5 Years, 99th Penalty

For five years, I was Sarah Jenkins, devoted caregiver to Ethan Montgomery, the handsome heir supposedly paralyzed after an accident. I sacrificed my youth, nurturing his phantom pains and enduring his moods. One stormy night, I risked my life to bring him his "emergency pain medication."

Approaching his suite, I overheard him. Ethan' s voice, chillingly detached, revealed his "paralysis" was a lie. I was merely "penalty number ninety-eight" in his five-year revenge game against an ex-girlfriend.

My world shattered. He was a monster, and I, his puppet. The humiliation intensified as I was systematically replaced. Then came the "ninety-ninth penalty": a brutal ambush in a derelict warehouse, orchestrated by his accomplice, Mark, the agony recorded for Ethan's sadistic pleasure.

How could such malice exist? The physical pain paled against the soul-deep violation, the crushing realization of my utter powerlessness. My body was broken, but a cold, unyielding rage ignited within me.

I wouldn't be his next victim. As the storm quieted, a decisive plan formed. I would disappear, truly vanish. My staged death would be his unwitting farewell, and for me, the first step towards a new life, finally free from his monstrous shadow.

The wind slammed against me, nearly tearing the small, insulated bag from my grip.

Rain lashed down, blurring the city lights into streaks.

The hurricane was at its peak, and I was out in it.

For Ethan.

He needed his "emergency pain medication." His text had been urgent, full of his usual clipped commands.

Five years.

Five years I' d been his caregiver, ever since the accident that supposedly shattered his spine and his career.

I clutched the bag tighter, the expensive medication for his phantom pains nestled inside.

His family, the Montgomerys, had been "generous" to mine. My scholarship, my parents' jobs years ago. I owed them. I owed Ethan.

I finally reached the temporary suite they' d taken at The Carlyle, a fortress against the storm.

The opulent hallway was eerily quiet except for the storm' s distant rage.

As I neared his suite, 34B, I heard voices.

Mark Vance' s slick, amused tone, and Ethan' s, deeper, familiar.

The door was slightly ajar, maybe the wind, maybe carelessness.

"So, this little hurricane run for his meds, that' s number ninety-eight, right?" Mark asked.

A low chuckle from Ethan. "Ninety-eight. Almost at the finish line with dear Sarah."

My breath caught. What finish line?

"Still can't believe you've kept this up for five years, man. The wheelchair, the whole nine yards. All because she was, what, in the same room when Brittany dumped you?" Mark sounded impressed, a little mocking.

My blood turned to ice.

"She was there," Ethan' s voice was cold, hard. "Smiling. Like she knew. Like she caused it. Brittany saw her, got distracted, tripped over some stupid excuse to leave me. Sarah Jenkins. She cost me everything."

The bag in my hand suddenly felt immensely heavy.

My legs trembled.

Faked paralysis?

"So, ninety-nine penalties. What' s the grand finale for breaking up you and the divine Brittany Sterling?" Mark pressed, eager.

"Something memorable," Ethan said, a cruel amusement in his voice. "Something she' ll never forget. After that, my debt to her for her 'service' is paid. And she'll understand true pain."

The insulated bag slipped from my numb fingers, thudding softly on the plush carpet.

They didn't hear it over the storm and their laughter.

Five years.

My devotion. My care. My youth.

A game.

Ninety-eight "penalties."

I was penalty number ninety-eight, rushing through a hurricane, terrified for his well-being.

The world tilted. My heart shattered into a million cold pieces.

The man I' d pitied, cared for, secretly admired from afar even before his "accident"...

He was a monster.

And I was his toy.

My mind reeled.

Five years of my life, a carefully constructed lie.

Ethan, the man I' d sacrificed for, saw me as a target for revenge over a breakup I barely remembered, a breakup I had nothing to do with.

Brittany Sterling, the glamorous socialite. I' d seen her once, at a Montgomery charity event years ago, where I was a scholarship kid trying to be invisible. A fleeting moment. That was it.

He blamed me for that?

The "emergency pain medication" in the bag felt like poison now.

A wave of nausea hit me, but I swallowed it down.

He wanted to "settle his debt" to me with a final, memorable penalty.

A cold rage, something I hadn't known I possessed, began to smolder beneath the shock.

I picked up the bag.

My hand was steady.

If this was a game, if this was about settling debts, then I would play my part.

One last time.

The Montgomerys' "generosity" had always felt like a gilded cage. Now I knew why.

I pushed the door open.

The suite was opulent, a stark contrast to the storm raging outside and the storm inside me.

Mark Vance lounged on a velvet sofa, a drink in his hand. He smirked when he saw me, drenched and disheveled.

"Look what the storm dragged in," Mark drawled.

Ethan was in his state-of-the-art wheelchair, facing the large window, looking out at the tempest. He turned slowly, his face a carefully constructed mask of pained concern.

"Sarah, you made it. I was so worried. Are you alright?"

His voice, usually so effective in its feigned vulnerability, now scraped against my raw nerves. I saw the lie in his eyes, the cruel glint he couldn't quite hide.

I walked towards him, my shoes squelching on the expensive rug.

"Your medication, Ethan." My voice was flat, devoid of the usual warmth.

Mark snickered. "Took you long enough. Must have been a real adventure out there." He stood up, blocking my path to Ethan slightly.

"Give it here. He needs it now." Mark reached for the bag.

I ignored him, my eyes fixed on Ethan.

As I moved to pass Mark, he deliberately shoved my shoulder. Not hard enough to make me fall, but enough to be a petty, physical assertion of dominance.

"Watch it," he sneered.

Ethan' s voice cut in, sharp with false alarm. "Mark! Be careful with her. She' s been through enough tonight."

He looked at me, his brow furrowed. "Sarah, are you hurt?"

I met his gaze. The concern was a lie. The game was all too real.

"I'm fine," I said, my voice tight. "Here."

I placed the bag on the table beside him, avoiding his touch.

"I'll leave you to it," I said, turning away. "You always said you didn't want me to see you in pain when you take it."

That was his usual excuse to get me out of the room.

Ethan looked surprised for a split second, then his mask of suffering returned. "Yes. Thank you, Sarah. Get some rest."

I walked out, Mark' s mocking gaze following me.

In the hallway, the cold rage solidified into a decision.

This had to end.

I wouldn't wait for his ninety-ninth penalty.

I had to get out.

My only lifeline, my godmother Eleanor Ainsworth, lived across the country in Oregon. A retired lawyer, sharp and resourceful. She was the only family I had left who truly cared.

My hands trembled as I pulled out my phone, shielding it from any stray glances.

I needed her help to disappear.