His Love, My Hell, Her Justice

My wedding day was ruined by a crazed woman named Isolde, who claimed my husband, Ezekiel, was her soulmate from a past life.

Then, after a car accident, Ezekiel faked amnesia, siding with her and putting me through hell.

He let Isolde murder my mother, forced me to face my deepest fears, and poisoned me in public.

When I finally had Isolde arrested, Ezekiel's revenge was swift and brutal. He kidnapped me and, in a final act of cruelty, snapped the neck of my puppy, Muffin-the only comfort I had left.

He thought he had broken me, that he had destroyed every last piece of my soul.

He was wrong. He had just unleashed a monster.

Now, from the shadows, I will dismantle his empire, ruin his life, and make him pay for every tear I shed. My revenge has just begun.

Chapter 1

My wedding day, the day I' d dreamed of since I was a little girl holding Ezekiel' s hand, shattered the moment Isolde Buck screamed my name from the back of the chapel. The sound ripped through the quiet vows, tearing the fabric of my perfect dream into ragged pieces.

Ezekiel' s hand, which had just tightened around mine, flinched. The priest stopped, a confused frown marring his face. All eyes, which had been on us, now whipped around to the source of the disturbance.

Isolde stood there, a wild look in her eyes, covered in what looked like mud and ripped clothing. She pushed past the rows of stunned guests, her movements jerky and erratic. A gasp rippled through the room.

"Ezekiel! You can't marry her!" Isolde shrieked, her voice hoarse and raw. "We belong together! We always have! In every life!"

My heart hammered against my ribs. This wasn't just a scene; it was a violation. My perfect day, tainted by a stranger' s delusion.

Ezekiel' s face, usually so composed, tightened with fury. His gaze, cold and hard, fixed on Isolde. He didn't even look at me.

Isolde reached the altar, ignoring everyone else, her eyes locked onto Ezekiel. She lunged, not at me, but at him, her hands outstretched as if to claim him.

A security guard, reacting swiftly, moved to intercept her. Isolde let out a furious roar and elbowed him hard in the face. He stumbled back, clutching his nose. She was stronger, faster than she looked.

She grabbed a heavy candelabra from a nearby stand, its brass gleaming wickedly. With a guttural scream, she swung it, not at Ezekiel, but at the delicate floral arch behind us. Roses, lilies, and ferns rained down, along with shattered glass from the votive candles. The scent of crushed flowers mingled with the sharp tang of fear.

People screamed. My mother, frail and already ill, gasped and clutched her chest in the front row. My vision narrowed, focused only on the chaos Isolde was creating.

Isolde turned the candelabra on me. Her eyes, burning with an insane intensity, promised pain. She raised the heavy brass, ready to strike. My breath hitched. This wasn't just jealousy; this was pure, unadulterated madness.

Before she could land the blow, Ezekiel moved. It was a blur of motion. He didn't speak, didn't hesitate. He grabbed Isolde' s arm, twisting it sharply. The candelabra clattered to the marble floor.

Then, he slammed her against the altar. Hard. The sound echoed through the stunned chapel.

Isolde cried out, a raw, animal sound of pain and surprise. Ezekiel didn't let go. He held her there, his face a mask of cold rage.

"You will not ruin this," he growled, his voice low and dangerous, a sound I rarely heard from him.

He dragged her, not gently, towards the back of the chapel. She struggled, kicking and scratching, but he was relentlessly strong. He flung her out of the main doors, into the rainy evening.

Security guards rushed forward, but Ezekiel waved them off with a curt gesture. "Leave her," he commanded, his voice devoid of emotion. "She' ll learn."

I watched, numb and shaking, as Isolde lay sprawled on the wet cobblestones outside, the rain already plastering her hair to her face. Her cries of "Ezekiel! My love! Don't leave me!" faded as the heavy oak doors swung shut, sealing her outside.

The chapel was silent, save for the muffled sobs of a few guests and my mother's ragged breathing. My beautiful white gown felt heavy, suffocating. Ezekiel walked back to me, his shoulders still tense.

"Brielle," he said, his voice softer now, but still strained. "We can continue."

But the magic was gone. The air was thick with unease. My dream was broken.

Over the next few weeks, Isolde became a recurring nightmare. She would appear at our new home, throwing rocks at the windows, leaving bizarre, handwritten notes about "past lives" and "undying love." She' d call Ezekiel' s office, disrupting important meetings, screaming obscenities about me.

Each time, Ezekiel would deal with her. And each time, his methods grew... harsher. I heard the shouts, sometimes even the sounds of struggle, from outside our house. He would drag her away, sometimes in his own car, sometimes forcing her into a taxi. He never called the police.

"She needs to learn," he would say, his jaw tight. "She needs to understand no means no."

Once, I saw him throw a bucket of icy water over her as she lay curled on our doorstep, sobbing. She choked, sputtering, looking up at him with a mix of defiance and broken adoration. He just walked away, slamming the door.

Another time, after she' d keyed his car, he found her hiding in the bushes. He yanked her out by her hair, his face a mask of pure fury. I watched from the window as he shoved her headfirst into the muddy flowerbed, holding her there until she struggled weakly. He didn't inflict lasting injury, but the humiliation was brutal.

Isolde wouldn't stop. She seemed to thrive on the attention, even if it was violent. She'd show up bruised and disheveled at social events, whispering stories to sympathetic ears about how I was keeping Ezekiel from her, the woman he truly loved. She painted herself as the victim, the heartbroken soul.

Ezekiel, in turn, escalated his "lessons." He once tied her to a lamppost outside our house with duct tape, leaving her there for hours in plain sight, with a sign that read: "Obsession is not love." The public humiliation was extreme. When I begged him to stop, to call the police, he just stared at me, his eyes cold.

"She won't stop until she's truly broken," he said, his voice flat. "This is for your peace, Brielle."

Her recovery from each brutal encounter was swift, almost unnerving. She would disappear for a few days, only to resurface with more intensity, more conviction in her twisted love for Ezekiel. It was a terrifying cycle.

Then came the call.

It was late, a stormy night. The police. Ezekiel's car had gone off the road. A single-vehicle accident. He was in critical condition.

My world tilted. Despite everything, the fear, the confusion, the dark cloud Isolde had cast over our lives, Ezekiel was my husband, my childhood sweetheart. I loved him.

I drove through the pouring rain, my heart a lead weight in my chest. When I arrived at the hospital, the scene was chaotic. Doctors and nurses rushed past, their faces grim. I found his room, my breath catching in my throat.

He was a mess of tubes and bandages, his face pale and bruised. The rhythmic beeping of machines filled the sterile room. I sat by his side, holding his hand, praying, begging him to pull through.

Days bled into weeks. He fought, slowly, painfully. Then, one morning, his eyes fluttered open.

"Ezekiel?" I whispered, tears blurring my vision. "Baby, you're awake."

He looked at me, a blank stare. His brow furrowed. "Who... who are you?"

My blood ran cold. The doctors confirmed it. Post-traumatic amnesia. He remembered nothing of the accident, nothing of the last few years. He didn't remember our wedding, didn't remember Isolde's intrusions. He didn't remember me.

Then, Isolde appeared. She walked into the hospital room a week later, looking surprisingly demure, dressed in simple clothes. She spoke softly, her voice laced with what sounded like genuine concern. She told him stories from their "past life," stories of devotion and destiny.

Ezekiel, confused and vulnerable, clung to her words. He looked at her with an intensity he no longer showed me.

"She's my soulmate, Brielle," he said one afternoon, his voice weak but firm. "She says we were always meant to be."

My heart shattered all over again. The doctors warned me not to contradict him, not to cause stress. So I watched, helpless, as Isolde wove her web around him. She was the "devoted" one, the woman who had always been there for him.

And I, his wife of only a few months, became the outsider.

One evening, Isolde approached me in the hospital corridor. Her eyes, usually wild, were now shrewd and calculating. A smirk played on her lips.

"He's mine now, Brielle," she whispered, her voice dripping with venom. "And he's going to make you pay for every tear I shed."

I felt a cold dread settle in my stomach. What did she mean?

The next day, Ezekiel, still recovering, asked to speak with me alone. Isolde conveniently left the room, a triumphant look on her face.

"Brielle," he began, his voice flat. "Isolde has told me everything. How you tried to keep us apart. How you tormented her."

My jaw dropped. "Ezekiel, what are you talking about? She's the one who crashed our wedding! She's the one who stalked us, who-"

He cut me off, his eyes hardening. "She suffered because of you. Because of your selfishness. It's time for you to repay that debt."

I blinked. "Repay what debt? Ezekiel, you don't remember. She's manipulative. She's sick."

"She's devoted," he corrected, his voice chillingly cold. "A devotion you could never understand with your perfect family and easy life." He leaned forward, his voice dropping to a harsh whisper. "You will suffer what she suffered, Brielle. You will understand her pain."

My blood ran cold. This wasn't the Ezekiel I knew. This was a cruel, twisted stranger.

Over the next few months, my life became a living hell. Ezekiel, under Isolde's constant influence, began to systematically abuse me. It wasn't the physical violence he'd inflicted on Isolde, but a psychological torture that was far more insidious. He cut me off from my friends, controlled my finances, and publicly humiliated me at every turn. Isolde was always there, a sickly sweet smile on her face, watching.

He would sometimes "test" my loyalty, forcing me into impossible situations, always comparing my reactions to Isolde's supposed unwavering devotion. He accused me of being selfish, of having never truly loved him. He used my deepest insecurities against me.

My mother's health, already fragile, deteriorated rapidly under the stress. She saw what was happening, but was powerless to intervene.

One night, after another public degradation orchestrated by Isolde, I overheard voices from Ezekiel's study. The door was ajar.

"You really had her fooled, didn't you?" Isolde's voice, light and mocking.

Then, Ezekiel's deep laugh, full and entirely genuine. "Of course. She' s always been so naive, so trusting."

My heart stopped. My blood turned to ice.

"But you always knew," Isolde purred. "You knew I' d never give up. You saw the real love, the real devotion, didn't you? Something she, with her perfectly normal life and perfect little family, could never offer."

"She has strong family ties, yes," Ezekiel mused, his voice devoid of any warmth. "But it's a weak love, Brielle's love. Predictable. Your love... it's dangerous. All-consuming. I needed that. It's what I always wanted."

My knees buckled. Amnesia. It was all a lie. He was never amnesiac. He had faked it, not to escape Isolde, but to embrace her dangerous obsession, to use it as a weapon against me. He had orchestrated my suffering, believing it was some twisted repayment, some perverse justice for Isolde' s relentless pursuit.

The betrayal hit me like a physical blow. Worse than any of Isolde' s attacks. Worse than the car crash. This was a deliberate, calculated cruelty from the man I had loved since childhood. The man I had married.

I stumbled away, my mind reeling. Every cruel word, every malicious act, every dismissive glance-it was all intentional. He saw Isolde's unhinged obsession as "ultimate devotion," something he felt my genuine, stable love could never match. My strong family ties, the very foundation of my life, were, in his twisted mind, a weakness, a barrier to the kind of all-consuming love he craved from Isolde.

I felt a scream building in my throat, but it never came out. Instead, a cold, hard resolve crystallized within me. The pain was unbearable, a gaping wound in my soul. But beneath it, a tiny spark ignited.

I looked at the wedding photo on the mantelpiece, my smiling face next to his. It was a lie. All of it.

"I regret every second I wasted loving you, Ezekiel," I whispered to the empty room, the words tasting like ash. "We are over. And you, you are nothing but a stranger."

I didn't pack. I didn't write a note. I simply walked out the door, leaving everything behind. My marriage, my home, my broken dreams. I would file for divorce. And then, I would vanish. I would become a ghost, impossible to find, impossible to hurt. This was my breaking point, the moment I chose to save myself, even if it meant tearing my entire world apart.

And I would make them pay.

The chilling message arrived on my burner phone, a text from an unknown number: Your mother is suffering. She misses you. Why have you abandoned her?

My blood ran cold. Two months had passed since I walked out, two months of hiding, of trying to piece myself back together. I' d carefully cut all ties, only communicating with my mother through a coded email, ensuring her safety from Ezekiel and Isolde' s reach. This text meant they had found her.

Panic clawed at my throat. I called her emergency number, the one I had left with her caregiver. No answer. I tried her landline, then her cell. Each ring deepened the pit of despair in my stomach.

I sped towards her house, my heart pounding a frantic rhythm against my ribs. The streets were unfamiliar, my new life a fragile shield. I pushed the fear down, focusing on her. She was already so weak, so vulnerable.

As I pulled up to her quiet suburban home, a sickening sight met my eyes. The front door was ajar, splintered wood hanging precariously from its hinges. The usually pristine lawn was trampled, and a vase of flowers lay shattered on the porch.

I burst inside, my voice hoarse. "Mom? Mom!?"

The house was in disarray. Furniture overturned, lamps broken, papers strewn everywhere. It looked like a tornado had ripped through it. I saw a streak of red on the white carpet, then another. My stomach lurched.

I found her in the living room, crumpled on the floor. Her frail body was twisted at an unnatural angle, her eyes wide with terror, gazing blankly at the ceiling. A deep gash marred her forehead, and her thin nightgown was soaked with blood. She was barely breathing, each shallow gasp a rattling, agonizing sound.

"Mom!" I dropped to my knees, my hands trembling as I reached for her. Her skin was cold. "What happened? Who did this?"

She tried to speak, a faint gurgle escaping her lips. Her eyes flickered towards me, then dilated. A tear traced a path through the dust and blood on her cheek.

"Is... Isolde..." she rasped, her voice barely audible, then she coughed, a wet, dreadful sound.

Rage, cold and pure, surged through me. Isolde. Of course.

"Don't talk, Mom," I whispered, my own voice shaking. "I'll get you help. You're going to be okay."

I pulled out my phone, my fingers fumbling, and dialed 911. The operator' s voice was calm, but my world was spinning. I tried to explain, to make sense of the senseless violence.

"My mother... she's been attacked! She's bleeding, she needs an ambulance immediately!" I cried, trying to give the address, but my voice kept breaking.

"Ma'am, please calm down," the operator said. "What's the address again?"

As I frantically gave the details, I heard a click on the line. Then another voice, smooth and chillingly familiar, cut through.

"I'm afraid Mrs. Mathis won't be needing an ambulance, or any medical attention for that matter." It was Ezekiel. His voice, usually so controlled, was laced with an almost casual cruelty.

"Ezekiel?" My voice was barely a whisper. "What have you done? My mother is dying!"

"A regrettable misunderstanding," he said, and I heard a faint, mocking laugh in the background-Isolde. "But you see, Brielle, your mother is no longer a priority. Especially not after how you abandoned her for two months."

"You did this!" I screamed, tears streaming down my face. "You let Isolde do this to my mother!"

"Isolde was merely... distraught," he replied, his tone dismissive. "She felt you were trying to hide your mother from her, keep her from wishing her well. A simple misunderstanding escalated."

"Misunderstanding?! She's dying, Ezekiel!"

"A pity," he said, his voice flat. "But I'm afraid all emergency services in this district are currently... indisposed. A minor technical glitch, you understand."

My blood ran cold. He had blocked emergency services. He was letting her die.

"Ezekiel, please," I begged, my dignity forgotten. My mother was fading fast. "Please, she's ill. She can't survive this. She's suffering. Just let the ambulance come. I'll do anything! Anything you want!"

There was a pause. I heard Isolde' s soft, triumphant chuckle again.

"Anything, Brielle?" Ezekiel's voice was dangerously low. "You will return to me. You will publicly apologize to Isolde for all the pain you' ve caused her. You will apologize for abandoning me. You will grovel at her feet for her forgiveness."

"Yes! Yes, I will! Just send help for Mom!" I sobbed, clutching my mother's hand. It was growing colder.

"And you will understand Isolde's pain, Brielle," he continued, ignoring my plea for help. "You will experience it yourself. Imagine being left in a car, trapped, injured, while your loved one goes off with another. Imagine the agony."

My mind flashed back to his car accident. He was feigning amnesia for months. He made me believe he had no memory of that day. Was this another one of his twisted games?

"What are you talking about?" I whispered, fresh horror seizing me. "You were hurt! I found you!"

"Isolde told me," he said, his voice hard. "She told me how you left her in the burning wreckage after our accident, how you denied her help, how you tried to hide her from me."

"That's a lie!" I screamed into the phone. "She wasn't there! She wasn't in the car with you!"

"She provided me with pictures, Brielle," he said, his voice laced with triumph. "Pictures of her in the passenger seat, right after the impact."

My mind raced. Isolde was capable of anything. She could have Photoshopped pictures. She could have been at the scene later and staged it.

"Brielle, I'm afraid your mother's time is running out," he said, his voice turning cold again. "Perhaps a little motivation is needed. Isolde has a special challenge for you."

I heard Isolde' s voice, clear and sharp now. "Ezekiel, my love, let's show her the beauty of the sea. She always hated the ocean, didn't she? Those dreadful panic attacks at the beach."

My blood ran even colder. My thalassophobia. My crippling fear of deep, open water. Only my closest family and Ezekiel knew about it. He was going to use it against me.

"No," I whispered, my voice breaking. "Please, Ezekiel. Not that."

"Ah, the fear in your voice is exquisite," Isolde cooed. "Ezekiel, darling, you promised me she would suffer."

"Brielle," Ezekiel' s voice cut through the phone, sharper than a blade. "Go to the old pier, off Blackwood Beach. There's a cage hanging from the crane. Get in it. Once you're inside, we'll talk about your mother's future."

Dread consumed me. Blackwood Beach was known for its treacherous currents and deep waters. The old pier, abandoned for decades, was notorious. And the cage... I knew exactly what kind of cage he meant. A shark cage, perhaps, for thrill-seekers, now rusted and derelict.

"I can't," I choked out, looking at my dying mother. Her breathing was barely there now. "You know I can't."

"Then your mother dies, Brielle," Ezekiel said, his voice chillingly calm. "Or rather, she continues to suffer until she does. The choice is yours."

My mother let out a small, almost imperceptible gasp. Her eyes fluttered, then stilled. A single tear escaped, rolling down her pale cheek.

"Mom?" I whispered, shaking her gently. "Mom?"

No response. No more shallow breaths. Her hand, which I still held, went completely limp.

She was gone.

My wail ripped through the silent house, a sound of raw, unadulterated agony and despair. They had killed her. Isolde. And Ezekiel. They had stood by, even orchestrated, her death.

But even through the crushing grief, a cold, unwavering resolve began to form in the deepest part of my soul. I had nothing left to lose. They had taken everything.

"I'm coming, Ezekiel," I said into the phone, my voice flat, devoid of emotion. "And you will regret this."

I drove to Blackwood Beach, the wind whipping my hair, the scent of salt and decay filling the air. The old pier loomed, a skeletal structure against the angry, bruised sky. A single, rusted crane jutted out over the churning black water. And dangling from it, a metal cage, swaying ominously in the wind.

My heart hammered, not just from grief, but from the visceral, primal terror of the open water. The waves crashed against the pilings, a hungry, roaring sound that echoed the chaos in my soul. Every fiber of my being screamed to run.

But I couldn't. Not anymore. I had made a promise. Not to Ezekiel, but to my mother. And to myself.

I climbed out of my car, my legs feeling like lead. The salt spray hit my face, cold and biting. The wind howled, a mournful cry that seemed to lament my fate. I walked towards the pier, each step a battle against my own crushing phobia. The deeper I went, the louder the ocean roared, the more my breath hitched. My vision blurred, the world tilting precariously.

I reached the rusted ladder leading down to the cage. It was old, corroded, threatening to snap. The waves below churned, dark and bottomless. My stomach twisted. My fear was a living, breathing monster, threatening to consume me.

But then I saw a figure on the pier, silhouetted against the stormy sky. Ezekiel. And beside him, Isolde, her hair whipping around her face, a triumphant smirk visible even from this distance.

They watched me. They expected me to break.

A fresh wave of grief and fury washed over me. My mother's lifeless eyes, her last whispered word: Isolde.

I would not break. Not now. Not ever again.

With a ragged breath, I gripped the cold, rusty ladder. Each rung was a torment. My hands trembled, my knuckles white. The cage swayed, a hungry maw waiting to swallow me whole. The water below was a dark, swirling abyss. My breath hitched, my heart threatening to explode. I could feel the cold tendrils of panic wrapping around my throat, squeezing the air from my lungs.

I closed my eyes, picturing my mother's face. Her kind smile. Her gentle hands. They had taken her from me. And they would pay.

I opened my eyes and locked my gaze on Ezekiel, who stood there, impassive, beside Isolde. She was practically vibrating with malicious pleasure. Her eyes sparkled with a predatory glee as she watched me struggle, her body language radiating pure, unadulterated evil.

I took another shuddering breath, then forced myself forward. One rung. Then another. My body screamed for me to stop, to turn back, but my mind, fueled by grief and a burning need for vengeance, dragged me on. I would enter that cage. I would face my deepest fear. And then, they would face me.

The metallic tang of salt and rust filled my mouth as I descended the rickety ladder, each rung a fresh stab of fear. The cage swayed violently with the motion of the waves, threatening to detach from its rusted cable and plunge me into the churning abyss below. My phobia was a suffocating blanket, pressing down on my chest, making my lungs burn for air. The smell of the decaying seaweed and brine was overpowering, assaulting my senses.

My hands, slick with sweat, gripped the cold metal, my knuckles white. Below, the water churned, black and bottomless, swallowing the last vestiges of daylight. My mind flashed back to a childhood nightmare: being dragged under the waves by unseen hands, the crushing pressure of the deep. This wasn't a nightmare anymore; it was real.

Every instinct screamed for me to let go, to retreat. But my mother' s face, pale and lifeless, flashed behind my eyelids. Isolde. Her last word echoed in my ears, a cruel reminder of the cost of my inaction. No. I wouldn't break. Not here. Not now.

I forced myself to move, one agonizing step at a time, until my feet touched the grated floor of the cage. The rusted gate creaked open, then slammed shut behind me with a sickening clang. I was trapped.

The cage was barely large enough to stand in, the metal bars cold against my skin. It rocked precariously, the sound of the waves amplified, a guttural roar in my ears. I squeezed my eyes shut, fighting the rising gorge in my throat, the vertigo threatening to send me spiraling. I could feel the cold, damp air seeping into my bones.

On the pier, I could hear the muffled shouts of onlookers, their voices distorted by the wind and the crashing waves. Some were pointing, others looked horrified. They were watching my agony, a public spectacle orchestrated by Ezekiel and Isolde.

Isolde' s laugh, shrill and triumphant, cut through the wind. She was enjoying this, every agonizing second of my torment. Her head was thrown back, a picture of pure, malicious glee.

Ezekiel stood beside her, his silhouette stark against the darkening sky. Even from this distance, I could feel his gaze, cold and analytical. But there was something else, too. A flicker of something in his posture, a slight stiffening of his shoulders, a subtle shift in his weight. It was almost imperceptible, a fleeting shadow of unease. My focus sharpened. He was watching me.

Then, a harsh grating sound ripped through the air. The crane lurched, and the cage began to descend. Slowly, inexorably, I was lowered towards the black water.

My breath hitched. Panic, raw and overwhelming, flooded my senses. My heart pounded so hard I thought it would burst through my chest. My vision tunneled. The water rose, swallowing the light, until I was submerged, the cold seeping into my very soul.

The pressure increased, a crushing weight against my body. The dark water swirled around me, pushing and pulling. I thrashed, my hands gripping the bars, my lungs screaming for air. This was it. This was how I would die. Drowning, trapped, consumed by my deepest fear.

But then I remembered my mother. Her sacrifice. Her last moments. Was this enough? Was giving up now what she would want?

No. A fierce resolve ignited within me, a tiny ember in the vast darkness. I would fight. I would endure. Not for them, but for her. For justice.

I forced myself to stop struggling, to conserve my breath. I opened my eyes, peering through the murky water. Shapes moved in the depths, distorted and terrifying. My mind screamed, but my body remained still, a defiant act against the terror. I focused on my breathing, slow and steady, a mantra against the suffocating fear.

Minutes stretched into an eternity. The cold bit at me, numbing my limbs. My lungs burned. Just when I thought I couldn't take another second, the cage lurched upwards.

Air. Sweet, glorious air.

I burst from the water, gasping, coughing, my body convulsing. My throat was raw. My entire being ached, every muscle screaming in protest. I clung to the bars, shivering violently, trying to get enough air into my burning lungs.

The cage continued to rise, dripping seawater, until it was once again hovering just above the pier. My eyes, stinging from the salt, searched for Ezekiel. He was still there, his face unreadable. Isolde, however, was beaming, her eyes bright with satisfaction. She looked like she had just won the lottery.

My body was weak, but my spirit was forged anew, hardened by the ordeal. They wanted to break me? They had failed.

"Ezekiel!" My voice was hoarse, but steady. "You promised. My mother. You promised help."

He looked at me, then at Isolde. His gaze lingered on me for a moment, a flicker of something I couldn't quite decipher, before settling back on Isolde.

"You endured, Brielle," he said, his voice flat. "Isolde, did you see?"

Isolde stepped closer, her hand sliding possessively into Ezekiel's. "She did well, considering her little phobia, darling. But now it' s done. We can leave her to dry, like a fish out of water."

"No," I insisted, my voice gaining strength. "You promised. Help for my mother. She's... she's hurt."

Ezekiel gave a curt nod. "Send a medic to her address. Basic first aid. Nothing more."

A surge of relief, mixed with a fresh wave of dread, washed over me. At least someone was going. But "basic first aid"? My heart sank. He knew she was in critical condition.

Then, Isolde gasped. Her hand flew to her stomach. "Oh, Ezekiel! A sharp pain! My baby! I think... I think something's wrong!" She clutched her belly, collapsing dramatically against him. Her voice was laced with a manufactured panic.

Ezekiel' s face, which had been impassive, twisted with concern. He immediately scooped her up into his arms, his earlier flicker of concern for me vanishing completely.

"My love! What is it? Are you alright?" His voice was laced with genuine alarm, a stark contrast to the cold indifference he had shown me. He was cradling her as if she were made of glass.

Isolde buried her face in his shoulder, her voice muffled. "I don't know, Ezekiel. It feels... it feels like something is tearing inside. The stress... all this drama with Brielle... it's hurting our baby!"

My blood ran cold. Our baby? The words hit me like a physical blow, even harder than the ocean's chill.

Ezekiel' s jaw hardened. He shot a furious glance at me, still shivering in the cage. "Brielle, look what you've done!" he snarled, his voice filled with venom. "You've endangered my child!"

"Ezekiel, no!" I cried out, desperately trying to explain, to tell him about her lies, her manipulation. "She was never pregnant! She's lying! My mother-"

He cut me off. "Silence! Your mother was beyond help anyway. You abandoned her. This is your doing, Brielle. You pushed Isolde too far."

He turned to the crane operator, his voice a low growl. "Lower the cage just enough for her to get out. Don't help her. Leave her there. If she has any sense, she'll find her own way home. And make sure no one helps her. Not a single soul."

He didn't wait for a response. He carried Isolde away, his back to me, disappearing into the darkness. Isolde glanced back, a triumphant, wicked smile on her face, before she was gone.

"Wait! Ezekiel!" I screamed, but my voice was lost in the wind, in the roar of the ocean. He was gone. He had abandoned me, just as he had abandoned my mother.

The cage descended again, a slow, torturous drop. This time, it stopped just above the water, allowing me to struggle out onto the pier. My legs were weak, my body numb with cold and despair. I stumbled, falling to my knees on the damp, cold wood.

"My mother," I whispered, the words choked with tears. "My mother..."

I was alone, shivering, soaked, and utterly broken. The pain in my chest was a physical ache, a gaping hole where my heart used to be. My legs refused to move. I lay there, curled on the pier, the wind biting at my exposed skin, the sound of the waves a mournful dirge for everything I had lost.

Then, faintly, I heard a voice. It was someone from the pier, speaking to another. "Did you hear what Ezekiel said before he left? 'Just make sure she gets minimum care. No more, no less.' What does that even mean?"

Minimum care? He had ordered "basic first aid" for my mother, then rescinded it. What minimum care? For whom?

The world swam before my eyes. My body, pushed beyond its limits by fear and grief, finally gave out. Everything went black.