Chapter 3 Chapter 3

The annual Blackwood family foundation dinner was a mandatory affair. It was also the one event Donovan never missed. Except for this year. He was still on his "romantic getaway" with Chloe. I had to face his formidable family alone.

"Where is Donovan?" his grandfather, the old patriarch of the Blackwood clan, demanded the moment I arrived. His eyes were like chips of granite.

"He had an urgent business matter to attend to overseas," I lied smoothly, the words tasting like ash in my mouth. I was still performing my role. The dutiful wife, covering for her absent husband.

The lie held for about an hour. Then, the bomb dropped. A junior cousin, scrolling on her phone, gasped loud enough to silence the table.

"Oh my god! Look at this!"

She held up her phone. It was the same gossip website, but with a new, more scandalous article. Photos of Donovan and Chloe kissing on the deck of the yacht, the headline screaming about their torrid affair and Donovan's "abandoned wife."

The room fell into a dead silence. Every eye turned to me. I could feel their judgment, their pity, their contempt, pressing down on me like a physical weight.

Donovan's grandfather slammed his fist on the table. "Disgraceful!" he roared. His face was purple with rage, but his anger wasn't directed at his grandson. It was directed at me.

He grabbed my arm and dragged me from the dining room into his study, the doors closing behind us with a heavy thud.

"This is your fault," he snarled, his face inches from mine. "You couldn't keep your husband in line. You let him humiliate this family."

"I can't control him," I said, my voice quiet.

"You will fix this," he commanded. "You will get him back here, you will shut down these rumors, and you will restore the family's honor. Or you will face the consequences." He pointed to a long, thin cane resting against the wall. "In this family, we have ways of dealing with failure."

Fix it? How could I possibly fix it? Donovan was a force of nature, driven by his obsession with Chloe. I had no power over him. The old man was asking me to do the impossible.

There was only one choice. To endure. To take the punishment, because fighting was futile.

"I can't fix it," I said, my voice still calm. "So I will accept the punishment."

His eyes widened in disbelief, then narrowed in fury. "You defy me?"

"I am stating a fact," I replied.

He grabbed the cane. The first blow landed across my back, a searing line of fire. I bit my lip to keep from crying out. Another blow, and another. The pain was immense, but my mind was strangely clear. It was just pain. It would pass. Like everything else, this too would end.

I don't know how many times he hit me before I collapsed, the world dissolving into a black, swirling vortex.

I woke up in my bed at the mansion. The first thing I saw was Donovan's face, etched with a strange mixture of anger and concern.

"What happened?" he demanded. "Grandfather's assistant called me. Said you fainted."

"I was punished," I said simply.

"Why didn't you call me?" he asked, a hint of frustration in his voice. "I could have stopped him."

I almost laughed. The irony was suffocating. "You were busy," I said, my voice laced with a weariness that went bone-deep. "I didn't want to disturb you and Miss Sanders."

His expression tightened. He heard the unspoken accusation. The whispers of the maids, my quiet acceptance of humiliation, and now this. The narrative he had built in his head-the story of the pathetic, lovesick wife-was solidifying. He saw my sacrifice not as a strategic endurance, but as a testament to my undying love for him.

For the first time, he did something unexpected. He stayed. He sat in a chair by my bed while a doctor he'd summoned tended to the welts on my back. He didn't say much, but he was there. It was a strange, hollow comfort.

He left a few days later, called away by another of Chloe's manufactured emergencies. I was alone again, my body aching but my spirit resolute. The contract was ending in a matter of days.

I was at a small cafe downtown, picking up a specific blend of coffee Donovan liked-a force of habit I was eager to break. Two women at the next table were talking loudly, staring at me.

"That's her," one whispered. "Donovan Blackwood's wife. Look at her clothes. So plain. She looks like a housekeeper."

"It's embarrassing," the other agreed. "If I were married to a billionaire, I'd at least dress the part."

I ignored them, paid for the coffee, and turned to leave. A hand on my arm stopped me. It was Donovan.

"What was that about?" he asked, his eyes dark.

Before I could answer, he dragged me out of the cafe and into a high-end boutique next door.

"Your appearance reflects on me," he said, his voice tight with anger. "You will not embarrass the Blackwood name."

He started pulling dresses off the racks, thrusting them at me. "Try these on." I was a doll, a mannequin to be dressed. He paid with a black credit card, the transaction swift and impersonal. He never gave me an allowance, never gave me any money. My existence was funded on his whim. I was entirely dependent, a fact that chafed more than any insult.

We walked out of the store, my arms laden with shopping bags filled with clothes I didn't want. And there, across the street, was Chloe.

She saw us. Her face crumpled into a mask of betrayal and pain. She looked at Donovan, then at me, then turned and ran, a perfect picture of a heartbroken lover.

Donovan didn't hesitate.

He dropped my arm, the expensive bags tumbling to the pavement, and ran after her. "Chloe!"

I watched them go, a familiar coldness settling in my chest. I stood there for a moment, surrounded by the symbols of his wealth and his fleeting attention.

Then, chaos erupted. A screech of tires. A scream.

A piece of scaffolding from a construction site overhead had broken loose. It came crashing down, right where Chloe had been running.