Chapter 2

Back in the gilded cage Hudson called our home, I moved like a ghost. I went straight to the master bedroom, to the walk-in closet larger than my old apartment. I ignored the racks of designer clothes and jewels he' d bought me.

I went to a small, wooden chest in the corner.

Inside were his things. The worn-out jeans he' d worn while fixing leaky pipes. The faded t-shirt he' d had on the day he first kissed me. A cheap, knitted scarf I' d bought him for our first winter together.

The relics of the man I had loved. The man who was dead.

I gathered them all in my arms, the rough fabric a phantom touch against my skin. I carried them to the grand marble fireplace in the living room. One by one, I tossed them in.

I struck a match and watched the past turn to ash.

The smell of smoke and scorched wool filled the air.

"What's that smell?" Hudson' s voice cut through the silence. He came down the stairs, tying his silk robe.

I didn' t turn around. "Just clearing out some old things."

He came up behind me, his hands landing on my shoulders. "Good girl. Clutter is unbecoming." He believed me, so easily. He saw me as simple, predictable. He had no idea what was burning inside me.

He turned me around, his grip firm. "Come. Ginger is waiting."

He dragged me to the west wing, to the studio he' d built for her. She was there, dabbing at her eyes with a tissue, a shattered porcelain vase on the floor beside her.

"Aleen was so cruel, Hudson," she sniffled. "She said my art was trash. She broke the vase you gave me."

"Apologize to her," Hudson commanded, his voice flat.

I stared at him. "I wasn't even in here. I was..."

"Apologize."

I refused. I just stared, my silence a rebellion he couldn't stand.

His face darkened, but just as he was about to erupt, his phone rang. A multi-million dollar deal was calling. He shot me a look that promised retribution before stepping out to take the call.

Ginger dropped the act immediately. Her tears vanished. She walked towards me, her eyes glinting. "You know, that necklace you're wearing is lovely."

It was a simple silver locket. The first gift Hudson ever gave me, bought with a week's pay from a construction site. It held a tiny, faded picture of us, smiling in front of my diner.

"It's not for you," I said, my voice cold.

"Everything of yours will be mine eventually," she purred, her eyes fixed on it. "I don't understand what he sees in a washed-out little waitress like you."

"Maybe he sees someone who isn't a heartless parasite," I replied.

"You're the third wheel here, Aleen. You just haven't realized it yet."

I said nothing. I knew my place. I was the wife. She was the mistress. In his twisted world, that meant I was property, and she was a plaything. It was a meaningless distinction.

Her patience snapped. She lunged, her nails scratching at my neck, grabbing for the locket.

I pushed her back instinctively. The delicate chain snapped. The locket flew from my grasp, hit the marble floor, and shattered.

The force of my push sent Ginger stumbling backward. She tripped over a stool, letting out a sharp cry as she fell, her ankle twisting at an unnatural angle.

For a moment, I was frozen. Then, the sight of my broken locket, the one piece of my past I had left, sent a wave of pure agony through me. I fell to my knees, gathering the tiny, twisted pieces of silver. The picture inside was torn.

"What's going on?" Hudson stormed back into the room, his call finished.

Ginger immediately burst into tears. "Hudson! She attacked me! She broke her own necklace and then she pushed me! Look at my ankle!"

He saw Ginger on the floor, crying. He saw her swollen ankle. He saw me kneeling amidst the broken pieces of the locket.

His face became a thundercloud.

"I told you not to hurt her," he seethed, his voice dangerously low. "I told you to be good."

"It wasn't me," I whispered, my voice hoarse. "She tried to take it."

"Enough!" he roared, grabbing my arm and hauling me to my feet. "I am so tired of your lies. So tired of you not listening."

He dragged me out of the studio, down a long hallway to the spa wing of the mansion.

"You need to learn your place, Aleen. You need to learn the rules."

He shoved me into the steam room, the small, tiled space already filled with a suffocating heat. The heavy glass door slammed shut, the lock clicking into place.

"You'll stay in there until you're ready to admit you were wrong," he said through the glass, his face distorted by the steam.

I banged on the door, my palms stinging. "Hudson, please! Don't do this!"

He just stood there, watching.

The heat was instantaneous, oppressive. It stole the air from my lungs. Sweat poured down my body. I called his name, my voice cracking.

"Hudson... please..."

I slid down the tiled wall, my head spinning. Through the hazy glass, I thought of him, the other Hudson, the one who would hold me when I was cold, who would have been horrified by this. The irony was a physical pain, a burning in my chest that was worse than the steam.

The world started to go black at the edges. My body was giving up.

Just as I was about to lose consciousness, the door swung open.

Cool air rushed in, a shocking relief.

Hudson stood over me, a dark silhouette against the light. "Have you learned your lesson? Do you admit you were wrong?"

I was too weak to fight. I could only nod, a pathetic, jerky movement.

"I... I'm sorry," I gasped.

A flicker of satisfaction crossed his face. "Good. See how easy that is?"

He snapped his fingers at a maid who was hovering nervously nearby. "Get her cleaned up. Bring her to my room."