Chapter 1

My husband and son were pathologically obsessed with me, constantly testing my love by showering attention on another woman, Kassandra. My jealousy and misery were their proof of my devotion.

Then came the car accident. My hand, the one that wrote award-winning film scores, was severely crushed. But Jacob and Anton chose to prioritize Kassandra' s minor head injury, leaving my career in ruins.

They watched me, waiting for tears, anger, jealousy. They got nothing. I was a statue, my face a placid mask. My silence unsettled them. They continued their cruel game, celebrating Kassandra' s birthday lavishly, while I sat in a secluded corner, watching them. Jacob even ripped my deceased mother' s gold locket from my neck to give to Kassandra, who then deliberately crushed it under her heel.

This wasn't love. It was a cage. My pain was their sport, my sacrifice their trophy.

Lying on the cold hospital bed, waiting, I felt the love I had nurtured for years die. It withered and turned to ash, leaving behind something hard and cold. I was done. I would not fix them. I would escape. I would destroy them.

Chapter 1

Alexia Bell's husband and son were pathologically obsessed with her.

They had a strange way of showing it.

Jacob Cummings, her husband, a tech mogul, and Anton, their ten-year-old son, constantly tested her love. They would feign indifference, showering attention on a young, ambitious executive from Jacob's company, Kassandra Jacobson.

They needed to see Alexia in pain. Her jealousy, her misery-it was proof of her devotion. It was the only way they knew how to feel her love.

Alexia understood their sickness. For years, she had patiently endured it, believing she could fix them. Believing her love could heal their twisted way of needing her.

She was wrong.

The cycle of cruelty had been escalating. It started with small things, cancelled dates, "forgetting" her birthday while publicly celebrating Kassandra's promotion. Then it grew.

The breaking point arrived on a rainy Tuesday.

It was a car accident. A bad one.

Alexia was driving, with Jacob and Anton in the car. Kassandra was in the passenger seat, a space that used to be Alexia's. A truck ran a red light, T-boning their side of the car.

The world was a mess of shattered glass and screeching metal.

When Alexia came to, the side of her body was numb. Her right hand, the hand that wrote award-winning film scores, was trapped, crushed against the door. Kassandra was screaming, a gash on her forehead bleeding dramatically.

The paramedics arrived. One of them looked at Alexia' s hand, then at Kassandra' s head.

His face was grim. "We have to get you both to the hospital, now. Ma'am," he said to Alexia, "your hand is severely crushed. It needs immediate, specialized surgery to save the nerves."

He turned to Jacob. "But the other young lady has a head injury. We need to prioritize."

The doctor in the ER was even more direct. "Mr. Cummings, we have one surgical team ready for this kind of trauma. Your wife's hand requires intricate nerve microsurgery. Any delay significantly reduces the chance of a full recovery. Ms. Jacobson has a concussion and a deep laceration. It's serious, but not as time-sensitive."

He was asking Jacob to make a choice.

Before Jacob could speak, Anton, his small face a perfect copy of his father's cold expression, stepped forward.

"Help Kassandra first."

The doctor stared at the boy, shocked.

Jacob looked down at his son. A flicker of something-pride?-crossed his face.

Anton looked straight at Alexia, his eyes wide and earnest, but his voice held a chilling logic. "Mommy loves us the most. She'll understand. If she sees how much we care about Kassandra, she'll be jealous, and that means she loves us more. She'll be okay with waiting. She always is."

It was their twisted game, laid bare in the sterile, unforgiving light of the emergency room.

Jacob placed a hand on Anton's shoulder, a silent approval. He looked at the doctor, his voice devoid of emotion.

"You heard my son. Take care of Ms. Jacobson first."

Alexia watched them. Her husband. Her son. The words echoed in the ringing of her ears. The physical pain in her hand was nothing compared to the cold void that opened in her chest.

It wasn't just a choice. It was a statement. Her pain was their sport, her sacrifice their trophy.

As they wheeled her away, she saw Jacob and Anton hovering over Kassandra's gurney, their faces masks of performative concern.

Lying on the cold hospital bed, waiting, Alexia felt the love she had nurtured for years die. It withered and turned to ash, leaving behind something hard and cold.

In the haze of pain and medication, a decision formed, clear and sharp.

She was done. She would not fix them. She would escape. She would destroy them.

Hours later, she came out of surgery. The doctor' s face was somber.

"I'm sorry, Mrs. Cummings. We did everything we could, but the delay was too long. There's significant, permanent nerve damage."

He didn't have to say the rest. She knew.

Her career was over. The hands that had created worlds of sound, that had brought stories to life with melody, were now just hands. The magic was gone, severed by the people who claimed to love her most.

The next few days in the hospital were a blur. Jacob and Anton visited, always with Kassandra in tow. They would fuss over Kassandra, who milked her minor injuries for all they were worth, while barely glancing at Alexia.

They watched her, waiting for the tears, the anger, the jealousy.

They got nothing. Alexia was a statue, her face a placid mask. Her silence was a language they didn't understand, and it unsettled them.

The day she was discharged, her lawyer was waiting. She had called him from the hospital, using a burner phone she' d kept hidden for years.

"Everything is ready," he said, handing her a folder.

She took it with her good left hand.

Back at the mansion that felt more like a prison, she walked past the living room where Jacob, Anton, and Kassandra were laughing. They went silent as she entered, watching her, but she ignored them.

She went straight to Jacob' s private study, a room she was never allowed to enter. The door was locked, but she had learned his habits. The key was in the hollowed-out book on the shelf, The Art of War.

Inside, the room was what she expected. Dark wood, leather, a massive desk. But behind a bookshelf, she found what she was really looking for. A faint seam in the wallpaper. She pushed, and a hidden door swung open.

The room was a shrine. To her.

Every wall was covered with photos of Alexia. Candid shots, taken without her knowledge. Alexia sleeping, Alexia composing, Alexia crying. It was a timeline of her life with him, documented through a stalker's lens. On shelves, there were items. A ribbon from her hair. A broken teacup she' d once used. A program from her first concert.

It was the collection of an obsessive.

A flashback hit her, sharp and painful. Their first meeting. He had seemed so distant, so uninterested. She had spent years chasing him, trying to earn his affection, mistaking his cold possessiveness for deep, unspoken love.

She saw a small, locked box on a pedestal. It was Anton' s. Inside, she knew, would be similar "treasures." A lock of her hair he'd snipped while she slept. A pen she'd lost. He was his father's son.

For so long, she had told herself this was just their way. That her patience, her endurance, would eventually heal this sickness.

The hospital had shattered that illusion. This was not love. It was a cage.

With cold resolve, she walked out of the shrine, leaving the door open. She went to her own room and began to pack, not clothes, but memories. She took the wedding album and threw it in the trash. She took the framed photos of them and smashed them, one by one.

She was erasing them.

Later, Jacob, Anton, and Kassandra came home. They walked right past her, their laughter echoing in the hall. They were still playing their game.

Anton saw her and announced proudly, "Kassandra is staying for dinner. She's our special guest."

He looked at his father, who nodded, his eyes fixed on Alexia, waiting for her reaction. They expected a scene.

They were disappointed. Alexia just looked at them, her expression blank.

Their smiles faltered. This wasn't part of the script. Her lack of pain was unnerving to them.

Kassandra, never one to miss an opportunity, started pointing at the furniture. "Jacob, darling, I think that blue sofa would look much better over there. And these drapes are so dreary."

"Whatever you want, Kassie," Jacob said, his voice loud, meant for Alexia to hear. He was trying to get a rise out of her.

Alexia simply turned and walked toward the dining room.

The changes to her home, her space, meant nothing anymore.

Kassandra shot her a look, a mix of triumph and unease. "Don't you have an opinion, Alexia?"

Jacob answered for her. "Her opinion doesn't matter."

Dinner was a performance of cruelty. Jacob and Anton fed Kassandra bites from their plates, praised her meaningless chatter, and treated Alexia like a ghost at the table.

Alexia ate mechanically, her mind elsewhere. Then, a piece of steak lodged in her throat.

She couldn't breathe. She gasped, her hands flying to her neck.

For a second, panic flashed in Jacob' s and Anton's eyes. Jacob started to rise from his chair.

"Ouch!" Kassandra cried out, dropping her fork. "I think I cut my finger!" She held up her hand, where a tiny, almost invisible scratch was welling with a single drop of blood.

The spell was broken. Jacob and Anton' s attention snapped back to their game. Their moment of genuine concern vanished, replaced by the familiar script of calculated cruelty.

Jacob rushed to Kassandra' s side. "Are you okay? Let me see."

Anton ran to get the first-aid kit.

Alexia was choking, her vision starting to blur at the edges, and they were fussing over a paper cut.

A violent cough wracked her body, and she spit blood onto the white tablecloth. Then, she collapsed, her head hitting the floor with a dull thud.

The last thing she heard before the darkness took her was Jacob's voice, laced with theatrical annoyance.

"Look what she's done. Anything for attention."

She woke up on the floor, the metallic taste of blood in her mouth. The house was quiet. They had left her there.

She pushed herself up, her body aching. She looked at the bloodstain on the pristine tablecloth.

She met Jacob's eyes as he walked back into the room. He had been watching from the doorway.

"That was quite a show," he said, his voice cold.

"You're pathetic," Alexia whispered, her voice raw.

He denied it, of course. "We were worried about Kassandra. You were just being dramatic."

Alexia was too tired to argue. She closed her eyes.

"When are you going to stop?" she asked, the question a ghost of a breath. "When will this game be over?"