Chapter 2

Liam dragged me back into the house, his grip on my arm like a steel vise. He didn't speak, just pulled me through the foyer, past the stunned faces of his remaining guests and the concerned look of his butler. He shoved me into the library and slammed the door shut, the sound echoing the violent beat of my own heart.

"You think you can just end it?" he snarled, his face inches from mine. "You think I'll let you off that easily? You belong to me, Ava. Your life is mine to control. Your death is, too."

He was breathing heavily, his chest rising and falling with a rage that seemed to consume him. For a moment, his eyes flickered down to my stomach, where a fresh stain of red was beginning to seep through my dress. A flicker of something, maybe concern, crossed his features before it was gone, replaced by that familiar coldness.

"I'm sorry," I whispered, the words a conditioned response. In our life together, "I'm sorry" was the only safe phrase. It was my shield, my surrender, my plea for mercy.

"Sorry," he scoffed, turning away from me to pace the length of the room. "You're always sorry. Sorry for failing me. Sorry for being weak. Sorry for existing."

I flinched at his words. They were true. I was sorry for existing. My existence was a constant reminder of the pain he carried, the pain my family had supposedly caused. For three years, he had made it his mission to make me feel the full weight of that sin.

He had turned me into a human work of art, a living, breathing perfume bottle. The monthly "scent treatments" were agonizing. A team of specialists would rub specially formulated lotions into my skin, the massage so intense it left bruises. The process was designed to maintain the unique fragrance my body produced, a scent derived from my family's secret formula.

Then came the public parades. He would take me to high-profile events, showing me off like a trophy. I was his beautiful, fragrant possession. His business associates, drunk on power and champagne, would corner me, their hands roaming freely over my body, their whispers filled with lewd suggestions. Liam would watch from across the room, a smirk on his face, enjoying my humiliation.

The pregnancies were the worst part. He forced himself on me, his touch devoid of any affection, driven only by a cold, calculating need. He didn't want a child. He wanted the "placenta." The word was a cruel euphemism for the life I carried, the life that was sacrificed for Chloe Thompson.

Seven times. Seven times I had felt the flutter of life inside me, a tiny spark of hope in the darkness. Seven times I had lost it. Miscarriages, he called them. But I knew the truth. The last two were terminations, scheduled by him, the procedures clinical and cold. All to harvest the "essence," the vital nutrients that would boost Chloe's health and keep her by his side.

A memory of the pain, the blood, the emptiness, made my body tremble. I wrapped my arms around myself, trying to hold the pieces of my shattered self together.

Liam stopped pacing and turned to face me. "Get on your knees," he commanded, his voice low and dangerous.

I hesitated, my body refusing to obey.

He strode towards me, grabbing my hair and forcing me to the floor. "I said, on your knees."

Tears streamed down my face as my knees hit the cold, hard floor. This was another part of his ritual of revenge. He wanted me broken, humbled, utterly stripped of my dignity.

"It's time for your treatment," he said, his voice flat. "Tomorrow is the gala. You need to smell perfect."

"No," I begged, the word a choked sob. "Please, Liam. Not now. I just lost..."

"You lost nothing but a tool," he said coldly. "A tool that failed to do its job. Now, you will do the other job I have for you. Or do I need to remind you what happens when you disobey?"

I closed my eyes, the memories of his punishments flooding my mind. The days locked in the dark, the withholding of food, the chilling way he would describe in detail how he would destroy the last remnants of my family's legacy.

"I'll do it," I whispered, my voice thick with defeat. "I'll do the treatment." My own voice sounded foreign, a hollow echo of a woman who had given up long ago.