The Lie My Fiancé Created

For three years, I believed my fiancé, Daryl, was my savior. He rescued me after a brutal attack-secretly orchestrated by my own sister, Kenisha-shattered my hands and my dreams of being a concert pianist. He gave me a perfect, protected life.

Then I discovered the truth on his laptop. I wasn't his beloved; I was "Asset: FB-01." A walking collection of prime organs, being groomed until my sister needed a new heart. My heart.

The man I loved became a monster. He forced me to take five pregnancy tests, snarling that he'd "get that thing out" of me himself if I compromised his investment. He locked me in the trunk of his car and later abandoned me on a collapsing rope bridge.

To finally break me, he drowned the stray kitten I'd rescued in the washing machine. "You hurt my Kenisha," he roared. "Now you'll know what it feels like to lose something you care about."

My entire life with him had been a lie. I was just livestock being fattened for slaughter, and my hands-the ones he once called magic-were just a "non-essential component."

After he drained my blood for the sister who wanted me dead, I went home and buried my cat. Then I packed a single bag, booked a flight to London, and vanished. They had created a monster. Now, they were about to meet her.

Chapter 1

Ferne Booth POV:

I discovered my fiancé was planning to have me killed on a Tuesday, using his laptop to look up a recipe for coq au vin.

The browser tab was tucked away, almost hidden between a spreadsheet of stock options and a link to a Forbes article he was featured in. The title was discreet: "St. Jude' s Private Acquisitions." Curiosity, a fatal flaw of mine, made me click.

It wasn't a charity. It was a marketplace, sleek and sterile, like a high-end auction site for things money wasn't supposed to be able to buy. My blood ran cold before I even understood what I was looking at. The listings were coded-alphanumeric strings followed by brief, clinical descriptions.

Then I saw it. "Asset: FB-01."

My initials.

I clicked. My own face stared back at me from the screen. It was a photo Daryl had taken a few weeks ago, while I was asleep on the sofa, a sliver of sunlight warming my cheek. I'd thought it was sweet at the time. Now, it felt like a violation.

Beneath the photo, the text was a physical blow.

"Asset: Ferne Booth (FB-01). Age: 25. Blood Type: O-negative. Condition: Prime. Subject has been maintained in a controlled, low-stress environment for the past three years to ensure optimal organ viability. Primary asset of interest: Heart. Secondary assets: Kidneys, Liver. Note: Asset is a gifted pianist; hands are to be considered a non-essential component."

My hands. The ones he held and called magic. Non-essential.

A small chat window was blinking in the corner of the screen. It was a conversation between Daryl and a user named "K." My stomach dropped. I knew who K was. It could only be one person.

Daryl: The final transfer is being arranged. Just a little longer, my love.

K: I can't stand watching you with her, D. Does she have any idea she's just a walking incubator for my future?

Daryl: She knows nothing. She thinks I' m her savior. It' s almost poetic. The heart she uses to love me will soon be the heart that keeps you alive.

The air left my lungs in a silent scream. My vision tunneled, the edges blurring to black. K. Kenisha. My sister. My chronically ill, perpetually fragile little sister, who the world adored. Daryl, the man who had pulled me from the wreckage of my life, was not my savior. He was my executioner. And my own sister was holding the axe.

The room began to spin. Suddenly, I wasn't in our pristine, minimalist apartment anymore. I was back in a cold, dark alley behind my college music hall. The smell of stale beer and rain-soaked concrete filled my nose. Bradley Spencer, my high school boyfriend I'd foolishly tried to reconnect with, was standing over me. His friends were laughing.

"Kenisha said you needed to be taught a lesson," he'd slurred, his face a mask of cruel satisfaction. "Said you think you're better than everyone."

Then came the sharp, sickening crunch. The sound of my future snapping along with the bones in my right hand. The pain was blinding, but the image seared into my memory was of Kenisha, watching from the end of the alley, a small, triumphant smile on her face.

I' d tried to kill myself that night. The loss of my career, the betrayal, it was too much. I woke up in the hospital to Daryl Chavez's calm, reassuring face. He was a visiting tech mogul, a guest lecturer at the university. He said he' d found me, that he' d saved me. He paid my medical bills, shielded me from the press, and helped me piece my shattered life back together.

For three years, I believed he was my angel. Now I knew the truth. He wasn't saving me. He was preserving me. Like a prized piece of livestock being fattened for slaughter.

The room swam back into focus. I was on the floor, my hands shaking so violently I could barely control them. I crawled back to the laptop, my breath coming in ragged gasps. I had to get out. Not later. Now.

My fingers fumbled as I opened a new tab, my mind racing. London. My aunt, my mother's estranged sister, lived there. Her son, Jakob Mendoza, was my cousin. We hadn' t been close in years, but he was my only hope. I found his business email-he was some kind of big shot in the international music scene.

My fingers flew across the keyboard.

Subject: Urgent Family Matter - Marriage Proposal

Jakob,

It's Ferne. I know we haven't spoken in a while, but I need your help. My family is trying to arrange a marriage for me. I need to get out of the country. I was hoping... maybe you and I could enter into an arrangement? A temporary engagement? Just to get me to London. Please. I' m desperate.

It was a lie, a flimsy excuse, but it was the only thing I could think of that sounded both urgent and vaguely plausible. I hit send, my heart hammering against my ribs.

A reply came back almost instantly.

Jakob: Ferne? Is everything alright? This is sudden. Of course, I'll help you. But a marriage arrangement? Are you sure?

I took a shaky breath, forcing a semblance of calm into my typing.

Ferne: I'm sure. It's complicated. I just need to leave. Please, Jakob.

Jakob: Okay. Don't worry. I'll handle everything. My assistant will book you a flight. It will be under your name, departing tomorrow night, 10 PM. Can you make it?

Tomorrow. My birthday. The irony was a bitter pill in my throat.

Ferne: Yes. Thank you. I owe you my life.

I slammed the laptop shut just as the front door opened. Daryl walked in, a perfect smile on his handsome face. He dropped his briefcase and loosened his tie, his eyes scanning the room.

"Hey, angel. You okay? You look pale."

I forced a smile. "Just tired."

He walked over, his gaze softening with that practiced, counterfeit concern. "Kenisha is coming over for dinner. She's been feeling a bit down. I was hoping you could make her your special mushroom risotto. You know how much she loves it."

He spoke of her with a reverence he never used for me. It was a familiar ache, a dull throb I had learned to ignore. He loved her. It was so obvious now. His care for me, his protection, it was never about me. It was an extension of his love for her. I was just the vessel.

"I don't feel like cooking tonight," I said, my voice surprisingly steady.

His smile tightened at the edges. "Don't be like that, Ferne." He reached for me, his hand closing around my arm. It wasn't gentle. "She's not well. It's the least you can do."

"No," I said, pulling my arm away. The small act of defiance felt monumental.

His eyes flashed with something cold and hard. He grabbed me again, his fingers digging into my flesh. "Don't be so selfish. It's just a damn meal."

I wanted to scream. I wanted to hold up the laptop and shove the proof of his monstrous betrayal in his perfect face. Do you know what they call selfish, Daryl? Grooming your fiancée to be an unwilling organ donor for your secret lover.

But I swallowed the words, the truth burning a hole in my throat. I couldn't let him know. Not yet.

He saw the flicker of fight in my eyes and his expression changed, softening back into a mask of gentle persuasion. "Look, baby, I'm sorry. I'm just worried about her. You know how she is. She's different. She needs us."

He always said that. Kenisha is different. I used to think he meant she was fragile. Now I understood. She was different because she was the one he loved. She was the one who mattered. I was just the spare parts. Me, my heart, my non-essential hands.

I was the only one in their perfect little love story who was going to die.

Ferne Booth POV:

A wave of nausea washed over me, so strong I had to brace myself against the kitchen counter. My head swam with the acrid taste of fear.

Daryl' s grip on my arm tightened, his brow furrowed with a sudden, sharp concern. But it wasn't for me. I could see the calculation in his eyes.

"Ferne? Are you feeling sick?" he asked, his voice low and urgent. "You're not... pregnant, are you?"

The question hung in the air, thick and poisonous. Pregnant. The one thing he had always been meticulously, almost pathologically, careful to avoid. We had been together for three years, engaged for one, but every time the conversation of children arose, he would shut it down with a chilling finality. "My legacy is my company, Ferne," he'd said once, his voice devoid of warmth. "I have no interest in messy family entanglements."

Now I understood. An "asset" was no good if it was compromised. A pregnancy would have rendered my body, my heart, useless for his grand plan. The disgust I felt was a physical thing, crawling up my throat like bile. I just shook my head, unable to speak past the lump of revulsion.

He seemed to believe me but his face remained a mask of tense anxiety. He disappeared into the bedroom and returned a moment later with a small box. He thrust it into my hand. It was a pregnancy test. No, not one. A family-sized pack of five.

"Take them," he ordered, his voice leaving no room for argument. "All of them. Now."

"Daryl, this is insane. I told you I'm not..."

"I need to be sure," he cut me off, his eyes like chips of ice. "There is no room for mistakes in our life, Ferne. You know that."

Our life. The words were a mockery.

"If it's positive," I whispered, testing the waters of this new, terrifying reality, "I could just... take care of it. No one would have to know."

His face contorted into a snarl so vicious it made me flinch. "Don't you dare! Don't you dare try to trap me with that. Is that what this is? Some pathetic attempt to secure your position?" He grabbed my shoulders, his fingers digging in painfully. "If you are pregnant, I will personally drive you to the clinic. And if you refuse, I swear to God, I will find a way to get that thing out of you myself."

The raw, violent hatred in his voice stole my breath. It wasn't about avoiding a "messy entanglement." It was about keeping his precious asset pure. All those times he' d insisted on "protection," it wasn't for my well-being or our future. It was quality control.

"No," I said, my voice trembling but firm. "I'm not doing this."

"Yes," he hissed, "you are."

He dragged me into the bathroom, the cold tiles a shock against my bare feet. He ripped open the boxes, lining up the five plastic sticks on the counter like a firing squad. He stood over me, a menacing shadow, until I complied. The humiliation was a knot of shame in my stomach.

After, he forced me to sit on the edge of the tub while he watched the results develop, his jaw clenched. One by one, they came back negative. The relief that washed over his face was not for me, not for us. It was the relief of a man whose prized investment had just been saved from a market crash.

He knelt in front of me, his demeanor shifting instantly back to one of loving concern. It was a terrifying, whiplash-inducing performance.

"See, baby? Nothing to worry about," he cooed, stroking my hair. "You just need to listen to me. As long as you're a good girl, I'll take care of you. I'll always take care of you."

A good girl. An obedient asset. I sat there, numb and silent, a single tear tracing a cold path down my cheek. My heart, the very organ he was plotting to steal, felt like it was cracking into a thousand pieces.

The next day was a blur of forced normalcy. Daryl insisted we go on a pre-planned outing with Kenisha-a trip to a scenic mountain lookout. I felt like a lamb being led to something far worse than slaughter.

When we arrived, Kenisha was already there, perched on a bench overlooking the valley. She was wearing a delicate white dress, her face a perfect portrait of innocent beauty. She waved weakly, a pained smile on her lips.

"Ferne, you came!" she chirped, her voice breathy. "Daryl, can you help me? I want to sit closer to the edge. The view is better there."

"Of course, my love," Daryl said, rushing to her side. He shot me a glare. "Ferne, move."

He didn't ask. He commanded. He gestured to the less desirable spot on the bench, further from the railing. I moved without a word, watching as he settled Kenisha into my previous seat, tucking a blanket around her legs with a tenderness that made my stomach churn. He fussed over her, his back completely to me, as if I had ceased to exist.

Kenisha looked over at me, her eyes gleaming with a malicious triumph. She reached into her purse and pulled out a small, ornate perfume bottle.

"Oh, clumsy me!" she cried out, her hand "slipping."

The bottle flew through the air, not towards the ground, but directly at my face. I jerked back, but it was too late. A sharp, stinging liquid sprayed across my eyes. And then came the scream.

It wasn't a scream of surprise. It was a raw, piercing shriek of agony. Because the bottle wasn't perfume. It was pepper spray.

Ferne Booth POV:

"Ferne! What the hell did you do?"

Daryl' s voice was a roar of fury, instantly at Kenisha's side. He didn't even look at me, his entire focus on my sister, who was now theatrically clutching her face and sobbing.

"I... I didn't do anything," I gasped, my own eyes burning, the world dissolving into a blurry, painful mess. "She threw it at me."

"Liar!" Daryl spat, his face contorted with rage. "I saw you! You knocked it out of her hand! You're just jealous because I'm paying attention to her!"

He lunged at me, grabbing me by the hair and dragging me towards our car. The pain was sharp, but the injustice was sharper. He yanked open the trunk, a space usually reserved for groceries and my portable keyboard, and shoved me inside.

"You're going to stay in here and think about what you've done," he seethed, his voice a low growl. "Maybe a little time-out will teach you some damn manners."

"Daryl, please," I begged, scrambling to get out, but he was already slamming the lid shut, plunging me into darkness. I heard the click of the lock, a sound of absolute finality. I was a prisoner.

He had fabricated a reality where I was the villain, and he was the righteous judge. He saw what he wanted to see, what confirmed his narrative: Kenisha, the pure, suffering angel, and me, the spiteful, jealous shrew.

The trunk door flew open again a moment later, and Daryl's face appeared, silhouetted against the bright sky. He wasn't there to let me out. He tossed something inside that clattered against the metal floor.

It was the can of pepper spray.

"So you don't forget who the real victim is here," he snarled.

The trunk slammed shut again, the sound echoing the snapping of the last thread of hope inside me. The car lurched into motion, and I heard him cooing to Kenisha through the thin barrier of the back seat, his voice dripping with sympathy.

The road was a winding, unpaved mountain path. With every bump and jolt, my body was thrown against the hard-surfaced confines of the trunk. The can of pepper spray became a weapon, its sharp edges digging into my skin, tearing at my clothes.

Then, on a particularly violent lurch, I felt a sharp, searing pain in my thigh. I cried out, reaching down to feel a warm, sticky wetness spreading through my jeans. The nozzle of the can had pierced my skin. The pain was excruciating, a white-hot agony that made me gasp for air.

The drive felt like an eternity. The smell of dust and my own blood filled the small space. My body was a canvas of bruises and cuts. By the time the car finally stopped, I was a trembling, bleeding mess, struggling to draw breath.

The trunk opened. Daryl looked down at me, his face impassive. There was no shock, no remorse at the sight of my injuries. If anything, his eyes held a flicker of annoyance, as if my suffering was an inconvenience.

"Get up," he said, his voice flat. He reached in, not to help, but to drag me out by my arm, his fingers digging into a fresh bruise. He doused me with a bottle of frigid water from the cooler. "Stop acting so pathetic. You brought this on yourself. Now go inside and apologize to Kenisha."

Apologize. The word was so absurd, so grotesquely unfair, that a broken, hollow laugh escaped my lips. He wanted me to apologize for being attacked, for being imprisoned, for being injured. My pain was irrelevant. Only Kenisha's mattered.

I stumbled into the remote mountain cabin he' d rented, my leg screaming in protest. I found a first-aid kit in the bathroom and clumsily tried to clean and bandage the gash on my thigh, my hands shaking too much to do a proper job.

Kenisha appeared in the doorway a few minutes later, a smug, satisfied smirk playing on her lips. She had a small, decorative bandage on her cheek, a theatrical prop in her twisted play.

"Feeling better?" she asked, her voice dripping with false concern. "I have an idea that will cheer you right up. There's a rickety old rope bridge over the canyon out back. It'll be fun!"

My blood ran cold. I was terrified of heights. She knew that.

"I don't think that's a good idea, Kenisha," I said, my voice barely a whisper.

"Oh, don't be a baby." She grabbed my wrist, her nails digging into my skin, and began to drag me towards the back door. "Unless you have something to hide? Daryl told me he saw you talking to your ex, Bradley Spencer, the other day. Getting back together with the man who ruined your hands? How touching."

The accusation was a slap in the face. It was a lie, a complete fabrication, but I knew it was meant to corner me.

We stood at the edge of the canyon. The rope bridge was exactly as she'd described it: a terrifying, swaying construction of weathered planks and fraying ropes, stretched over a dizzying drop.

"I'm not going on that," I said, planting my feet.

"Why not?" Daryl' s voice came from behind me. He put his arm around Kenisha, pulling her close. "Afraid your guilty conscience will send you over the edge?"