Chapter 2

The heavy mahogany door slammed shut with a resounding thud, echoing through the hollow space of Emmett's office. It wasn't just a door closing; it was a finality, sealing me in a prison of my own shattered hopes. I was alone, crumpled on the floor, the pain in my head a dull throb against the sharp, searing agony in my chest. Tears streamed down my face, hot and relentless, but they offered no relief.

I thought of Emmett's promises, his carefully crafted words two years ago. "I'll handle everything," he'd said, his eyes filled with a concern I now recognized as a performance. "You just focus on Alexis, focus on your art." He had wrapped me in a blanket of false security, a cocoon of isolation designed to keep me blind.

I had loved him. I had trusted him implicitly. He was my rock, my confidant, the only person I felt truly understood me in that suffocating high-society world. His visits to the cabin, the gentle reassurance that everything was "under control," the fabricated news about Elisa's "assistance" with my art to "keep my name out of the headlines"-it was all a masterful deception. He had gaslit me for two years, making me believe his lies were my truth.

He became my guardian angel, shielding me from the harsh realities of the world, or so I believed. My sweet Emmett, always looking out for his fragile artist wife. He nurtured my delusions, making sure I never suspected the elaborate charade unfolding outside my secluded bubble. The thought made me sick. He hadn't protected me; he had actively participated in my destruction.

The realization hit me with the force of a tidal wave: every kind word, every tender touch, every reassuring gaze over the past two years had been a lie. He had been orchestrating my downfall, systematically stealing my life, piece by piece, while I lay emotionally vulnerable, my heart tethered to a comatose child. Emmett and Elisa, twinned serpents, had coiled around me, squeezing the life out of my career, my reputation, my very identity.

The urge to scream, to lash out, to expose them right then and there, was overwhelming. My fingers twitched, desperate for a phone, for a platform, for anyone to hear my truth. But a colder, more calculating part of me reined it in. Not yet. Not like this. If I reacted now, I would seem hysterical, just as they wanted me to. I would lose everything. I had to be smart. I had to protect Alexis. And I had to secure my divorce before I burned their world to the ground.

I forced myself to stand, my legs shaky, my head swimming. The silence in the office was deafening, punctuated only by my ragged breathing. I needed to leave, to get back to Alexis. Away from this house of lies.

Just then, my phone buzzed. An email. From my former publisher, a woman named Clara who had always championed my work. I almost ignored it, my mind too consumed by the recent revelations. But something made me open it.

The subject line read: "Your old work – still brilliant."

My hands trembled as I opened the message. Clara wrote that she'd been meaning to reach out, that she'd stumbled upon some of my older, unpublished sketches from before the "incident," and she still believed in my unique artistic vision. She wanted to know if I had anything new, anything at all. She still believed in my originality.

A tiny, fragile spark ignited in the vast darkness of my despair. Someone still believed. Someone saw my work, my talent. It was a faint glimmer, but it was enough to cling to.

My art. My stolen art. The rage flared anew, hot and fierce. They thought they could take it, mold it, claim it as their own? They thought they could erase me? Not anymore. I would reclaim it, every single stroke, every single color.

Driven by a desperate need to reclaim a part of myself, I spent the following weeks in a creative frenzy, channeling all my pain and fury into a new series of comics, raw and unfiltered. It felt like bleeding onto the digital canvas. When they were finished, I sent them to Clara.

Her response was immediate, glowing with enthusiasm. She called my new work "breathtaking," "unprecedented," "a masterpiece of emotional depth." She talked about a comeback, a new era for 'Wish.' Hope, real hope this time, tentatively blossomed in my chest. I would prove my talent, clear my name, and then... then they would pay.

But then, the familiar cold grip of betrayal tightened again. A week later, browsing an online art magazine, I saw it. Elisa Conway. Featured prominently. With my new series. The same unique style, the same raw emotions I had poured out. Published under her name. Again.

My stomach churned, bile rising in my throat. I felt physically sick. The hope, so recently kindled, was brutally extinguished, leaving behind a bitter ash. He had done it again. Emmett. He had known. He had probably facilitated it, fed my new work directly to her. My own husband, actively sabotaging me, orchestrating the theft of my creative soul.

I stumbled back, hitting the wall, the screen blurring before my eyes. A wave of dizziness washed over me, my knees threatening to buckle. The sheer audacity, the remorseless cruelty, was a physical blow.

Just then, the door to the study opened. Emmett stood there, a practiced, gentle smile on his face, a glass of amber liquid in his hand. He looked... satisfied.

"Adelia, darling," he said, his voice smooth, almost purring. "Are you alright? You look a little pale. Did you see the news?"

My blood ran cold. He knew. He always knew. My voice was a choked whisper. "My work, Emmett. My new work. Elisa just published it. How?"

He took a slow sip of his drink, his eyes meeting mine without a flicker of remorse. "Ah, that. Yes, I saw. She's quite prolific, isn't she? A true talent. It's truly remarkable how similar your styles are." He paused, a cruel smirk playing on his lips. "But Adelia, let's be honest. You were... out of commission, so to speak. Someone had to keep the 'Wish' brand alive. It was languishing. A shame, really."

My jaw dropped. The casual, almost indifferent tone, as if he were discussing a broken faucet, not the theft of my soul. "You... you admit it? You helped her steal my work? Again?"

He sighed, a theatrical gesture of world-weariness. "Adelia, perspective. Think of it as an investment. Your name was mud. You were canceled. Who would publish you? Elisa, bless her heart, stepped in. She's keeping your legacy alive, in a way. And when Alexis... recovers, perhaps then we can talk about crediting you. When the dust settles. When things are 'appropriate'."

The cold, calculated logic of his betrayal was staggering. It wasn't just about money; it was about control, about power, about erasing me. He truly believed he was doing me a favor.

A choked sob escaped my lips, hot tears betraying the icy resolve I was trying to maintain. "You... you are a monster. How could you? This is my soul! My voice! My connection to Alexis!"

He walked over to me, putting a hand on my shoulder, his touch making my skin crawl. "Adelia, please. Don't be so dramatic. It's just art. A hobby. It's not like you're a breadwinner. My family provides everything. You have a roof over your head, the best medical care for Alexis. You really think you could survive out there without me? Without our name?" His voice dropped, a subtle menace underlying the feigned concern. "And Alexis... she needs stability, Adelia. Our stability. If you cause a scene, if you try to fight this... well, my family is very powerful. They could make things very difficult. For Alexis's care. Think about her."

I recoiled, my eyes wide with horror. He was using Alexis, my injured daughter, as a weapon. The man I married, the father of my child, was threatening her life, her care, to control me. He was a puppeteer, and I, the stringed doll, was finally seeing the threads. The contempt he held for my art, for my very being, was starkly revealed. My art was a "hobby," my soul a "brand" to be managed.

He pulled me into a tight embrace, his lips brushing my hair. It felt suffocating, sickening. "Just trust me, Adelia. Just do as I say. It's for the best. For all of us. I'm just looking out for our future. My family has certain expectations. Obligations to Elisa's family, you understand? We go way back. Old money, old debts, you know how it is." He patted my back, a gesture of ownership. "Just be a good wife, a good mother. And everything will be fine."

I felt bile rise in my throat, a wave of nausea washing over me. His words were a physical assault, his embrace a cage. I closed my eyes, the smell of his cologne, entwined with Elisa's perfume, making me want to gag. He was a stranger, a predator cloaked in familiarity. The love I once felt for him was dead, replaced by a chilling, absolute hatred.

My body trembled, but my mind was clearer than it had ever been. He had made his choice. Now, I would make mine.