Escaping His Obsession, Finding Love

I woke up gasping, the memory of my first life still fresh: my fiancé, Elliott, watching coldly as I drowned, his mind poisoned by a woman named Katarina after an accident gave him amnesia.

This time, I had a plan to escape before his fateful yacht trip. But the doorbell rang. It was Elliott, home early. And holding his arm was Katarina. He claimed he'd had a "small incident" on the yacht, but his eyes were clear. He remembered me. He had no amnesia.

He brought her into our home anyway, moving her into my deceased mother's studio. He ordered my parents' priceless mementos thrown in the trash. When I protested, he threw me against the wall. When Katarina "accidentally" shattered a photo of my family, he slapped me and locked me out of the house in the pouring rain.

In my first life, I could blame his cruelty on his memory loss. I told myself he was a victim, too. But now, he remembered everything-our childhood, our love, our promises. This wasn't a man being manipulated. This was a monster, deliberately choosing to torture me.

When Katarina smashed the last gift from my mother, I finally snapped and attacked her. Elliott's response was swift. He had his guards drag me to a soundproofed room in the basement and strap me to a chair. As the electricity seared through my body, I understood. My second chance wasn't an escape. It was a new level of hell, and this time, my torturer was fully aware of what he was doing.

Chapter 1

The last thing I remembered was the cold water filling my lungs.

Elliott's face, twisted with a rage I didn't recognize, was the final image burned into my mind. He and Katarina stood on the yacht's deck, watching me drown.

Then, I woke up with a gasp, my sheets soaked in cold sweat.

Sunlight streamed through the window of my bedroom. My bedroom. The one I had shared with Elliott.

I was alive.

I was back. Back before the yacht, before the endless torment, before I finally gave up and let the ocean take me.

A wave of relief washed over me, so strong my legs felt weak. This time, I would not make the same mistakes. This time, I would escape.

I had a plan. In my first life, Elliott's yachting accident was the start of everything. He lost his memory and Katarina, the paramedic who "saved" him, sunk her claws into him. She turned him against me, whispering poison into his ear until the man I loved became a monster.

This time, there would be no accident. I would leave him before his trip. I would sell my parents' company, take the money, and disappear.

I would never see Elliott Hickman or Katarina Ward again.

I grabbed my phone, my fingers shaking as I dialed my aunt Jean in New York.

"Jean," I breathed when she answered. "I need your help."

I was about to explain when the doorbell rang. A sharp, insistent sound that made my heart stop.

Elliott wasn't supposed to be here. He was supposed to be at his office.

A cold dread crept up my spine. Something was wrong.

I walked slowly down the grand staircase, my hand gripping the polished wood railing. The housekeeper opened the door.

And there he was.

Elliott. Looking handsome and powerful in his custom suit, his dark hair perfectly styled. But his eyes were cold. Colder than I'd ever seen them, even in my worst memories.

And standing next to him, holding his arm, was Katarina Ward.

She wore a simple white dress, her face a mask of sweet innocence. A look I knew was a complete lie.

My blood ran cold. This wasn't how it happened. He hadn't had his accident yet. He shouldn't know her.

"Ava, honey," Elliott said, his voice smooth but lacking any warmth. "We have a guest."

He stepped inside, pulling Katarina with him. He didn't have amnesia. He remembered everything. He remembered me.

But he brought her here anyway.

"This is Katarina Ward," he announced to the staff, his arm tightening around her. "She saved my life. I had a small incident on the yacht. She's a hero."

My mind went blank. He had the accident. But he didn't lose his memory.

"She'll be staying with us for a while," Elliott continued, his gaze finally landing on me. There was no love in it. Only a possessive chill. "She needs to recover, and I want to make sure she's taken care of."

Katarina gave me a small, triumphant smile.

A new cycle of torment was beginning. And this time, my plan was already in ashes.

The air felt thick, suffocating me. His closeness triggered a phantom pain, a memory of his hands on me, not in love, but in anger. His touch, which was once my heaven, had become my hell.

In my first life, after his accident and amnesia, Katarina convinced him I was a gold-digger who had tried to hurt him. He believed her. He came back to me, but not as my loving fiancé. He came back as my warden.

He locked me in this house. He took away my phone, my access to money, my freedom. He let Katarina do whatever she wanted to me. She destroyed the priceless mementos my deceased parents left me. She killed my beloved parrot, a loudmouthed bird named Sunshine, right in front of me.

They broke me down, piece by piece, until there was nothing left. Until the only escape I could see was the deep, dark water.

And now, looking at his uninjured, clear-eyed face, a horrifying thought occurred to me.

He remembered our love. He remembered our life together.

And he still chose to bring her here. He was choosing to hurt me, fully aware of what he was doing.

This was not a tragedy born from a lost memory. This was a deliberate act of cruelty.

"Ava?" Elliott's voice cut through my panicked thoughts. "Aren't you going to welcome our guest?"

I looked from his cold face to Katarina's smug one.

I was trapped. Again.

"Of course," I managed to say, my voice a hollow whisper. "Welcome."

Elliott's lips curved into a smile, but it didn't reach his eyes. "I knew you'd understand."

He then turned to the housekeeper. "Prepare the guest room next to the master bedroom for Miss Ward."

That room was not a guest room. It was my parents' memorial room, where I kept their most precious belongings.

"Also," he added, his voice dropping, "Have her things moved in immediately."

I stood frozen, the past and present blurring into one terrifying nightmare. My escape plan was pointless.

He had brought the monster into my home, and this time, he was a willing accomplice from the very beginning.

My first life was a tragedy.

I was afraid my second life would be a living hell.

I had to get out. But how?

He watched me, a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes. He seemed surprised by how quickly I agreed.

"And Ava," he said, his voice low and commanding, "Katarina is sensitive. I expect you to treat her with the utmost respect. She's been through a lot."

I just nodded, my throat too tight to speak.

He led Katarina up the stairs, his hand possessively on her back.

I was left alone in the foyer, the echo of their footsteps a death knell for my hopes.

I remembered when he used to look at me with so much love it filled every corner of our lives. He was my childhood sweetheart. He would bring me breakfast in bed, surprise me with trips to see rare architecture, and hold me when I had nightmares about my parents' car crash. He promised to love me forever.

That Elliott was gone.

The man who walked up those stairs was a stranger. A monster.

And I was his prisoner.

I was in my studio, packing a portfolio of my designs into a briefcase when I heard his car in the driveway.

My heart hammered against my ribs. I had been planning to leave for New York tonight, to run to my Aunt Jean.

The door opened downstairs. His voice, cold and authoritative, echoed up the staircase.

"Ava, where are you?"

He was home early. And he was not alone. I heard the soft click of a woman's heels on the marble floor.

I closed my briefcase and walked out onto the landing.

Elliott stood in the foyer, his arm around Katarina Ward. She looked up at him with adoring eyes. It made me sick.

"What are you doing with that?" he asked, his eyes narrowing on my briefcase.

"Just organizing some old projects," I lied, my voice steady despite the tremor in my hands.

He didn't believe me. I could see it in the hard set of his jaw.

"Unpack it," he commanded. "You're not going anywhere."

I heard noises from upstairs. The sound of things being moved, of drawers opening and closing. They came from the room next to our bedroom.

My sanctuary.

I froze, my briefcase slipping from my numb fingers and clattering to the floor, scattering architectural drawings.

It was the room where I kept everything my parents had left me. Their books, my father's drafting tools, my mother's paintings. It was a room full of ghosts, but they were my ghosts. They were all I had left of them.

"No," I said, my voice sharp as I looked up the stairs. "Not that room. Any other room."

Katarina leaned against Elliott, her lower lip trembling. "Oh, Elliott. I don't want to be a bother. I can stay in a hotel. It seems Miss Pratt is not happy to have me here."

"Nonsense," Elliott said, his voice softening as he looked at her, then hardening again as he turned to me. "She will stay here. In that room."

"Elliott, please," I begged, my composure crumbling. "That was my mother's studio. It's... it's important to me."

"Your mother is dead," he said, his words like stones. "She doesn't need a studio. Katarina is alive, and she needs a place to rest."

He raised his voice. "Mary! Get it done. Now."

The maids, Mary and another, appeared at the top of the stairs, their faces full of pity. I ran to block the doorway.

"You can't," I whispered, tears blurring my vision.

Katarina let out a small sob. "Elliott, she's scaring me."

That was all it took. Elliott's face contorted with anger. He strode over to me, grabbed my arm, and threw me aside. I stumbled, my head hitting the wall with a dull thud.

The maids rushed past me and went back inside the room.

The room was just as I had left it. Dust motes danced in the afternoon light. The smell of oil paint and old paper filled the air. My mother's unfinished canvas was still on the easel.

"Get all this junk out of here," Elliott ordered. "Throw it away."

They started pulling things off the shelves, handling the precious memories of my parents with careless haste. A box of my father's letters fell, scattering them across the floor.

I scrambled to pick them up, but they were being trampled underfoot.

I fell to my knees, sobbing, helpless.

Katarina walked over to me, a cruel smile playing on her lips. "Don't be so sad. They're just things."

She picked up a silver-framed photograph from a nearby table. It was my favorite picture of my parents and me, taken on my tenth birthday. We were all smiling. Happy.

"This is a nice frame," she said, her thumb stroking the glass over my mother's face. "But the picture is old."

Then, she "tripped."

The frame flew from her hands and shattered on the floor. The sound echoed in the silent room.

"Oh, I'm so sorry!" she cried, stumbling backwards. "Ava, I didn't mean to! Did you push me?"

Elliott was on her in an instant, his face a mask of fury. He didn't even look at me. He just reacted.

He slapped me.

The force of it sent me sprawling. My cheek stung, my ear ringing.

"How dare you?" he roared, his voice shaking with rage. "How dare you hurt her?"

"I didn't..." I tried to explain, but he wouldn't listen.

He grabbed my arm and dragged me out of the room, out of the house, and onto the front lawn. It had started to rain, a cold, miserable drizzle.

"You will stay out here and think about what you've done," he hissed, his face inches from mine.

He threw the box of my father's scattered, muddy letters onto the wet grass beside me.

"And you can keep your precious junk with you."

He turned and stalked back inside. I heard the heavy front door slam shut, the bolt sliding into place.

I was alone. In the rain. With the shattered remains of my past.

The rain fell harder, plastering my hair to my face and soaking my clothes to the skin.

I knelt on the wet grass, my fingers trembling as I tried to gather the scattered letters. The ink was running, blurring my father's elegant handwriting into meaningless smudges. Each ruined page was a fresh stab of pain in my heart.

The music box my father gave my mother on their first anniversary lay half-buried in the mud, its delicate melody silenced forever.

I crawled to the front door and banged my fists against the solid oak.

"Elliott! Let me in! Please!"

My cries were swallowed by the storm.

A light switched on in an upstairs window. One of the maids, Mary, peered out.

"Please, Mary! Open the door!" I shouted.

Her face was a mixture of pity and fear. She shook her head. "I can't, Miss Pratt. Mr. Hickman gave orders."

The light went out.

The reality of my situation hit me with the force of a physical blow. I was no longer the lady of this house. I was a prisoner, and my warden had just thrown me out into the cold.

I looked through the living room window. Elliott had his arms around Katarina, comforting her. He was stroking her hair as she sobbed into his chest. A perfect picture of deceit.

A wave of cold, hard anger cut through my grief. I would not let them break me.

I huddled against the wall of the house, trying to find some shelter from the wind and rain. I clutched the broken music box to my chest. It was all I had left.

I remembered when Elliott and I were kids, playing in this very yard. He fell out of the big oak tree and broke his arm. I sat with him for hours, telling him stories until the ambulance came. He told me I was his hero.

He had promised to always protect me.

That promise was a lie, shattered like the photograph of my parents.

The cold seeped into my bones. My body started to shake uncontrollably. Exhaustion, both physical and emotional, washed over me. I leaned my head against the cold stone and closed my eyes, letting the darkness take me.

I don't know how long I was out there. When I came to, the rain had stopped. The moon was high in the sky.

The front door opened.

Elliott stood there, silhouetted against the light from the hall. His face was unreadable in the shadows.

He walked over to me, his footsteps silent on the wet grass. He looked down at me, huddled on the ground, and for a moment, I saw a flicker of something in his eyes. Pity? Regret?

It was gone as quickly as it appeared.

He tossed a folded umbrella onto the ground next to me.

"Don't catch a cold," he said, his voice flat. "It would be inconvenient."

Then he turned and walked back inside, closing the door behind him. He didn't offer me a hand. He didn't ask if I was okay. He just left me there, with his pathetic, useless gesture of an umbrella.

The next morning, I let myself in with the spare key I kept hidden in the garden. The house was quiet. I took the muddy box of my parents' things to my studio. I spent hours carefully cleaning each item, trying to salvage what I could. The photograph was ruined. The letters were mostly illegible. But the little ballerina from the music box was intact.

I was trying to glue her back onto the lid when I heard them coming down the stairs.

Katarina saw me first. "Oh, look. She's playing with her broken toys."

I ignored her, my focus entirely on the delicate task.

She walked closer. "You know, Elliott feels terrible about what happened. He's just very protective of me."

I didn't respond.

"I'm really good at fixing things," she said, her voice cloying sweet. "Let me help you with that."

She reached for the music box.

"Don't touch it," I said, my voice low and dangerous.

Elliott stepped forward. "Ava, let her help. It was an accident. She's trying to make it right."

"No," I said, clutching the box to my chest.

Katarina's eyes filled with tears. "I just wanted to help... Elliott, she hates me."

"Give it to me, Ava," Elliott commanded.

"No."

I saw the flash of anger in his eyes. He snapped his fingers. Two of his bodyguards appeared from the hallway.

"Get it from her," he ordered.

They moved toward me. I scrambled backward, holding the music box like a shield.

"Don't you dare!" I screamed.

They grabbed my arms. I fought, but they were too strong. I kicked and struggled, my nails digging into their skin. One of them twisted my arm behind my back, forcing me to cry out in pain.

The music box fell from my grasp.

Katarina picked it up. She looked at it, then at me, a look of pure, triumphant malice in her eyes.

"Oops," she said.

And she dropped it.

The fragile wood and metal shattered on the hard floor, the little ballerina rolling under a table.