Chapter 3

Back in my room-our room-I started pulling my clothes from the closet. I folded them neatly and placed them in a suitcase I' d hidden under the bed. Photos from our life together were on the nightstand. I picked up the silver frame and stared at the smiling faces of two people who no longer existed. With a flick of my wrist, I placed it face down.

Declan found me like that, surrounded by piles of clothes and memories. He came up behind me and wrapped his arms around my waist, pulling me against his chest.

"Still angry with me, darling?" he murmured into my hair, his tone soft and cajoling. He thought this was a simple tantrum.

He thought a few sweet words and a guilty conscience could fix anything.

I wanted to shove him away, to scream at him to never touch me again. But I couldn't. Not yet. I leaned back against him, a silent, hateful compliance.

"No," I said, my voice flat. "I' m not angry."

He clearly didn' t believe me. He sighed, a long-suffering sound. "I know today was difficult. Christie can be... intense. But she' s essential for my health. Let me make it up to you."

He spun me around to face him. "There' s a charity auction tonight at the Plaza. Get dressed. We' ll go buy you something pretty. Anything you want."

He thought he could buy my forgiveness. He always did.

"I don' t want to go," I said, my voice firm.

His grip on my arms tightened, his smile turning into a thin, hard line. "We' re going, Emily. It' s not a request."

He held my gaze, his eyes dark with a warning. He was daring me to defy him. I looked away first. There was no point in fighting this battle. I would lose, and it would only make him more suspicious.

"Fine," I said, the word clipped.

He strong-armed me out of the house and into his car. At the auction, he made a show of doting on me, buying a diamond necklace for a price that made the crowd gasp.

"Declan Phelps is such a doting husband!" a woman whispered behind us. "He spoils her rotten."

I heard her and felt a bitter laugh bubble in my throat. Spoil me? He showered me with jewels and designer clothes in public, a glittering facade to hide the ugly truth of what he did to me in private. He bought me a new phone after he smashed my old one against a wall. He bought me a new car after he' d dented my driver' s side door with his fist.

This necklace was just another piece of hush money.

I knew this song and dance. After the public display of affection, he' d turn his attention to Christie, and I would be forgotten. In my past life, he would eventually shove me in front of a car for her. That memory was a cold stone in my gut.

I couldn' t stand it. "I need some air," I mumbled, and slipped away to the restroom.

When I came back, he was gone. A commotion from the far end of the ballroom drew my attention. I pushed through the crowd, a sense of dread coiling in my stomach.

And there he was. Declan had a man pinned against the wall, his face contorted in a mask of fury.

"Don' t you ever touch her again," Declan snarled.

The man on the floor was babbling, "I' m sorry, Mr. Phelps, I just bumped into her, I swear!"

Christie was standing nearby, her dress slightly askew, a hand pressed to her chest as if in terror. Her eyes, however, were cold and calculating.

People were whispering. Someone near me explained the scene. The man, a drunk executive, had stumbled into Christie. Declan had seen it and lost his mind, accusing the man of assaulting her. He was playing the hero.

It was the same way he used to protect me. The thought was a fresh stab of pain.

"She' s my therapist, under my protection!" Declan roared, his voice echoing in the suddenly silent room. He was establishing his ownership. "Anyone who disrespects her, disrespects me."

He wrapped a protective arm around Christie' s shoulders and started to lead her away.

Then, everything happened at once.

The executive on the floor, humiliated and enraged, scrambled to his feet. He pulled a small, gleaming object from his pocket. A knife.

"Declan, look out!" I screamed, my voice raw with instinct.

Declan heard me. He turned. But instead of moving Christie out of the way, he reacted with a cold, brutal pragmatism. He yanked my arm, pulling me directly in front of him, using my body as a shield to protect himself and Christie.

A searing, white-hot pain exploded in my side.

I looked down. The handle of the knife was sticking out of my abdomen. The man' s face was a mask of shock.

The world tilted. My vision tunneled.

The last thing I saw was Declan' s face, pale with a flicker of something that might have been panic, as he kicked the attacker away and his arms came around me.

"Emily!" he shouted, his voice tight with alarm. "Oh god, Emily!"

He was a "loving husband" again. The irony was so thick I could taste it, metallic and bitter, like the blood rising in my throat.

Then everything went black.