Chapter 1

The past was a memory that never faded. It lived in my bones, a constant, low hum of pain I had learned to ignore. But sometimes, when I least expected it, a sound or a face would turn that hum into a roar.

Tonight, that face was Mark Stevens.

Three years. Three years since I had last seen him, and my body still remembered before my mind did. A cold sweat broke out on my skin, and the crystal champagne flute in my hand trembled.

I saw him across the crowded ballroom, a sea of tuxedos and shimmering gowns between us. He looked the same. Confident, handsome, with that easy smile that had once made my world turn. The smile that had lied to me.

The memory hit me then, sharp and unwanted.

"Chloe is too delicate for that place, she wouldn't last a day."

His voice was casual, as if he were discussing the weather. I was on my knees in front of him, my hands clutching the expensive fabric of his trousers. I begged him, my voice raw with tears.

"Mark, please. Don't do this. I'll do anything else. Please."

He looked down at me, his eyes cold, without a trace of the love he had promised me for years. He was talking about sending me to an underground fight club, a place where men paid to watch and use women, all to cover the massive gambling debts he had racked up. I was the collateral.

"You're tougher," he said, pulling his leg away from my grasp. "You can fill in for a few days."

His words were a physical blow. Tougher. Was that what he thought of me? Not a fiancée, not the woman he was supposed to spend his life with, but just... tougher. More durable. More able to withstand being broken.

"It's just a small favor," he promised, his voice softening into that manipulative tone I knew so well. He knelt, tilting my chin up so I had to look at him.

"Be good, Sarah. I'll come rescue you with the money in three days, and then we'll get married. I promise."

Three days. I clung to that promise like a dying woman clings to a single drop of water. Three days of hell for a lifetime of happiness. That was the trade he offered.

But the three days came and went. A week passed. Then another. Mark never came. The place was a nightmare I can't speak of, a pit of violence and degradation. I survived on the thought of him, on the memory of his promise. That hope was the only thing that kept me alive until I realized it was a lie.

I escaped. I don't remember all of it, just running. For days, I ran, my body a map of bruises and cuts, my mind shattered. I barely clung to life, driven by a single, desperate need to get home. To get back to him.

When I finally stumbled up the long driveway to our lavish mansion, the one I had helped him design, my heart pounded with a mix of terror and relief. But the house wasn't dark and quiet. It was ablaze with lights, music and laughter spilling out from the open doors.

A party.

I crept to a side window, my body shaking, and peered inside. I saw him, Mark, standing in the center of a group of his friends, a drink in his hand, laughing. And next to him, clinging to his arm, was Chloe Peterson. His childhood sweetheart. The "delicate" one.

Then I heard his voice, loud and boastful, carrying through the open window.

"If she hadn't been so unwilling to let Chloe move in, I wouldn't have been so cruel to her," he said, taking a sip of his drink. The crowd laughed with him.

"Now that she's been 'broken in' by those guys, she won't dare to be so headstrong anymore. She'll be much more obedient when I bring her back."

The world went silent. The music, the laughter, it all faded away. The only thing I could hear was the shattering of my own heart. He hadn't just abandoned me. He had planned it. It was a punishment. A lesson.

I turned and walked away from that house, from that life, from the man I thought I loved. I never looked back. That night, Sarah Miller died, and someone else began to crawl from the wreckage.

Now, three years later, here he was.

His eyes scanned the room and finally landed on me. The smile on his face froze. Shock, then disbelief, then something I couldn't name flickered across his features. He started moving towards me, pushing his way through the crowd, his eyes locked on mine.

He rushed over, his voice a frantic whisper.

"Sarah? Is that you? Do you know I've been searching for you for three years!"

His words were a bitter joke. Searching for me? Or for the obedient, broken toy he thought he had created?

I didn't flinch. I didn't cry. I simply smiled, a cool, calm smile that didn't reach my eyes.

Then, I leaned back, my body pressing against the warm, solid figure that had been standing silently behind me. A strong arm wrapped around my waist, pulling me close.

I looked up at Mark, my smile widening just a little.

"Mr. Stevens, we're not close. Please don't let my husband get the wrong idea."

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