Chapter 2

The first step was to disappear.

I went online and found a service, a discreet one that specialized in creating new identities for people who needed to vanish. It was expensive, but Catalina' s money was, for the moment, still my money. I filled out the forms, choosing a new name: Leo Vance. It sounded strong. Unbreakable.

Then, I started the process of canceling Eleazar Miller. Social security, bank accounts, passport. Wiping myself from existence piece by piece. It was a clean, digital suicide.

Three years ago, Dixon' s hammer had crushed the nerves and bones in my right hand. The doctors said I would never draw again. The pain was immense, but the loss of my purpose was worse. I was a rising star in the world of architecture. My right hand was my life.

Catalina had been so supportive. She bought me the most advanced prosthetic on the market, a sleek, silver contraption that looked impressive but felt like a dead weight at the end of my arm. It couldn' t hold a pencil. It couldn' t feel the grain of the paper. It was a constant reminder of what I had lost.

I had spent months in a dark haze, wanting to die. She sat with me, held me, told me I was still brilliant. She encouraged me to try using my left hand. For two years, I had secretly, painstakingly, retaught myself to draw. My lines were shaky at first, my concepts clumsy. But slowly, a new style emerged. Different from before, but still mine.

I had just completed my first full project, a design for a new arts foundation prize in London. It was my secret. I was going to tell Catalina tonight, on our anniversary. A surprise. I was going to show her that I wasn't broken, that I was coming back.

The irony was a bitter pill in my throat. I was grateful now that I hadn't told her. She would have found a way to stop me.

An email pinged on my phone. "Identity cancellation for Eleazar Miller is complete."

A wave of relief washed over me. I was a ghost.

I knew I had to go back to the house one last time. To get my portfolio, my real passport, and some cash. And to see her face one last time, knowing what I knew.

When I walked through the door, the atmosphere was tense. Catalina was standing in the foyer, her arms crossed, her face a mask of cold anger. She was yelling at our housekeeper, Maria.

"Where is he? Did you let him go out alone?"

Maria, a kind woman who had been with us for years, flinched. "Mrs. Carter, I... I thought he was in his studio."

She saw me and her shoulders sagged in relief.

Catalina' s face transformed in an instant. The anger vanished, replaced by a look of deep concern. She rushed to me, wrapping her arms around my neck.

"Eleazar, my love! Where have you been? I was so worried."

I stood stiffly in her embrace. Her perfume, a scent I used to love, now smelled like poison. Her touch made my skin crawl.

"I just went for a drive," I said, my voice flat.

She pulled back, her perfectly manicured hands framing my face. "You know I don' t like it when you go out without telling me. You' re not well. What if something happened?"

Her voice was laced with that suffocating "love" she used to trap me. The love that was a lie.

You' re not my wife, I thought, the words a silent scream in my head. You' re Mrs. Bright.

"I' m fine, Catalina," I said, pulling away from her.

She didn' t seem to notice my coldness. She was too wrapped up in her performance. "Come, I have your anniversary present ready. I know you' re going to love it."

She led me out to the driveway, where a helicopter was waiting. She had it custom-built for me after the attack, painted in my favorite shade of blue. It was supposed to be a symbol of freedom. Now it just felt like another part of the cage.

We flew for twenty minutes, landing in front of a spectacular modern mansion overlooking the ocean. It was all glass and stone, with clean lines and a sense of impossible lightness. It was a design I had sketched years ago, a dream house I had imagined for us.

"I had it built for you, Eleazar," she said, her voice soft. "It' s called 'Eleazar' s Haven.' A place where you can be safe and create, away from the world."

The details were perfect. The type of wood on the floors, the placement of the windows to catch the morning light, even the breed of cat-a fluffy Ragdoll I' d always wanted-was curled up on a sofa inside.

My eyes burned. Not with gratitude, but with a deep, aching sorrow. She knew me so well. She knew every one of my desires, and she used them to build the most beautiful prison imaginable.

A tear escaped my eye and rolled down my cheek. I wasn' t crying for the gift. I was crying for the man I used to be, the man who would have been genuinely moved by this gesture.

Catalina saw the tear and her face softened. "Oh, my love." She gently wiped it away with her thumb. "You don' t have to thank me. Everything I have is yours. Everything I do is for you."

She reached into her pocket and pulled out a small box. Inside was a platinum ring, a simple band with a single, small diamond.

"I had this made for you too," she said, her smile not quite reaching her eyes. "It' s a smart ring. It monitors your heart rate, your location... just to make sure you' re always safe. I can' t bear the thought of losing you again."

A GPS tracker. A leash.

Just then, her phone buzzed with a specific, chirping ringtone. A tone I had never heard before. It was clearly a dedicated alert for someone.

She glanced at the screen, and for a fraction of a second, her mask slipped. I saw a flicker of annoyance, quickly smoothed over.

She pressed the ring into my palm. "I have to take this. A work emergency. You stay here, get to know your new home. I' ll be back before you know it."

She gave me a quick, passionless kiss and turned, striding toward the helicopter. I watched as it lifted off, its blades whipping my hair around my face. She was in a hurry. She was going to him.

I stood there for a long time, the cat rubbing against my leg. The house was beautiful. A masterpiece. A cage.

The ring felt cold in my hand. The cat had a home. I was homeless.