Chapter 2

The charity auction was held in the city's grandest hotel ballroom. Chandeliers dripped crystals from the ceiling, and the air buzzed with the low hum of polite conversation and the clinking of glasses. It was the kind of event Mark Stevens thrived in, a stage for his public performance of success and charm. I was here for business, a final negotiation for a new partnership. I never expected to see him.

He was on the stage now, a microphone in his hand, the guest of honor. He flashed his signature smile for the cameras, a picture of wealth and philanthropy.

"This cause is very close to my heart," he said, his voice smooth and practiced. "Helping those who are vulnerable, who need protection... it's our duty as a community."

I felt a bitter taste rise in my throat. Vulnerable. Protection. He used those words like they meant something to him.

"And of course," he continued, his eyes sweeping the crowd, "I wouldn't be the man I am today without the support of the most wonderful, most delicate woman I know." He paused for effect, his gaze softening as it found its target in the front row. "My love, Chloe."

The crowd applauded politely. Chloe Peterson, seated in the front row, looked up at him with adoring eyes, a perfect picture of innocence and fragility. She dabbed at her eyes with a handkerchief, a flawless performance. The same performance she had been giving her entire life.

I watched the nauseating display, my fingers tightening around the stem of my glass. It was all a lie, a carefully constructed illusion for the benefit of the public.

Then, his eyes moved past the front row, scanning the room. They met mine.

For a second, the mask slipped. I saw the flicker of shock again, the same expression from the gala last week. But this time, it was followed by a flash of annoyance, a darkness that was much more familiar to me. He quickly recovered, his smile returning, but his gaze held mine for a second too long.

The room suddenly felt too warm. The air too thick to breathe. The memories, the ones I kept locked away in the darkest corners of my mind, began to stir. The smell of stale beer and sweat. The sound of rough laughter. The feeling of absolute powerlessness.

A tremor started in my hand, a violent, uncontrollable shaking that threatened to shatter the glass I was holding. I quickly set it down on a passing waiter's tray, my knuckles white.

I closed my eyes, taking a slow, deep breath. In, out. You are not there. You are here. You are safe. It was a mantra Liam had taught me. Liam. My anchor. My future.

I had to get out of here. I turned, intending to slip out a side door, but a voice stopped me cold.

"Trying to run away again, Sarah?"

I turned back slowly. Mark was standing right behind me, his public smile gone, replaced by a contemptuous sneer. He had finished his speech and made a beeline straight for me.

"I'm not running, Mark. I'm leaving," I said, my voice steady despite the storm raging inside me.

"Leaving? Don't lie. You came here for me. You saw me on stage with Chloe and you couldn't stand it," he hissed, his voice low so only I could hear.

I almost laughed. The sheer arrogance of the man was breathtaking.

"You really think my world still revolves around you? I'm here for work," I said, my voice dripping with a calm I didn't feel. "Something you wouldn't understand."

"Work?" He scoffed, looking me up and down with a dismissive air. "What kind of work? Still 'toughing it out' for powerful men?"

The insult was meant to break me, to remind me of where he had sent me. Three years ago, it would have worked. Now, it only fueled the cold fire in my gut.

"Careful, Mark. You wouldn't want people to know about your... business associates."

His face darkened. "You think you can threaten me? You're nothing. You've always been nothing."

He took a step closer, his presence suffocating. "You're just jealous. You see Chloe, you see how much I love her, how I protect her, and you can't handle it. You wish you were her."

"I wouldn't wish to be her for anything in the world," I said, my voice flat and dead.

He ignored me, a smug, self-satisfied look spreading across his face. He was enjoying this, enjoying the power he thought he still had over me.

"In fact," he said, leaning in as if sharing a secret, "I'm planning to propose to her. Tonight. Right here, on this stage. And you'll have a front-row seat to watch the woman you hate get everything you ever wanted."

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