Chapter 2

The drive back from the lake was a silent storm of fury and decision. The moment I walked through the door of the villa I shared with Bennet, I went straight to my office. My hands were steady. The shaking had stopped.

My first act of freedom was to go online. I found the official government portal and began the process of canceling my identity as Harper Cline. I filled out the forms, my new, practiced left-handed signature a testament to my resilience. It was a drastic, irreversible step, but it was necessary. To Bennet and the world he controlled, Harper Cline had to disappear.

Next, I opened the application for the Paris architecture competition. I created a new profile, a new identity. I chose a new name, one that felt like a promise to myself. I submitted my portfolio, the designs I had painstakingly recreated with my left hand over the last three years.

My right hand, or what was left of it, rested on the desk. It was a marvel of modern technology, a prosthetic so lifelike it could fool anyone at a glance. Bennet had spared no expense, commissioning the best in the world to create it. He' d held my real hand, my remaining hand, and told me, "I' ll make it perfect for you, my love. You won' t even know the difference."

But I knew. I always knew. The prosthetic was cold, lifeless. It couldn' t feel the warmth of a teacup or the texture of drafting paper. It couldn' t hold a pencil. It was a beautiful, empty shell.

After the attack, after the doctors told me my drawing hand was lost forever, despair had been a constant companion. I had tried to end my life more than once, unable to imagine a future without my art. Bennet had always been there, holding me, weeping, telling me he couldn' t live without me. He was my savior, my hero.

Now I saw his tears for what they were: selfish. He didn' t want me to die. He wanted me to live as his broken, dependent pet.

But a spark inside me refused to be extinguished. I had picked up a pencil with my left hand. The first lines were clumsy, childish. The frustration was immense. But I persisted. Day after day, month after month, I retrained my brain, my muscles. I filled sketchbooks with shaky lines that slowly, painstakingly, became confident strokes. I was becoming an architect again, in secret.

A week later, an email arrived. My application had been accepted. I was officially a finalist in the competition.

A wave of relief washed over me. I was so glad I hadn't told Bennet. He would have found a way to stop me, to "protect" me from the potential disappointment, to keep me safe in his cage.

The next email was from the government. My application to nullify my identity had been processed. It would be finalized in ten days.

Ten days. In ten days, I would walk out of this house and never look back. He would search for Harper Cline, but she would no longer exist. He would never find me.

That evening, I returned to the villa to find it in chaos. The maids were standing in a line, their heads bowed, while Bennet paced in front of them like a caged tiger.

"Where is she?" he roared, his voice bouncing off the marble floors. "Did any of you see where she went?"

No one dared to answer.

Then, one of the maids, a young girl named Lucy, saw me. Her face flooded with relief. "Mr. Crosby, she' s here!"

Bennet spun around. The fury on his face melted away the instant he saw me, replaced by a look of profound relief. He rushed forward and pulled me into a crushing hug, burying his face in my hair.

"Harper, my God, where were you? I was worried sick. You didn' t answer your phone."

His embrace felt suffocating. I stood stiffly in his arms.

"I just went for a walk," I said, my voice carefully neutral. "I lost track of time."

He pulled back, his hands framing my face. He smoothed my hair, his touch meant to be gentle but feeling possessive. "Don' t scare your husband like that again, okay?"

Husband. The word was a lie. I wasn' t his wife. Not for three years.

I forced a small smile. "I won' t."

He beamed, the perfect, loving husband once more. "Good. Now come with me. I have your anniversary present ready."

He led me outside, where a helicopter was waiting on the lawn. The extravagance, which once would have thrilled me, now felt hollow. We lifted into the sky, the city lights spreading out below us like a carpet of jewels.

Then, I saw it. An entire district of skyscrapers had their lights coordinated to spell out a message.

'HARPER, I LOVE YOU FOREVER.'

Bennet leaned close, his breath warm against my ear. "No matter what happens, my love for you will never change. You are mine, and I am yours, for all eternity."

The lie was so grand, so breathtaking, it was almost beautiful.

The helicopter landed in front of a magnificent estate. A sprawling manor built in a style I had once sketched in a dream journal. A wrought-iron gate bore the name "Harper' s Haven."

"I had it built for you," Bennet said, his eyes shining. "Everything exactly as you like it."

He led me through a garden filled with my favorite flower, the Juliet rose, an impossibly expensive and rare bloom. There was a carousel, just like the one I' d loved as a child, and a small petting zoo with fluffy alpacas.

He had recreated my every fantasy, every passing whim I' d ever mentioned. It was a monument to his love, or rather, his obsession.

Tears welled in my eyes, but they were not tears of joy. They were tears of grief for the love I thought I had, for the man I thought he was. It was all a performance, a grand gesture to mask a dark and twisted reality. He was capable of this, and he was capable of sharing his life with another woman simultaneously.

He saw my tears and mistook them for happiness. "Oh, my darling," he whispered, wiping a tear from my cheek with his thumb. "Don' t cry."

Then, he dropped to one knee. My heart stopped.

He pulled out a velvet box. Inside was a diamond ring, larger and more brilliant than my original wedding ring.

"Harper Cline," he said, his voice thick with emotion. "I know we' re already married, but I want to do this again. I want to promise you my whole life, my whole heart, all over again. I can' t live without you. Please, say you' ll be mine forever."

He looked up at me, his eyes filled with a desperate, obsessive love that I now recognized as a form of madness.

"This ring is special," he continued, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "It has a GPS tracker in it. So I' ll always know where you are. I' ll never have to worry about losing you again."

The chill that went through me had nothing to do with the evening air. It was a cage. He was literally trying to put a lock on me.

Just then, his phone buzzed. A distinct, chirpy notification sound I' d never heard before.

His eyes flickered to the screen for a split second. A flash of annoyance crossed his features before he smoothed it over. He ignored the message, took my left hand, and slid the enormous ring onto my finger. It was loose.

"I have to take a quick call," he said, his smile a little too tight. "A client issue. I' ll be right back, my love. Explore your new home."

He kissed my forehead and strode away, pulling his phone out as soon as his back was turned.

I stood alone in the magnificent, empty garden. A small, stray cat rubbed against my leg, purring. I bent down and stroked its soft fur.

This cat had a home now.

And I had never been more homeless in my life.