Chapter 3

Keyla thrived under Garrison's care. Within a day, her feigned fragility was replaced by an air of arrogant ownership. She treated my home like her personal resort and my staff like her servants.

One afternoon, she had friends over. Their loud, braying laughter echoed through the house. I was in the kitchen, trying to ignore them, when I overheard their conversation drifting in from the patio.

"Garrison is just so devoted to you, Keyla," one of the women said. "He told my husband he was going to divorce that drab wife of his ages ago. He was just waiting for the right time."

My blood turned to ice. He had promised her. He had been planning to leave me all along. My mother's "accident" wasn't a complication for him; it was an opportunity.

"He adores me," Keyla said, her voice dripping with smug satisfaction. "He'd do anything for me."

I walked out of the kitchen, my face a blank mask. As I passed their table, Keyla's friend, a woman named Tiffany, deliberately stuck out her foot. I stumbled, catching myself on the edge of the table before I could fall.

"Oops," Tiffany sneered. "Watch where you're going, dear."

Keyla laughed. "She's always so clumsy. It's a wonder she can even walk straight."

I straightened up, my hands clenched into fists. Before I could say a word, Garrison strode onto the patio, his face a thundercloud.

"What the hell is going on?" he boomed.

For a wild, fleeting second, I thought he was angry on my behalf. He glared at Tiffany, who shrank back in her seat.

"Tiffany, what did you do?" he demanded.

But before she could answer, Keyla let out a pained whimper.

"Garrison, darling," she cried, clutching her arm. "It was awful. Janette just came at me. She tried to push me! I think my arm is broken."

It happened so fast, it was like watching a play. Her face crumpled, tears welling in her eyes. It was a masterful performance.

And Garrison bought every second of it.

His head whipped around, his glare landing on me. The brief flicker of concern was gone, replaced by pure fury.

"What did you do to her?" he hissed.

"I didn't touch her," I said, my voice shaking with rage. "She's lying."

"Don't you dare call her a liar!" He took a step toward me, his whole body radiating menace. He looked at Keyla, who was sobbing in her chair.

"Oh, my love, are you okay?" he murmured, rushing to her side. He gently cradled her arm. "We need to get you to a doctor."

He picked up a nearby vase-a gift from my mother-and smashed it on the stone floor. Shards of ceramic flew everywhere. "You see what you make me do, Janette? You're out of control!"

He scooped a wailing Keyla into his arms and started carrying her into the house.

"Garrison, I don't need a doctor," Keyla sniffled into his chest. "I just want you. She scares me."

This only fueled his rage. He stopped and looked back at me, his eyes filled with a cold, terrifying light.

"You need to learn a lesson," he said, his voice dangerously quiet. "You will go to the basement and you will stay there until you can think about what you've done."

The basement. It wasn't just a basement. It was a reinforced panic room he'd had built, soundproof and windowless. A black box.

"You can't be serious," I whispered, horrified.

"Do it," he commanded. "Or I'll have security do it for you."

He turned and carried Keyla away, her face buried in his shoulder, but I could see the triumphant glint in her eyes over the top.

I stood there, surrounded by the wreckage of my mother's vase, my body trembling. I had no choice. I walked down the stairs into the oppressive darkness of the basement. The heavy steel door clicked shut behind me, the sound final and absolute.

The darkness was total. The silence was a physical weight, pressing in on me from all sides. Hours bled into one another. I lost all track of time. My body ached from the cold concrete floor. Dehydration made my head pound and my throat feel like sandpaper.

At some point, I must have passed out.

I was woken by a voice. "Janette. Wake up."

The door was open, and a sliver of light cut through the blackness. Garrison stood there, a silhouette against the light.

I struggled to sit up, my body screaming in protest. I felt weak, dizzy.

"Keyla's parents are hosting a memorial fundraiser for your mother," he said, his voice flat, as if he were discussing the weather. "It's tomorrow night. You need to be there."

I stared at him, my mind struggling to process his words. He had locked me in a dark room for what felt like days, and now he was talking about a party.

"You want me to go to a party?" I croaked.

"It's not a party, it's a memorial," he corrected, impatient. "The Dixons are being very generous. It's good for public relations. And besides," he added, his voice turning cold, "Keyla is still very upset about what you did. She thinks you need to make it up to her."

He paused, letting the implication sink in. "She picked out a task for you. Something to show you're sorry."

My mind reeled. The memorial was a sham, a way for the Dixons to look compassionate while spitting on my mother's grave. And he was waking me from this torture chamber not out of concern, but because his sociopathic girlfriend had another cruel game for me to play.

A bitter, broken laugh escaped my lips. "Of course she did."

I realized then, in that cold, dark basement, the real reason he had woken me. It wasn't about the memorial. It was about Keyla's sick game. He had locked me away, broken me down, all to serve her.

The last vestiges of the man I thought I knew crumbled into dust.