Chapter 2

I walked back into Gustav's penthouse a day later. It felt like walking into my own tomb. The air was thick with the scent of lilies, his favorite, and the silence was heavy, oppressive. He was punishing me with it.

He sat in his favorite armchair, a glass of dark liquor in his hand, staring out at the city lights. He didn't turn when I entered.

"You were gone for twenty-six hours," he said, his voice flat. "I was worried."

"My parents are dead, Gustav."

"A tragic accident," he said, still not looking at me. "They were under a lot of stress."

I felt a surge of rage so pure it made me dizzy. I wanted to scream, to claw his eyes out. But I remembered Amit's words. Be smart, Janey. He expects you to be emotional. Be cold. Be nothing.

I walked past him and into the bedroom. Our bedroom. The whole place was a museum of our relationship. A monument to his obsession.

On the wall was a massive, floor-to-ceiling photograph of me, taken on our first anniversary. I was laughing, my head thrown back, a genuine, unguarded smile on my face. I didn't recognize that woman anymore.

I remembered when he took it. We were in a villa in Italy he'd rented for a month. He' d woken me up at dawn, pulling me out onto a balcony that overlooked the sea. He told me I was the most beautiful thing he' d ever seen, more beautiful than the sunrise.

I had believed him.

I had met Gustav at a tech conference. He was the keynote speaker, a venture capitalist with a reputation for being a kingmaker. He was charismatic, brilliant, and intense. He pursued me relentlessly. He saw something in me, he said. A fire that matched his own.

It was intoxicating. For the first year, I was deliriously happy. He supported my work, challenged my ideas, and loved me with a ferocity that felt like the center of the universe.

The first red flag was subtle. A comment about a male colleague I'd had lunch with. "You don't need to waste your time with mediocrities like him, Janey. You have me."

Then he started "helping" me with my work, making suggestions that slowly isolated me from my own team. He bought out a majority share in my company, a move he framed as a romantic gesture. "Now we're true partners," he'd said.

I learned about his family later. The Bradfords were old money, and they had a history. A pattern of obsessive, all-consuming loves that often ended in tragedy. His grandfather had kept his wife a virtual prisoner in their mansion. Gustav had spoken of it with a strange sort of pride. "That's how a Bradford man loves," he'd said. "Completely."

The control escalated. He checked my phone, my emails. He installed tracking software on my car and my laptop. He chose my clothes. He alienated my friends one by one, subtly turning me against them until I had no one left but him.

Six months ago, I had tried to leave. I packed a bag while he was at a meeting and called a cab. He was waiting for me in the lobby. I never found out how he knew. He didn't yell. He just looked at me with those wounded, intense eyes.

"You would leave me?" he'd whispered, his voice breaking. "After everything I've done for you? Everything I am?"

He took me back upstairs and locked the door. He didn't touch me. He just sat and watched me for two days, not sleeping, not eating, just watching. It was the most terrifying experience of my life. On the third day, I broke. I promised I would never leave him again.

That's when he'd insisted I see a therapist to deal with my "instability." He chose her, of course. Estelle Strong.

I found out about them by accident. I came home early and heard them in the bedroom. I heard her laugh, a sound of smug satisfaction. I heard him call her name with the same intensity he once used for mine.

The betrayal was a physical blow. When I confronted him, he didn't deny it.

"She understands me, Janey," he'd said, without a trace of shame. "She understands the burden of my love for you. She helps me carry it."

Now, standing in the marble-and-glass cage he called home, the memories swirled around me, fueling the cold fire in my gut. He had taken everything from me. My company, my friends, my parents. My life.

It was all my fault. I had stayed. I had chosen this. I had let his passion blind me to the poison beneath. The regret was a physical weight, pressing down on my chest, stealing my breath.

He appeared in the doorway, blocking the light.

"Are you going to stand there all night?" he asked.

I turned to face him, my hands clenched at my sides. The grief and rage were a tidal wave, and this time, I let it sweep me away.

On his desk was a heavy glass award my company had won last year. My name was engraved on it. I grabbed it, the weight solid and real in my hand, and I lunged at him, a scream of pure hatred tearing from my throat.