Chapter 4

"You bitch," Kaden snarled, his voice low and menacing. "Did you put a steel needle in Brittaney's dress?"

Harlow stared into his furious eyes, the cold metal of the gun a terrifying reality against her skin. "No. I would never do that."

"Don't lie to me!" he roared. "She was pricked by it! She's hurt! You were the only one who touched those clothes!"

"I didn't do it," Harlow insisted, her voice trembling but firm.

He ignored her pleas. "Guards! Get her back to the house. Now."

Two men rushed in, yanking the IV from her arm and hauling her from the hospital bed. They dragged her back to the mansion and threw her into the damp, dark cellar they used as a dungeon.

They tied her to a wooden cross, her arms and legs spread wide.

"I didn't do it," she croaked, her throat raw.

A man-one of Kaden's most trusted enforcers-stepped out of the shadows. He held up a pair of pliers and a long, thin steel needle.

Then, with a cold, deliberate motion, he forced the needle under her fingernail.

A scream tore from Harlow's throat as white-hot agony shot up her arm. The ropes bit into her flesh as she struggled futilely against her bonds.

"Confess," the enforcer said, his voice flat.

"I... have... nothing... to confess," she gasped, tears and sweat mingling on her face.

"You're a stubborn one," the man said, a cruel glint in his eye. He picked up another needle.

One by one, they pierced her fingers. The pain was blinding, an all-consuming fire that threatened to swallow her whole. She was in and out of consciousness, a broken thing hanging on a cross.

She was there for a day and a night. At one point, a younger guard, his face pale, whispered to the enforcer, "Sir, maybe she really didn't do it. She's the mistress of the house..."

The enforcer scoffed. "She offended Miss Cortez. That's a death sentence. The boss only keeps her around for show."

Through a haze of pain, Harlow heard him. Of course. Everyone knew. Brittaney was the real power. She was just a prop. A bitter, broken smile touched her lips before she finally succumbed to the darkness.

When she woke again, she was in her own bed. Her personal maid, a kind young woman named Lily, was gently applying medicine to her mutilated fingers.

"You're awake, ma'am!" Lily cried, relieved. "I'll go tell the master!"

Before Lily could leave, a series of horrific screams echoed from the front courtyard.

Lily came back a few minutes later, her face white with shock. "Ma'am... the master... he's whipping the enforcer who tortured you. He's beating him half to death."

Harlow stared at her, confused.

"The master is yelling that you are the lady of the Barnes family," Lily whispered, her eyes wide. "He's saying that offending you is offending the entire family, that no one can disrespect the family's honor."

Harlow turned her head to stare out the window, a pain deeper than any physical torment settling in her heart.

It wasn't for her. He wasn't defending her. He was defending his family's name. Her suffering meant nothing; his pride meant everything.

She closed her eyes, her face a blank, empty canvas.

A week later, when she could finally walk again, Kaden returned. He was dressed in a crisp, tailored suit, looking as powerful and handsome as ever.

He looked at her, his expression unreadable. "What's past is past," he said, his tone almost gentle. "Just learn to get along with Brittaney, and your position as Mrs. Barnes will always be secure."

He wanted her to forget being framed, tortured, and nearly killed. He wanted her to continue playing her part.

"There's a gala tonight," he continued. "You'll come with me."

Before Harlow could refuse, Brittaney, who had appeared at the door, grabbed her arm and practically dragged her to the car.

The entire ride, Brittaney chattered excitedly, draping herself over Kaden, kissing his cheek. Kaden smiled, his eyes full of the familiar adoration he reserved only for her. Harlow sat in the front seat, silent and invisible, a ghost at their celebration.

The club was buzzing with the city's elite. As soon as the three of them walked in, the whispers started.

"Look, Kaden Barnes is such a devoted husband. He takes her everywhere."

"Her? Look at what she's wearing. That dress is five years old. I think that's the real mistress, Brittaney Cortez, with him. The wife is probably the help."

Harlow heard it all. She was used to it. She found a quiet corner and stood there, watching Kaden and Brittaney hold court, the perfect power couple.

Suddenly, a shower of photographs rained down from the second-floor balcony.

A woman near Harlow gasped, picking one up. "Oh my god! It's the lady of the house! Look at these pictures... she's barely wearing anything!"