Chapter 3

Darkness.

That was the first thing Alana registered as consciousness slowly returned. A thick, suffocating blackness that pressed in on her from all sides.

She tried to move her hands, but they were tied tightly behind her back. Her ankles were bound too.

A familiar voice cut through the silence, laced with a weary disappointment that made her skin crawl.

"Alana, Alana. Why must you make this so difficult? I told you not to hurt Joyce."

It was Austen.

"I told you I believe you," he continued, his voice echoing in the small, dark space. "But actions have consequences. You have to learn that."

She thrashed against her restraints, a silent scream trapped in her throat. The rough rope bit into her wrists.

"Now," Austen's voice commanded from somewhere outside her line of sight, "we will proceed with punishment number ninety-seven."

He wasn't even in the room. He was watching, listening from somewhere else.

A sudden, blinding light flooded the space, and a machine whirred to life. Two metal clamps shot out, grabbing her already shattered left hand and pinning it to a steel table.

"This is for Joyce's pain," Austen's voice announced, devoid of all emotion.

A drill descended from the ceiling, its tip gleaming under the harsh light. It spun faster and faster, a high-pitched whine that drilled into her very soul.

It lowered towards her forefinger.

Alana bit down hard on her own lip, the coppery taste of blood flooding her mouth, anything to keep from screaming. The pain was excruciating, a universe of agony exploding in her hand. She felt the drill grind against bone.

The next thing she knew, she was waking up in a hospital room. Not a public hospital, but Austen's private medical wing in their mansion.

The air smelled of antiseptic and lilies.

Through the haze of pain medication, she heard voices outside her door. Austen and a doctor.

"The nerve regeneration serum is ready," the doctor said. "But there's only one dose available this month. Ms. Cummings also requires it for the cut on her arm."

Alana' s heart went cold.

"Give it to Joyce," Austen said without a moment's hesitation. "Her injury, though minor, was caused by Alana's aggression. This will serve as a reminder for my wife. Let her pain teach her a lesson."

A lesson. He had destroyed her hand, and he was calling it a lesson. He still believed Joyce. His words of trust in the bedroom had been nothing but a prelude to this torture.

A small, involuntary sound escaped her lips, a whimper of pure despair.

The door flew open.

Austen rushed to her side, his face a perfect picture of loving concern.

"My love, you're awake," he breathed, reaching for her. "You scared me."

He saw her flinch away from his touch.

"What's wrong?" he asked, his brow furrowed. "Are you still angry with me?"

He knelt by her bed, his eyes pleading. "I know you're upset. But you can't keep hurting Joyce. She's innocent. She' s fragile. You nearly gave her a heart attack."

Alana stared at him, the sheer absurdity of his words sucking the air from her lungs.

"My hand, Austen," she whispered, her voice a raw rasp. "You're worried about Joyce's feelings, but what about my hand?"

A shadow of guilt crossed his face. He looked down, unable to meet her eyes.

"It was necessary," he said quietly. "To teach you."

Then he did something that turned her stomach to ice. He pulled a small, sharp knife from his pocket, the kind he used to open letters.

He drew the blade across his own palm, a deep, clean cut. Blood welled up, dripping onto the pristine white floor.

"See?" he said, his eyes wild with a twisted sort of pain. "I'm hurting too, Alana. Your pain is my pain. Forgive me. Please, forgive me."

She remembered him doing this before. It was his ultimate manipulation tactic. When his punishments went too far, when he saw the light in her eyes start to dim, he would hurt himself. A way to share the pain, to prove his love was real, a deranged act of penance to pull her back from the edge.

It had worked before. She had cried, tended to his wounds, and believed his remorse.

Not anymore. She saw the act for what it was: a performance. A way to control her, to make her feel guilty for his own cruelty.

"I'm tired," she said, her voice flat and empty. "I want to sleep."

He looked wounded by her coldness, but he nodded. "Of course, my love. Rest. I'll be right here."

He pulled a chair to her bedside and refused to leave, despite the nurses' protests. He sat there for two days, watching her, sometimes talking to her in low, loving tones, recounting their happiest memories.

He fed her, bathed her, and tended to her wounds with a gentleness that was utterly terrifying in its contrast to his violence.

One of the nurses sighed dreamily as she changed Alana's IV drip. "Mr. Ballard loves you so much. I've never seen a husband so devoted."

Alana wanted to laugh. If they only knew.

On the third day, she heard a soft weeping sound from the hallway.

It was Joyce. She was standing just outside the door, talking to Austen.

"Austen, I love you," Joyce whispered, her voice thick with fake tears. "I know she's your wife, but you know how I feel."

Alana' s blood ran cold. She pushed herself up slightly, her heart pounding.

Through the crack in the door, she saw it.

Austen, her devoted, loving husband, pulled Joyce into a hug.

He glanced nervously towards Alana' s room, making sure she was still "asleep."

Then, he leaned down and kissed Joyce.

It wasn't a comforting peck on the cheek. It was a deep, passionate kiss, one that spoke of a shared, ugly secret.

Alana felt the last piece of her heart turn to dust.

Her wedding ring felt like a brand on her finger. With her good hand, she slowly, deliberately, pulled it off. It was a struggle, her fingers swollen from the IV.

She held the diamond ring, the symbol of his "eternal love," and threw it into the metal trash can by her bed.

It landed with a soft, final clink.

Austen chose that moment to walk back in. He saw the empty space on her finger, then his eyes darted to the trash can.

He saw the ring.