floor, my knees scraping against the hard, polished surface. She pulled me into the main bathroom, the one with the giant soaking tub and floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city.

She shoved my head under the faucet and turned the cold water on full blast. The force of the water was suffocating. I choked and gasped, struggling to breathe.

"You wanted to hurt him," she screamed over the sound of the rushing water. "You're jealous. You can't stand to see me happy with a real man, a decent man!"

She finally pulled my head out. I was left kneeling on the tile, shivering, soaked to the bone, gasping for air.

I looked up at her, my expression empty. I didn't try to explain. I didn't beg. I just accepted it.

My silence seemed to infuriate her more than any argument would have.

"Why don't you defend yourself anymore, Ethan?" she demanded, her voice trembling with a strange mix of anger and frustration. "Why don't you even try?"

I wiped the water from my eyes and looked at her.

"I learned not to," I said, my voice hoarse. "It doesn't matter what I say."

A flicker of confusion crossed her face.

"What does that matter?"

I didn't answer. I just pushed myself up slowly from the wet floor, my joints aching. My silence was a wall she couldn't seem to break through, and it was the only defense I had left.

She didn't know about the years of it. The "accidents." The time Mark "accidentally" slammed a car door on my hand, breaking two of my fingers, then apologized with a charming smile while Sarah berated me for being clumsy. The countless times I was blamed for things I didn't do-a missing piece of jewelry that later turned up in Mark's pocket, a "stain" on the carpet that he made himself.

Each time, I had tried to explain. Each time, Sarah had sided with him, her punishments becoming more severe. The word CRIMINAL carved into my arm was the final lesson. My words were meaningless. My truth did not exist in this house. So I stopped speaking it. I learned to endure, to absorb the blame, to become the monster she wanted me to be. Because fighting back only made it worse.