Chapter 4

I went back to the house the next morning. I had to get the rest of my things, to sever the final ties. I used my key, stepping into the silent, sun-drenched foyer.

They were in the living room. Cohen and Hillary.

Hillary was sobbing on the couch, her face buried in her hands. Cohen was pacing, his face a mask of fury.

He saw me and stopped. His eyes, when they met mine, were filled with a terrifying hatred.

"You," he snarled. "How could you?"

I was confused for a second. "How could I what?"

"Don't play dumb with me, Jaycee," he spat. "Caesar is dead. Hillary found him in her garden this morning. Poisoned."

The accusation hit me. It was so vile, so far from the truth, that all I could do was let out a short, harsh laugh. "You think I killed her dog?"

"Who else would do it?" he yelled. "You hated him! You made that perfectly clear yesterday!"

Hillary looked up, her face streaked with tears, but her eyes were sharp and calculating. "She threatened him, Cohen! She said he should beg for forgiveness. She's a monster."

She painted a picture of me as a vengeful killer, a heartless fiend who would take out her grief on an innocent animal. An animal she'd described as "just an animal" a day before.

I looked at Cohen, at the man I was supposed to marry, the man I had loved with every fiber of my being. I asked him the one question that mattered.

"Do you believe her?"

His answer was not in his words, but in the cold, dead certainty in his eyes.

"Hillary is devastated. Her dog is dead. Your mother..." He hesitated, then pushed on, his voice dripping with contempt. "Your mother's situation was an unfortunate accident. This was malicious. This was murder."

An accident. My mother's death was an accident. But a dog's death was a murder.

In his world, in his twisted value system, that made perfect sense. A prize-winning, pure-bred mastiff was worth more than a working-class woman from the suburbs.

There was no point in arguing. There was no point in defending myself. He had already tried and convicted me in the court of his own prejudice.

"Fine," I said, a bitter taste in my mouth. "I did it. I hunted down that monster and I killed it. Are you happy now?"

My defiant confession was the spark that lit the fuse.

Hillary launched herself at me, her nails bared like claws. "You bitch! You'll pay for this!"

I reacted on instinct, shoving her hard. She stumbled back, falling onto the plush carpet.

And then it happened.

The sound of the slap was like a crack of lightning in the quiet room. My head snapped to the side, my cheek stinging, a fiery heat spreading across my skin.

Cohen had hit me.

He stood over me, his hand still raised, his chest heaving. "Get out," he hissed, his voice low and dangerous. "Get your things and get out of my house. Now."

I stared at him, my mind reeling. The physical blow was nothing compared to the shock of the act itself. He had put his hands on me. For her.

He immediately turned to Hillary, rushing to her side, helping her up. "Are you okay, Hilly? Did she hurt you?"

The contrast was staggering. He hit me, and then he asked her if she was okay.

I touched my cheek, the skin already starting to swell. I looked at him, cradling Hillary in his arms, and a cold, clear finality settled in my soul.

"You're going to regret this, Cohen," I said, my voice quiet but firm. "One day, you'll look back on this moment, and you will wish you could die."

He sneered. "The only thing I regret is ever meeting you. Now get out. If you're not gone in ten minutes, I'm calling the police. I want you out of my life. For good."

"As you wish," I said softly.

It was over. Truly, irrevocably over.

I didn't need ten minutes. I walked upstairs, grabbed the suitcase I had already packed in my mind, and walked out of that house without a backward glance.

I drove straight to the airport. I had booked a one-way ticket to my hometown the night before.

As the plane took off, leaving the city and my old life behind, I felt a strange sense of release.

Back in the house, Cohen suddenly felt a sharp, inexplicable pang in his chest, a sense of dread that made his breath catch. He pulled out his phone, a sudden, desperate urge to call me, to undo what he had just done.

He sent a text. Jaycee, wait.

The message failed to deliver. A small, red exclamation mark appeared next to it. Message Not Delivered.

She had already blocked his number.