Chapter 2

Haven Shelton POV:

I took a deep, steadying breath as I walked out of the lawyer's office, the crisp morning air doing little to cool the fire in my veins. The papers were signed. The process was in motion. There was no going back.

I walked to "The Gilded Spoon," the little cafe where Andre and I had our first date. It was our spot. The owner, a sweet old woman named Maria, beamed when she saw me.

"Haven, my dear! You're glowing!" she exclaimed, rushing over to hug me. "Andre was just in here yesterday, buying up all of my lemon tarts. He said you've been craving them. That man spoils you rotten."

I forced a smile, but my eyes burned. Spoil me. Yes, he'd built me a beautiful cage and lined it with silk and gold. A tear escaped and traced a cold path down my cheek.

"Oh, honey, what's wrong?" Maria asked, her brow furrowed with concern.

Before I could answer, a shadow fell over our table.

"I believe this is yours, Mrs. Nichols."

I looked up into the wide, deceptively innocent eyes of Kaliyah Cooley. She was holding a chair, the one with the brass plaque that read: "Reserved for Haven." My chair. She placed it beside her with a saccharine smile.

"I just wanted to thank you again for everything," she said, her voice dripping with false gratitude. "Andre has been so generous. He even paid for my new apartment. He said it was the least he could do after I saved your biggest project."

Another lie. A small one, but it landed like a stone in my gut. Andre had told me he'd given her a cash bonus. He never mentioned an apartment.

Kaliyah slid a thick manila envelope across the table. "I thought you should have these."

My hands felt heavy as I opened the clasp. Inside were dozens of glossy photographs. Photos of her and Andre. In our bed. In his office. In the back of his car. They were graphic, intimate, and designed to inflict maximum pain. Each image was a precise cut, severing another thread of my past.

I looked at every single one, my expression unreadable. When I was done, I neatly stacked them and slid them back into the envelope. I felt nothing. The part of me that could feel that kind of pain had died last night, watching a grainy monitor in a dark security office.

"He's obsessed with me," Kaliyah said, leaning forward with a conspiratorial whisper. "He says he's never felt this way about anyone. He says you're... cold. Like a beautiful statue. Easy to admire, but impossible to love." She smirked. "But don't worry. I'm sure you'll make a wonderful ex-wife. Mrs. Nichols has a nice ring to it, but I suppose I'll get used to being Mrs. Shelton."

"It's all yours," I said, my voice calm. "The name, the man, the life. You can have it."

Her smile faltered, replaced by a flash of fury. My composure was ruining her victory. She grabbed her iced coffee, her knuckles white, clearly intending to throw it at me.

But then her eyes darted towards the door, and her expression shifted in an instant. The rage vanished, replaced by a look of pure, theatrical terror. With a guttural cry, she tipped the entire cup of coffee down the front of her own white blouse.

"Haven, how could you?" she shrieked, tears springing to her eyes.

The cafe door burst open. It was Andre. He took in the scene-me, calm and dry; Kaliyah, sobbing and drenched in brown liquid-and his face hardened.

But he didn't rush to her. He rushed to me.

"Haven, are you okay?" he asked, his hands hovering over my shoulders, his eyes scanning me for any sign of injury. "Did she hurt you? What happened?"

"She... she threw her coffee on me!" Kaliyah wailed from the floor, clutching her stomach. "She said I was trying to steal you from her!"

Andre shot her a look of pure ice. "Get out, Kaliyah," he ordered, his voice dangerously low. "Don't you ever come near my wife again."

He helped me up, his arm securely around my waist, and guided me out of the cafe, leaving Kaliyah weeping on the floor. He drove me home, his brow furrowed with a perfect performance of concern.

"I can't believe she would do that," he murmured, ushering me into our pristine, white living room. "I'll handle it. I'll have her fired tomorrow. No one threatens my family."

"I'm tired, Andre," I said, my voice flat. "I want to go to my art studio." It was a room he rarely entered, my sanctuary.

"Of course, baby. Go rest."

He followed me to the door, promising to make things right, to get revenge for me. He even offered to give me a foot massage later. The loving, devoted husband, playing his part to perfection.

I felt a wave of exhaustion wash over me, a weariness that went bone-deep. I just wanted to sleep. To escape the waking nightmare my life had become.

He brought me a glass of water, his touch gentle on my arm. "Here, drink this. You look dehydrated."

I drank it without thinking. The water had a faint, bitter aftertaste, but I was too tired to care. I lay down on the chaise lounge in my studio, and a heavy, unnatural sleep pulled me under.

I woke in the middle of the night to a searing pain in my abdomen. It was a vicious, twisting cramp that stole my breath. I cried out for Andre, but there was no answer.

I stumbled to the studio door, my hand clutching my belly. It was locked from the outside. Panic clawed at my throat. I was trapped.

I screamed his name again and again, pounding on the heavy oak door until my fists were raw. The pain intensified, a relentless, fiery agony that brought black spots to my vision. My legs gave out, and I crumpled to the floor, the world dissolving into a vortex of pain.

My last conscious thought was a prayer for my baby.

When I awoke, the sterile smell of antiseptic filled my nostrils. I was in a sterile white room, an IV drip in my arm. I heard voices from the hallway, low and urgent.

It was Andre. And Kaliyah.

"Are you happy now?" Andre's voice was tight with irritation. "I put a sedative in her water, just like you wanted. She was out cold all night. Does that prove I love you?"

"You had to," Kaliyah's voice was a triumphant purr. "She needed to be taught a lesson. She can't just get away with humiliating me."

The world went silent. The air in my lungs turned to ice. A sedative. He had drugged me. His pregnant wife. All to appease his mistress. All to punish me for a crime I didn't even commit.

A raw, primal scream built in my chest, but I choked it back. Instead, I dug my nails into the palm of my hand, carving deep crescents into the soft flesh. The sharp sting of it was grounding, a focal point in a universe of pain.

The door creaked open, and Andre stepped inside, his face a mask of worried devotion. He saw my open eyes and rushed to my side.

"Haven! Oh, my god, baby, you're awake. You gave me such a scare."