Chapter 2

The next time I sensed someone in the room, I didn' t stir. I kept my breathing even and shallow, mimicking the drugged sleep I was supposed to be in. I was a prisoner, and my only weapon was information. I had to listen. I had to learn.

The scent of antiseptic was stronger, accompanied by the squeak of rubber-soled shoes.

"Heart rate is stable. Blood pressure is a little high, but that's expected after the trauma," a man' s voice said. It was Dr. Evans. His tone was hollow, professional, but laced with a nervous tremor I could now easily detect.

"When can you do it?" That was Liam. His voice was impatient.

"We can prep her for surgery this afternoon. The paperwork has been... filed. It will be listed as a necessary procedure due to internal injuries from the crash." Dr. Evans sounded like he was reading from a script he loathed.

"Good," Liam said, the single word filled with satisfaction. "And the other thing?"

"Mr. Miller, I have to advise you again, the hysterectomy is completely unnecessary-"

"Are we having this conversation again, Doctor?" Liam' s voice dropped, the pleasant façade gone, replaced by pure ice. "Or are you ready to do your job?"

A tense silence stretched. I could almost feel Dr. Evans wilting under the pressure.

"We will proceed as you've instructed," he finally conceded, his voice barely a whisper.

I felt a cool hand on my forehead, brushing back a few strands of hair. It was Liam. His touch, which once felt like home, now felt like a spider crawling on my skin. I had to fight every instinct to recoil.

"Oh, Chloe," he sighed, his voice overflowing with a thick, syrupy counterfeit of love and sorrow. "My poor, brave Chloe. Don't you worry. I'll be right here when you wake up. We'll get through this together. Our love is stronger than anything."

The hypocrisy was so profound it was almost breathtaking. He spoke of love while orchestrating my mutilation. He stroked my hair while plotting to steal my future. I wanted to scream, to claw at him, to expose him for the monster he was.

But I couldn't. Not yet. I was blind, weak, and trapped. My only power was in this deception, this feigned unconsciousness.

The doctor and Liam left, and a nurse came in. Her movements were rough and efficient. I felt a prick in my arm as she adjusted my IV. The world started to swim, the drugs pulling me down into a real, deep fog.

"Time to go," she said, not to me, but to herself.

I felt the gurney begin to move. The slight bumps and turns of the hallway were my only guide. I was being taken. Taken to be carved up for another woman' s benefit.

A desperate, primal fear surged through me. This was real. This was happening.

"No," I managed to whisper, my lips clumsy and numb. "Stop."

The gurney paused. I heard the nurse let out an annoyed sigh. "She's coming around a bit. Give her another dose."

I tried to fight, to move my arms, to sit up. But my body was a leaden weight, refusing to obey. My limbs felt disconnected, useless.

"Liam," I slurred, the name tasting like ash in my mouth. It was the only name I could think to call, a desperate, pathetic plea to a man who was my tormentor.

As the second wave of anesthetic flooded my veins, pulling me under, my mind fractured. It threw me back to a memory, a sun-drenched afternoon in the park a year ago.

Liam was on one knee, holding a small velvet box. "Chloe Davis," he had said, his eyes shining with what I thought was adoration. "You are my whole world. Marry me. Let's build a life together. A family. I want to have kids with you, watch them grow up with your smile and your kind heart."

The memory was so vivid, so beautiful, it was an agony. The promise of a family, the life we were supposed to build. It was all a lie. A carefully constructed fantasy to trap the secret heiress of the Davis tech empire. He didn't love me. He loved what I could give him.

And now, he was taking it all away.

The sweet memory dissolved, replaced by the cold, sterile reality of the operating room. The last thing I felt before the darkness swallowed me completely was a profound, soul-crushing despair. He was winning.