Chapter 2

The phone buzzed in her pocket. It was a new, untraceable number.

"This is Dalton."

His voice was exactly as she remembered it from college-calm, deep, and steady. It was an anchor in the storm of her panic.

"I need to leave," Alana whispered, her voice hoarse. "Tonight. I need a new identity, a new life somewhere he can never find me."

"Where are you?" he asked, no hint of surprise in his tone.

"I'm at home. The Ballard estate."

"Stay put. I'll handle everything. You'll have a new passport, a new name, and a flight confirmation within the hour. The shares are a generous offer, Alana, but my help is not contingent on them."

"No," she said, her voice firming. "It's a transaction. I'm buying my freedom. You hate him. Taking his company apart from the inside will be your reward."

She knew Dalton well enough to know he was a pragmatist. Appealing to his rivalry with Austen was smarter than appealing to his pity.

There was a brief pause on the other end. "Alright, Alana. A transaction it is. I'll send a car. Be ready."

The line went dead.

Relief and terror warred inside her. She moved quickly, her broken hand a dull, throbbing reminder of her reality. She found a stack of documents on Austen's desk-investment proposals, contracts, partnership agreements.

At the bottom of the pile, she slipped in the divorce papers her lawyer had drafted months ago, a fantasy she never thought she' d have the courage to act on.

She walked back to her room, her steps light, almost floating.

Austen returned an hour later. He found her lying in bed, the picture of a fragile, repentant wife.

He rushed to her side, his face etched with concern. He cradled her uninjured hand, his touch surprisingly gentle.

"My love, I'm so sorry," he murmured, his voice thick with what sounded like genuine regret. "I hate doing this to you. I hate it."

He leaned in, his breath warm against her ear. "Don't ever think of leaving me, Alana. I don't know what I'd do. I think I'd go mad."

She remembered the time she'd left for a three-day architectural conference in Chicago. He had tracked her plane, bought out the entire hotel she was staying in, and had a panic attack when her phone died for two hours. He was obsessive. Possessive.

He saw her love not as a gift, but as his property.

Alana simply looked at him, her expression carefully neutral. She couldn't let him see the cold fury simmering beneath the surface.

"I have some new designs I need you to look at," she said, her voice soft. "It's a new resort project. The investors are eager."

She slid the stack of papers onto the bed, the divorce agreement hidden safely within. "Your signature is needed on the preliminary approval."

Austen, eager to return to his role as the supportive husband, didn't even glance at them. He trusted her implicitly in matters of business and design. It was the one area where he considered her his equal.

He picked up his pen and signed the top page, then flipped through, signing each one without a second thought. His signature on the divorce papers was a swift, arrogant scrawl.

"Anything for you, my love," he said, setting the papers aside. "I'll always support your dreams."

She felt a bitter, triumphant pang. He had just signed away his marriage, and he had no idea.

He then insisted on feeding her himself, bringing a tray of soup and bread to the bedside. He was a monster, but his performance of a loving husband was flawless.

Just as she was finishing the last spoonful, her bedroom door burst open.

Joyce stood there, a vicious smirk on her face. She held up her phone.

"Look at this, Alana. A new scar for your collection. This one on your hand is particularly ugly. I wonder if you'll ever be able to hold a pencil again."

On her phone was a close-up picture of Alana' s bruised and swollen hand.

Alana remembered that punishment vividly. Austen had broken two of her fingers because Joyce claimed Alana had given her a "dirty look."

"Delete it, Joyce," Alana said, her voice low. "And get out of my room."

"Make me," Joyce taunted, stepping closer.

Footsteps echoed in the hall. Austen was coming back.

Joyce's eyes darted towards the door, a flicker of panic and then cruel inspiration in them.

She grabbed a letter opener from Alana's desk, slashed her own arm with a shallow cut, and stumbled backward just as Austen walked in.

"Austen!" she cried, tears streaming down her face. "Alana... she attacked me! She said she was going to kill me!"

Austen' s eyes flew from Joyce' s bleeding arm to the letter opener on the floor near Alana' s feet.

Alana expected the explosion. The rage. The immediate belief in Joyce's lies.

But it didn't come.

Austen ignored Joyce completely. He rushed to Alana's side.

"Are you alright? Did she hurt you?" he asked, his hands hovering over her, checking for injuries.

He looked at Joyce with cold annoyance. "Joyce, what are you doing here?"

"She tried to stab me!" Joyce screeched, holding out her arm.

"Alana is injured. She can barely move, let alone attack you," Austen said, his voice flat. "Don't be ridiculous."

Alana stared at him, bewildered. This was a first. He was defending her.

"I didn't touch her, Austen," Alana said, her voice shaking with a mix of fury and genuine emotion. "Check the cameras. Please. Just check the cameras for once."

Her whole body trembled. The injustice of it all, the years of baseless accusations, crashed over her.

Austen' s face softened. He pulled her into a gentle hug. "Shh, my love. It's okay. I believe you. I will always believe you."

He stroked her hair. "You don't need to prove anything to me."

He then turned to Joyce. "Go home, Joyce. Alana needs to rest."

Joyce looked stunned, then furious, but she stormed out of the room.

Alana felt a flicker of something dangerous. Hope.

"You... you really believe me?" she asked, her voice small.

"Of course, my love," he whispered, kissing her forehead. He held her tight for a moment, then let go. "I'm going to get you some water. Don't move."

He walked out of the room, his footsteps receding down the hall.

Alana let out a breath she didn't realize she'd been holding. For a single, insane moment, she thought maybe she was wrong. Maybe he could change.

The thought was obliterated a second later.

Someone grabbed her from behind, a hand clamping a chemical-soaked cloth over her mouth and nose.

The world tilted, the sweet, sickly smell filling her lungs.

Her last conscious thought was of Austen' s parting words. I believe you.

Another lie. The most brutal one of all.