The villa felt colder than ever like the walls themselves were holding their breath. I sank into the plush chair by the window, the city lights outside blurring through my tears. Everything from the night before swirled in my mind sharp, raw, impossible to silence.
I closed my eyes, and the memories clawed their way back up.
⸻
FLASHBACK
Ethan had seemed perfect at first.
He was gentle. Attentive. He showed up with flowers after Lily's hospital visits, waited outside during my shifts, and whispered that he wanted to take care of me. For a girl whose world had always been falling apart, Ethan had felt like something whole.
I was too blind to see the cracks.
They came slowly. Subtle.
"Why did you talk to him for so long?" he'd say with a smile that didn't reach his eyes.
"You don't need to work so much. Let me handle it."
At first, it felt like love. That obsessive kind of concern made me feel chosen. But it turned. Quick and cruel.
His love became control.
When I didn't answer fast enough, he'd sulk, then yell. If I said I was too tired to meet, he'd show up anyway. The night he first laid a hand on me, it wasn't a slap. It was a shove. Just hard enough to knock me back, just light enough for him to claim it wasn't serious.
I believed him.
It happened again a week later, louder, rougher. He grabbed my arm hard enough to leave a bruise. And then came the guilt trips, the flowers, the apologies. Always the apologies.
"I'm sorry," he said. "I just… I get scared when I think about losing you."
I stayed.
But the worst night came months later. Lily had collapsed again. I rushed home late. Ethan was waiting. Drunk. Angry that I hadn't picked up his calls.
I told him to stop. To get out.
He raised his hand.
This time, I didn't flinch fast enough.
The side of my head hit the corner of the dresser. There was ringing, then black.
When I woke up, my blood had dried, and Ethan was gone.
That was the night I left for good.
⸻
I opened my eyes and felt the sting of that memory still fresh in my bones.
Damian knew. He'd known before we ever signed the contract. Naomi must've told him or maybe he figured it out himself. He had resources. He probably knew everything.
And yet he said nothing. Let me walk into this sham of a marriage. Let me play wife while he played saviour.
But he wasn't saving me.
He was using me.
⸻
Naomi entered quietly, holding something in her hands.
A file. Slim. Plain.
"I shouldn't be doing this," she said, laying it on the coffee table. "But you deserve to know."
I flipped it open. Photos. Notes. Headlines. All of them are about Helena Kingsley.
The names changed, but the theme was constant women ruined. Every woman who had ever tried to get close to Damian, publicly or privately, had suffered.
A model accused of theft. A young exec was forced out of her startup. A charity worker branded a gold-digger.
Each one was pushed out of his life by Helena, like contamination she had to sterilize.
And now I was next.
Naomi's voice was low. "She won't stop. She thinks you're a threat. And she plays dirty."
My fingers trembled as I turned the pages.
"She's not just playing a game," I murmured. "She's rewriting lives."
Naomi nodded. "She's been doing it for years. No one ever stops her."
⸻
Later that evening, Damian walked into the study.
I didn't look at him at first.
He stood across the room like a judge behind glass.
"I never promised kindness," he said flatly.
I turned. "You never promised anything. Just contracts and conditions."
He tilted his head. "You're upset because I didn't warn you about Ethan. But I protected you."
"By putting me in a marriage I didn't understand?" I snapped. "You used my trauma to get what you wanted."
He didn't flinch. "You needed out. I gave you that."
"You gave me silence," I said, voice rising. "You knew what he did to me and still sat there, expressionless, like it was part of some calculated move."
His jaw clenched. "I don't coddle."
"No," I said. "You manipulate."
He walked closer, eyes locked to mine. "Everything I did was to contain him. You don't know what Ethan's capable of when he's cornered."
"Oh, I know exactly what he's capable of," I said, fists clenched. "Because I've lived it."
⸻
That night, I curled into the armchair again, knees drawn up. The city sparkled, oblivious.
I thought of Lily. Of all the nights I stayed up, calculating costs, praying for mercy. I thought of the hospital bills, the nights I let Ethan in because I couldn't afford to fight both him and the world.
I thought of the bruises I covered, the fake smiles I gave, the silence I swallowed.
And now, I was married to a man who saw me as a strategy. Collateral.
Even Naomi, with her soft pity and regret, couldn't unmake the truth.
But I wasn't the same girl who let Ethan back in.
This time, I had lines.
And this time, I wasn't afraid to draw them.
⸻
The next morning, the buzz of a new headline lit up my phone. Another rumour. Another whisper.
Another war began behind closed doors.
But I didn't run.
I walked into the sunlit kitchen, where Damian stood reading reports.
I didn't wait for him to speak.
"You don't get to define my worth," I said. "You bought time, not my soul."
He looked up sharply.
But I was already walking away.
Not broken.
Not begging.
Not this time.
The buzz of my phone cut through the silence.
One new headline. My breath caught.
BREAKING: Mystery Wife's Sister Admitted to Underfunded Facility — Does Kingsley Know?
My heart stopped.
There was a grainy photo of Lily—sitting in her wheelchair, pale and fragile, outside the clinic.
I clicked the article, hands trembling.
Helena's fingerprints were all over it.
Ava Reynold's secrets exposed.
My stomach turned. She'd gone after Lily.
She hadn't just attacked me.
She'd gone for the one person I couldn't protect.
The one person I'd done all this for.
I stood slowly, chest heaving, hands clenched into fists.
I wasn't crying anymore.
No.
I was done being hunted.
If Helena wanted war, then so would I.