Chapter 2

I woke with a gasp in a sterile white room, the antiseptic smell stinging my nostrils. A dull ache throbbed in my arm where an IV needle was taped down.

Garrison had done this. After our confrontation, I'd had a panic attack, hyperventilating until I passed out. He hadn't called an ambulance. He'd called his private doctor, the one who prescribed "calm" for wealthy wives. He was trying to build his case, to document my "instability."

A young woman in a sharp pantsuit stood by the window. "Mrs. Gardner? I'm Sarah, your husband's junior associate."

Her eyes were full of a pity I didn't want.

"Mr. Gardner asked me to bring these for you to sign," she said, placing a thin file on the bedside table. "He said you were expecting them."

I remembered his words from the night before. Just some paperwork for the firm. A formality.

My hands trembled as I opened the folder. It was a stack of documents, dense with legal jargon. But one page stood out, hidden in the middle.

A petition for divorce.

It was pre-filled, citing irreconcilable differences. All it needed were our signatures. Tucked beneath it was another document, a power of attorney, giving him complete control over my assets if I were ever deemed "incapacitated."

He was laying a trap. He would have me declared mentally incompetent, take everything, and lock me away.

"He said to sign on all the yellow tabs," Sarah said softly.

I looked at her, a thought sparking in the fog of my grief and fear. Garrison was arrogant. He trusted his power, his ability to make people do what he wanted. He wouldn't have bothered to explain the documents to his junior. He'd just told her to get a signature.

"Actually," I said, my voice surprisingly steady, "my husband and I discussed this. I'm only supposed to sign one of these today."

I carefully pulled out the divorce petition.

"Just this one," I said, my heart pounding. "He said he'd handle the rest later."

Sarah looked confused for a moment but then nodded. "Okay, sure."

I found the signature line. Janette Meyers Gardner. I signed it. Then I pushed the paper toward the other side.

"He needs to sign it too," I said. "Right here."

She pointed. "But Mr. Gardner already..." She trailed off, looking at the page. Garrison, in his haste and arrogance, had only filled in the details. He hadn't signed his part yet. He expected to get my signature on everything first, a blank check for my life.

"He told me to get his signature right after I signed," I lied smoothly. "He's waiting for it."

Sarah, eager to please her powerful boss, didn't question it. She took out her phone. A few minutes later, an e-signature from Garrison Gardner appeared on the line next to mine. It was done.

The document was now legally binding.

"I'll have this filed immediately, Mrs. Gardner," Sarah said, gathering the papers. She left the unsigned power of attorney on the table.

I took a deep, shaky breath. It was a small victory, a tiny crack in his armor, but it was a start.

I checked myself out of the clinic against medical advice and took a taxi not home, but to the small community garden my mother had tended for years. I stood among her roses, their scent a painful reminder of her.

"I'm sorry, Mom," I whispered to the empty air. "I'm so sorry I couldn't get you justice. Not yet."

But I made her a promise. "I will make them pay. Both of them. I swear it."

A plan began to form in my mind, wild and desperate. If the world thought I was unstable, if Garrison wanted to erase me, maybe I should just... disappear.

Fake my own death.

It was insane. But what other choice did I have? He held all the cards. He could discredit me, institutionalize me, and no one would believe me. But if I was dead, I was a ghost. And ghosts can haunt people in ways the living can't.

I would need a new identity, a new life. And from that new life, I would launch my revenge. I would become the viral nightmare that exposed Garrison Gardner and Keyla Dixon to the world.

Steeling myself, I went home. The house was quiet, but I could hear faint laughter coming from the back patio.

I walked through the cold, marble-floored living room and stepped outside.

There they were. Garrison and Keyla Dixon, lounging by the pool. Keyla was wearing one of my silk robes, sipping a mimosa. Garrison was laughing at something she said, his face relaxed and happy in a way I hadn't seen in months.

He looked up and saw me. The smile vanished.

"Janette. You're home," he said, a flicker of annoyance in his eyes.

Keyla looked me up and down, a smug little smile playing on her lips. "Oh, darling, you look simply awful. The stress is really not doing you any favors."

"What is she doing here, Garrison?" I asked, my voice flat.

"Keyla was feeling a bit shaken after the trial," he said smoothly. "I invited her to stay for a few days. To rest and recover."

"Recover from what?" I shot back. "Celebrating getting away with murder?"

Keyla gasped theatrically. "Garrison, she's being cruel."

Garrison stood up and walked over to me, his body blocking my view of her. "That's enough, Janette. Keyla is our guest."

He then had the audacity to hand me a list. "Keyla has some... particular needs. She's allergic to gluten, lactose, and she only drinks Fiji water at exactly 45 degrees. I wrote down her meal preferences. I'm sure you can manage it."

I stared at the list, then at him. He was asking me, ordering me, to cook and serve the woman who had tried to kill my mother. In my own home.

The sheer, breathtaking arrogance of it was almost impressive.

"You can't be serious," I said, my voice dangerously low.

"Janette, we've been over this," he said, his tone that of a patient parent scolding a difficult child. "We need to keep the Dixons happy. Think of it as part of your role as my wife."

"Your wife?" I said, a bitter laugh escaping my lips.

Keyla, seizing the moment, slipped one of my old, slightly worn cashmere sweaters over her shoulders. A sweater Garrison had bought me years ago. She held it out.

"This is so soft," she purred. "But it's a bit dated, don't you think?" She looked at me. "It's probably more your style."

I remembered a time when another woman had made a snide comment about my dress at a company party. Garrison had stepped in front of me, put his arm around my waist, and coolly informed her that his wife had impeccable taste. He had defended my honor.

Now, he stood by and let this woman insult me with my own clothes.

I said nothing. I just took the list from his hand. For the plan to work, I had to endure. I had to play the part of the broken, compliant wife a little longer.

Later that night, Keyla claimed she couldn't sleep, that the house was "creepy." She went to Garrison's room, crying about nightmares.

He was all too eager to comfort her.

An hour later, he came to the guest room where I was staying.

"Janette," he said, standing in the doorway. "Keyla is very sensitive. She feels more comfortable in the master suite. I need you to move your things out."

I looked up from the bed. Behind him, down the hall, I could see Keyla leaning against the master bedroom doorframe. She met my eyes, and her lips curved into a triumphant, mocking smile.

"Of course," I said, my voice devoid of emotion. "She can have it."

I stood up and walked past him, not even glancing his way. "After all," I added, pausing at the door. "I wouldn't want your guest to be uncomfortable."

As I walked down the hall to an even smaller guest room, I felt something shift inside me. It wasn't just love that had died. It was hope. The last, stupid, lingering ember of hope that some part of the man I married was still in there.

He was gone. And in his place was a monster.

And I was done with him. Utterly and completely.