Chapter 1

The dull ache in my abdomen was a familiar torment, a grim echo of the ten times before. Ten times Mark had insisted, his voice a silken trap of feigned concern for "us," for "our future," only to revert to his charming self once I'd complied, sometimes with dramatic, self-pitying tears that made me feel like the cruel one. Nine years of this, nine years in New York City, a world away from my quiet Midwest upbringing, a world where my dreams of photography had faded under the shadow of his control.

Tonight, I was supposed to pick him up from his Wall Street firm's awards dinner. The latest procedure, just yesterday, had left me weaker than usual, a hollowed-out feeling that went deeper than my body. I navigated the city traffic, my hands unsteady on the wheel, my mind replaying his promises, his apologies, the cycle I couldn't seem to break.

I arrived at the glitzy hotel ballroom, the sounds of celebration spilling out. I spotted Mark near the bar, his arm around a young woman. My stomach clenched. Then he leaned in and kissed her, a long, public kiss that wasn't a friendly peck. It was Jessica, his intern, young, ambitious, and now, apparently, more.

He saw me, his eyes, usually so adept at feigning warmth, now held a glint of something cold, almost triumphant. He beckoned me over, a smirk playing on his lips.

"Sarah, darling," he slurred, his breath thick with expensive champagne. "Come meet Jessica. She's got some wonderful news."

Jessica preened, placing a hand on her still-flat stomach.

"Mark, I..." I started, my voice barely a whisper.

"Jessica's pregnant," Mark announced, his voice loud enough for nearby colleagues to hear. "And I thought, who better to mentor her through it than you, Sarah? You're practically an expert, after all."

He chuckled, a harsh, grating sound. "Ten times, wasn't it? You always knew what to do."

A wave of nausea washed over me. The room tilted. His colleagues stared, some with open pity, others with a disgusting amusement. One of them, a man I vaguely recognized, spoke up.

"Mark, ease up. Sarah just... she's not well." He was referring to my latest "procedure," a fact Mark had likely shared with a theatrical sigh of concern.

Mark scoffed. "Not well? She's strong as an ox. Does whatever I tell her. Don't you, sweetheart?" He looked at me, his eyes daring me to contradict him.

The air was thick with humiliation. My face burned. I wanted to disappear, to run, but my feet felt rooted to the floor. The years of his control, his careful isolation of me from friends, from family-my parents were long gone-had taken their toll. I was worn down, a frayed version of the hopeful girl who had followed him to this city. His words, meant to break me further, instead sparked a tiny, unfamiliar ember of defiance. This couldn't be my life. Not anymore.