Chapter 5

April POV:

Delusional.

The word echoed in the silent hallway, a final judgment delivered by the man who was supposed to be my protector, my partner, my love. He looked at me as if I were a stranger, a raving lunatic on a street corner.

I remembered a time, years ago, when he had looked at me with such tenderness and said, "April, you're too soft for this world. It's a good thing you have me to protect you."

Now, that same man stood before me, his eyes filled with ice, believing the lies of a venomous snake over the desperate pleas of his own wife. All it took was a few crocodile tears from Brittany, and his perception of me, of us, of everything, had been irrevocably warped.

"Hamilton," I whispered, my voice raw with a pain so deep it felt bottomless. "She admitted it. She told me she set Dudley up. Just... just investigate. Please. Look into it. You' ll see I' m telling the truth." I was a mess, my face streaked with tears and mascara, my arm bleeding, my entire being screaming with injustice. I just needed him to look, to use that brilliant, incisive mind of his for me, for the truth, just once.

He let out a short, incredulous laugh. "Investigate what, April? That Brittany, a woman who was publicly violated, would concoct an elaborate, self-destructive scheme just to... what? Get back at your family? It doesn' t make any sense." He shook his head, his expression one of pity and disgust. "Your brother is a convicted rapist. That is a fact, established in a court of law. A court where I, unfortunately, had to stand and listen to the sordid details."

The casual cruelty of his words stole the air from my lungs. "Why?" I gasped, the question tearing from my soul. "Why won' t you believe me?"

His gaze was cold, his answer a blade to my heart. "Because you' re not worth believing."

A chill, so profound it felt like death, spread through my veins. It wasn' t just a lack of belief; it was a fundamental withdrawal of my worth as a person. I remembered being a teenager, a silly rumor spreading about me at school. Hamilton, who was then just my brother' s brilliant older friend, had spent a whole weekend tracking down the source of the lie and systematically dismantling it, not because I asked him to, but because, as he' d said, "The truth matters. And you deserve the truth."

That man was gone. Or maybe, he had never existed for me. He had only existed in service of his own ego, his own narrative. And in the story he was telling himself now, Brittany was the damsel, and I was the dragon.

It wasn't that he couldn't believe me. It was that he wouldn't. Because believing me would mean admitting he was wrong. It would mean that his noble sacrifice for Brittany was a fool' s errand, that he had been played, and that he had destroyed an innocent family for nothing. Hamilton Jones was never wrong.

A strange, desolate calm settled over me. The fight was over. The hope was gone. There was nothing left but the hollow ache of absolute loss.

"I' m leaving," I said, my voice eerily steady. I pushed myself up, ignoring the shooting pain in my arm. "I' m done. You can have each other." I was the third wheel in my own marriage.

I turned to walk away, but Brittany, the consummate actress, suddenly lunged forward and grabbed my uninjured arm. "April, no! Please, don' t go!" she cried, her face a mask of anguish. Then, she did something so audacious, so performatively insane, that I could only stare. She slapped her own face, hard, leaving a bright red mark on her cheek. "It' s my fault," she sobbed. "Please, don' t let me come between you and Hamilton. I' ll leave. I' ll disappear."

She dropped to her knees, clutching at the hem of my dress. "Please, just don' t fight anymore. I can' t bear it!"

Hamilton rushed forward, his face a storm of fury-all of it directed at me. He gently pulled Brittany to her feet. "Look what you' ve done," he snarled. "She' s the one who is willing to leave, and you... you have no heart at all."

As he held her, Brittany' s body suddenly went rigid. She began to tremble violently, her eyes rolling back in her head. "Ham... I can' t... I can' t breathe..." she gasped.

Panic seized Hamilton' s features. He scooped her up into his arms without a second thought and rushed past me toward the exit. "I' m taking her to the hospital," he threw over his shoulder, not even giving me a backward glance.

He left me there. Bleeding. Alone. The crushed remains of my pill bottle at my feet.

To keep myself from screaming, from shattering into a million pieces right there on the cold marble floor, I dug the nails of my right hand into the palm of my left, hard. I pressed down, focusing on the sharp, grounding pain until I felt the skin break. I needed to feel something other than the gaping wound in my soul.

He used to notice things like that. He used to be able to read my every mood, to see the slightest tremor in my hand and know something was wrong. Now, his entire universe had shrunk to the size of one manipulative, predatory woman.

As he rushed away, his foot kicked something. The small, white pill that had rolled under the console table.

He paused, looking down at it. Brittany, in his arms, saw it too. I saw the flicker of fear in her eyes.

Hamilton bent down, picked it up, and examined it. Then he looked at me, a slow, contemptuous sneer spreading across his face.

"Still playing games, April?" he asked, his voice laced with venom. "Still trying to manipulate me with fake suicide attempts? You' re pathetic."

He dropped the pill and crushed it under his shoe, just as she had done to the bottle.

And then he delivered the final, fatal blow.

"You know what? You said you want to go insane. You keep telling everyone you' re losing your mind. Fine." He pulled out his phone and made a call. "Dr. Albright? It' s Hamilton Jones. I need you to admit my wife... Yes, April... A full psychiatric hold... She' s become a danger to herself and others."

He hung up and looked at me, his eyes devoid of any human warmth.

"I' m doing this for your own good, April. You' ll stay there until you' re ready to admit you were wrong and apologize to Brittany. Maybe then, you' ll learn your lesson."

My blood ran cold, my entire body turning to ice. This wasn' t my Hamilton. This was a stranger, a cruel, vindictive monster wearing his face.

"Hamilton," I whispered, my voice shaking. "You can' t. You know what they do in those places."

He gave a slight, indifferent shrug. "You brought this on yourself," he said coolly. "You shouldn' t have touched the person I care about most."

He turned and carried Brittany away, leaving me to the two large orderlies who had just appeared at the end of the hall.

He never once looked back.

The next week was a blur of fluorescent lights, sedatives, and a soul-crushing despair. They forced pills down my throat. When I refused, they pumped my stomach. When I screamed, they strapped me to a bed and administered electroshock therapy until my mind was a fractured, buzzing mess.

Every day, a man in a suit, one of Hamilton' s men, would come to my room and ask the same question.

"Are you ready to apologize to Miss Mccray?"

And every day, through the fog of drugs and pain, I would give the same answer, my voice a hoarse whisper.

"I have nothing to apologize for."

I would rather die in this place than surrender to his madness.

Finally, my body gave out. I collapsed, and they had no choice but to transfer me to a real hospital.

The day I was set to be discharged, he appeared.

Hamilton. Standing in the doorway of my hospital room, looking tired and rumpled, a bouquet of my favorite peonies in his hand. He looked like the man I had married.

But I knew better. The man I married was dead.