Chapter 2

The next few days passed in a haze of feigned grief. I stayed in our penthouse, the place that now felt like a beautifully decorated prison. When Dallas called, I played the part of the heartbroken wife, my voice soft and choked with unshed tears. He, in turn, was the devoted husband, soothing me with empty words of comfort from his mountain retreat.

"I'm praying for us, Autumn," he'd say. "We'll get through this."

Each word was a new layer of his deception. I knew he was calling me from the bed he shared with Alanna. I imagined her listening, a smirk on her face.

They thought I was a fool. A fragile socialite who would crumble under the weight of their cruelty. For five years, I had been exactly that.

I thought back to the beginning. Our families had pushed the arranged marriage, but I had fought it. A week before the wedding, I packed a bag, drained a bank account, and fled to Italy. I wanted freedom, a life that was my own, not a contract signed by my father.

The escape was thrilling. For a few days, I was anonymous, just another tourist wandering the cobblestone streets of Florence. I threw my phone into the Arno River, a symbolic severing of my old life.

But the thrill soon gave way to a gnawing anxiety. I felt watched. The feeling was a constant prickle on the back of my neck. I dismissed it as paranoia, the lingering guilt of abandoning my family.

Then, one afternoon in a crowded piazza, a thief snatched my purse. It happened so fast. One moment it was on my shoulder, the next it was gone, a flash of a man disappearing into the crowd. My passport, my money, my entire escape plan was in that bag.

Panic seized me. I was stranded.

Just as despair set in, another man appeared. He was tall and impossibly handsome, with a charming smile. He cornered the thief in a narrow alley and, after a brief, forceful conversation, returned with my purse intact.

He introduced himself as Dallas Fischer. He spoke perfect English with an American accent that felt like home.

"You should be more careful," he said, his eyes twinkling.

To thank him, I bought him a coffee. We sat at a small cafe, and I found myself telling him everything-the arranged marriage, the escape, the desperate need for a life of my own. I was reckless, but he had a way of making you feel safe, understood.

He looked surprised by my honesty. "I'm just here on business," he said vaguely, "Trying to escape some things myself."

After that, he was everywhere. I' d be admiring a painting in the Uffizi Gallery, and he would be standing a few feet away. I' d be shopping for leather goods, and he' d walk out of the store across the street. It felt like fate, a romantic, movie-like coincidence.

He slowly became part of my life in Florence. He was a constant, comforting presence. He knew the best restaurants, the quietest gardens, the most beautiful views. He made me laugh. He made me feel alive.

One evening, under a sky full of stars, he told me he was falling in love with me. He didn't have a ring, but he promised me a future I could choose.

We decided to return to New York together, to get married. It felt like a strange twist of fate, running away from a wedding only to return for another. But this time, it was my choice. It was for love.

Or so I thought.

Now, sitting in our silent penthouse, I saw the truth. There were no coincidences. The thief, the chance encounters, the whirlwind romance-it was all a performance. He had hunted me down. He had orchestrated the entire thing to trap me, to bind me to him so he could execute his revenge. The last five years of my life had been built on a foundation of lies and hatred. He had played the long game, patiently waiting for the perfect moment to destroy me.

A knock on the bedroom door startled me from my thoughts. Dallas stood there, a bag from my favorite bakery in his hand. He looked tired, his brow beaded with sweat.

"I drove all the way back just to get this for you," he said, his voice laced with concern. "I know you haven't been eating. I was worried."

He was playing the part so well. The doting husband. The same man who had laughed about throwing our son's ashes in the trash.

I saw him for what he was now: a man with two faces. The charming, charismatic billionaire the world saw, and the cold, ruthless monster he kept hidden.

A young monk from the wellness center trailed behind him, carrying his bags. The monk looked at the ornate table by the window.

"Mr. Fischer, the offering table is broken," the monk said, confused. "What happened?"

Dallas didn't miss a beat. "Oh, I was praying so hard for my wife and son that I leaned on it too heavily. It just gave way."

I lowered my eyes, my nails digging into my palms. I knew how the table broke. I had seen it through the crack in the door. He had slammed Alanna against it.

"Mr. Fischer is so devoted," the young monk said to me, his eyes full of admiration. "He prayed for you day and night. He barely slept."

A bitter, silent laugh rose in my throat. Day and night. He had certainly been busy day and night. He had probably paid the entire monastery to sing his praises, to build this illusion of the grieving husband.

"I'm going to go say my final goodbyes at the temple," Dallas said, turning to me. His voice was gentle again. "We can drive down the mountain together afterward."

"Okay," I nodded, my voice a hollow echo.

He turned and walked away. I waited a few seconds, then silently followed him. I hid behind a row of manicured hedges as he spoke to the head monk.

"Give this to Alanna," he said, handing over the bag from the bakery. "Make sure she eats. I just brought some for Autumn as a formality."

My heart, which I thought couldn't break any further, splintered. I was a formality. An afterthought.

As he walked toward the small, private temple on the grounds, my eyes caught something fluttering in the breeze. Tied to the branch of an ancient oak tree was a red silk ribbon. On it, written in Dallas's familiar script, were two names: Dallas & Hannah.

The date written below it was just two weeks after our wedding day.

He had been cheating on me from the very beginning. With a woman who was a ghost. And now, with her living copy.

I stared at the ribbon, the red a splash of blood against the green leaves. A cold smile touched my lips.

The dream was over. It was time to wake up.