Chapter 4

"What is it?" I asked, my voice a dead monotone. "What does she want?"

Garrison's face was unreadable in the dim light. "Keyla feels responsible for your mother's garden falling into disrepair."

I flinched. My mother's garden was her sanctuary.

"She wants to replant it," he continued. "As a tribute. She's ordered all of your mother's favorite flowers. She wants you to plant them."

The cruelty was breathtaking. He wanted me to dig in the dirt of my mother's sacred space, to plant flowers as a "tribute" orchestrated by her killer. A tribute that would be filmed and used for their PR campaign.

"No," I said. The word was quiet but firm.

Garrison's eyes narrowed. "Don't be difficult, Janette. It's a simple request."

"I said no."

He took a menacing step into the basement. "Do you want to stay down here? Because I can easily leave you here for another day. Or two."

I didn't respond. The threat hung in the air, thick and suffocating.

"Do this one thing," he said, his voice softening into a manipulative purr. "Just do this, and I promise, things will get better. We can move past all this. Keyla will leave, and it will just be us again."

Lies. All of it. He was a snake, and I was done being charmed. But for my plan to work, I needed to get out of this basement.

I gave a slow, defeated nod.

He left, and a few minutes later, one of his security guards escorted me out into the blinding sunlight. He led me to the backyard, where dozens of trays of flowers and bags of soil were arranged around my mother's garden plot. Keyla was there, directing a small camera crew.

"Make sure you get my good side," she was saying.

The guard pushed me forward. "Get to work."

My hands were raw and my muscles screamed in protest, but I knelt in the soil. I dug my fingers into the cool earth, the earth my mother had loved. With every flower I planted, a piece of my old life fell away. The pain, the love, the memories-they were burning up, leaving behind only a cold, hard resolve.

I worked for hours under the hot sun, the camera crew documenting my "penitent" labor. Keyla watched from a lounge chair, sipping iced tea, occasionally offering insincere directions.

"A little more to the left, darling. We want it to look perfect."

When it was finally done, my body ached and I was covered in dirt and sweat. Keyla dismissed the camera crew and walked over to inspect my work.

"Well," she said, a dismissive wave of her hand. "It's adequate."

Garrison came out to join her, wrapping an arm around her waist. "It looks beautiful, my love. A fitting tribute."

He looked at me, curled on the ground by the garden, with no more emotion than if I were a piece of discarded lawn equipment.

I watched them walk back into the house, their laughter echoing behind them. I stayed there, on the ground, feeling the cool earth beneath my hands. I remembered Garrison bringing me a single, perfect rose from this garden on our first anniversary. He'd told me my love was the most beautiful thing that had ever grown in his life.

That man was dead. Or maybe he never existed at all.

The love I felt for him, the love that had defined my entire adult life, was gone. It had been systematically tortured and starved until it simply ceased to exist. I felt nothing for him now. Not love, not hate. Just a vast, empty coldness.

That night, I saw on social media that Garrison and Keyla were at a gala downtown, smiling for the cameras. He was holding her hand. The caption read: "Billionaire Garrison Gardner and philanthropist Keyla Dixon, a portrait of devotion."

I felt nothing. The pain was gone.

I walked into our master bathroom. His things were still on his side of the vanity, mine on the other. I took my wedding ring, a simple platinum band, and my engagement ring, a diamond he'd said was as clear as his love for me, and dropped them into the toilet. I flushed.

The sound was immensely satisfying.

I went out to the small greenhouse where he kept his prized collection of rare orchids. He had spent a fortune on them. He'd once told me they were delicate and beautiful, just like me.

I METHODICALLY snapped every single one at the stem. I tore the petals and crushed the leaves under my heel until the floor was a ruin of green and purple.

As I stood in the wreckage, my phone buzzed. It was a notification. I was preparing a statement, a final "suicide note" to be released after my disappearance.

The front door opened. Garrison was home early.

He walked into the greenhouse, stopping dead when he saw the carnage. His face, usually so controlled, was a mask of disbelief and fury.

"Janette... what did you do?" he whispered, his voice shaking.

He looked from the destroyed orchids to my face, a flicker of fear in his eyes. For the first time, he looked like he didn't know what I was going to do next.

"They were dying," I said, my voice calm and even. "I just helped them along."

He stared at me, his mind clearly racing. "Janette, baby, listen to me," he said, taking a step toward me, his hands up in a placating gesture. "I know I've been... hard on you. But I promise, after this memorial for your mom, everything will be different. We'll go away, just the two of us. Anywhere you want."

I almost laughed. He thought a vacation could fix this. He had no idea what was coming. He had no idea that I wasn't broken. I was being remade.