Chapter 2

"I want to make it up to you," Austen said the next day, his voice smooth as silk over the phone. "There's a small gathering tonight at the Lux Club. Just a few friends. It'll be good for you to get out, relax."

I hesitated. "I don't know, Austen. I'm tired."

"Please, Izzy. For me. I want to show everyone how proud I am of my beautiful, pregnant wife."

His words were a sweet poison, and I drank them down. I wanted to believe that the man I loved was still in there somewhere. So I agreed.

The next thing I knew, I was waking up not in my bed, but on a cold, metal floor.

A bone-deep chill was seeping into my body. I pushed myself up, my movements slow and clumsy. I was in a room made of glass, like a display case. The air was frigid, and I could see my breath misting in front of my face. A low hum vibrated through the floor. It was a cold storage unit.

Panic flared in my chest, hot and sharp against the cold.

Then I heard laughter.

Outside the glass, a crowd of people in expensive clothes stood with champagne flutes in their hands. They were the city's elite, the socialites and hangers-on who orbited Austen.

And there, in the center of them all, was Austen. His arm was wrapped tightly around Deb Noble's waist. She was leaning against him, a triumphant smirk on her face. She wasn't in a hospital gown. She was in a glittering cocktail dress, looking perfectly healthy.

"Looks like she's finally awake," Austen said, his voice amplified by a speaker inside my glass prison. The crowd laughed again.

He raised his glass in a toast. "My wife has been so hot-headed lately. I thought she needed to cool down."

The laughter grew louder, a cruel, echoing sound that bounced off the glass walls. Deb looked at me, her eyes full of venom. "Some people just can't handle the heat," she purred.

Rage, pure and cold, cut through my initial fear. My hands weren't tied. They hadn't taken my purse. I fumbled inside it, my fingers numb, and pulled out my phone.

Ignoring their mocking faces, I found the number and pressed call. It rang once, twice.

"Dad," I said, my voice hoarse. "Dad, it's me."

Austen's smile faltered for a second. The socialites exchanged confused glances.

Then Austen let out a booming laugh. "Oh, Izzy. Still so delusional. Your father is dead."

"He died six months ago," Deb added, her voice dripping with fake sympathy. "Everyone knows that. Blackwell Innovations was liquidated. It's all gone."

The crowd murmured in agreement. They all knew. They had all watched as Austen dismantled my family's legacy piece by piece, and I had been too blind with grief and love to see it.

"He's not dead," I insisted, but my voice trembled. Was it possible? Had Austen fooled me so completely?

"Let them believe that," a calm, familiar voice said through the phone. It was my father. He was alive.

Relief washed over me so powerfully my knees almost buckled.

"Dad, Austen locked me in a freezer. He-"

Austen, seeing my expression change, strode to the glass. "Who are you talking to, Isolde? The ghost of a failed mogul?"

He sneered. "It's over. You have nothing. No father, no company, no power. You're just a pregnant woman in a box."

He turned to the crowd. "Let's liven this party up!"