Chapter 8

The nurses came for me. They were impassive, their faces blank. They wouldn' t meet my eyes.

"Please," I begged them. "Don' t let him do this. He' s my husband. He' s forcing me."

They just continued their work, preparing a sedative.

I screamed until my throat was raw. I thrashed against their hold. One of them finally looked at me, a flicker of pity in her eyes, but she did nothing. Carter Long paid their salaries. His word was law here.

Then Carter came in, dressed in surgical scrubs. He looked calm, determined.

"It will be over soon, Alysha," he said, as if comforting a frightened child. "I promise, it won' t hurt."

A phone on the counter buzzed. It was mine. A notification from my bank. The fifty million dollars had been deposited. The divorce was final.

I was free. And I was trapped.

The irony was a bitter pill. I had the means to escape, but I was about to be put under, disfigured, and imprisoned in a new face I didn't choose.

They pushed the gurney toward the operating room. The bright lights of the corridor blurred above me.

"Carter, please," I whispered one last time, the fight draining out of me.

He leaned down, his face close to mine. "This is the only way," he said.

The anesthesiologist approached with a mask. I turned my head, one last, futile act of defiance. The last thing I saw before the mask covered my face and the world faded to black was the silent, steady tear that escaped my eye and traced a path through the surgical markings he had drawn on my cheek.

I was in a drugged haze for days. When I finally woke up, my head was a throbbing ball of pain. My face was completely swathed in bandages. I was blind, deaf, and mute behind a wall of gauze.

I had missed my chance. The money was in my account, but my identity was gone. My passport photo wouldn't match this new, unknown face. I was trapped in this city, in this life, with him.

He came to see me, of course. He sat by my bed, talking about our "new beginning." He described the face he had given me. "Simple. Unremarkable. No one will ever confuse you with her again."

He told me he was planning a press conference to unveil my "restorative" surgery, to show the world how he had "cured" my obsession.

I didn' t respond. I remained silent, a mummy in a hospital bed. My silence unnerved him, but he didn't care. He was too busy visiting Gia, who was making a "miraculous recovery" now that her "tormentor" had been neutralized.

The day the bandages were scheduled to come off, I knew it was my only chance. That morning, a text message confirmed my divorce was legally finalized. He had no more power over me.

That night, when the nurse came in with my medication, I pretended to take it, hiding the pills under my tongue. As soon as she left, I spat them out. My mind was clear for the first time in days.

I waited until the floor was quiet. Then, I swung my legs out of bed. My body was weak, but my will was pure iron. I ripped the IV from my arm, ignoring the sharp sting. I dressed in the clothes I had stashed in my closet.

With my face still wrapped in bandages, I looked like a monster. But I didn't care. I crept out of my room and slipped out a service exit.

The cool night air hit my skin. I was free. I hailed a cab and went straight to the airport. I had a ticket for the first flight out, to a small, remote town I had picked at random.

But at the security gate, my nightmare came true. The TSA agent looked from my bandaged face to my passport photo-the face of Gia Salazar-and shook his head.

"Ma' am, I can' t let you through. This doesn' t match."

Panic clawed at my throat. I tried to explain, but my voice was a hoarse whisper. The line behind me grew restless.

The plane to my new life was boarding. I could hear the final call. I watched the jetway door close. It was over. I was trapped.

I stumbled away from the gate, collapsing onto a bench. Sobs wracked my body, each one sending a fresh wave of pain through my healing face. Tears soaked into the gauze. I was a prisoner in my own skin, in a city that had tried to destroy me.

"Alysha?"

I looked up. It was Holden Nunez. He was standing in front of me, his face etched with concern.

"What happened to you?" he asked, his voice gentle.

I couldn't speak. I just pointed at my face, at the closing jetway, and cried.

He didn't ask any more questions. He just took my arm.

"Come with me," he said. "I' ll get you out of here."

He led me through the private aviation terminal to a sleek, waiting jet.

"Where are we going?" I whispered as we boarded.

"Somewhere safe," he said. "Somewhere you can heal."

As the jet taxied down the runway, I looked out the window at the glittering lights of New York City. It was the city of my dreams, the city that had built me up and then burned me to the ground.

I was leaving it all behind. My past, my pain, the man who had tried to erase me.

I was flying toward an unknown future, with a stranger who had saved me twice. For the first time in a long time, I felt a flicker of something I thought I had lost forever: hope.