Chapter 4

James didn' t even look at me. He just stood there, his arm wrapped around Kirsten.

"Get on your knees and apologize to her," he commanded.

The words hit me like a physical blow. I stared at him, my mind reeling. This couldn't be happening.

"James, why?" I whispered. "There are cameras in the hallway. They'll show what really happened. She came here to provoke me."

I pointed at Kirsten. "She's the abuser. She tortured Kelley!"

"Enough!" he roared, his voice cracking like a whip.

The sound made me flinch. He had never raised his voice to me before. Not once in eight years.

"I believe Kirsten," he said, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous tone. "Her word is enough for me."

Kirsten glided towards me, her eyes gleaming with triumph. She grabbed my chin, her nails digging into my skin.

"You see, Hannah?" she whispered, her voice a triumphant hiss. "He chose me. You're nothing. You were always just a boring, predictable cook. I'm an artist."

I bit my lip, the coppery taste of blood filling my mouth. I tried to pull away, but his men held me fast.

"James," I pleaded one last time, my voice cracking. "What do you want from me?"

He looked at me, his expression unreadable. "I want you to make Kirsten happy."

Then he looked at one of his bodyguards. "Break her right hand."

The world went silent. The words didn't register at first.

My right hand. My life. My career. My art.

One of his men grabbed my arm, forcing it onto the cold tile floor. Another raised a heavy-soled boot.

"No!" I screamed, struggling against their iron grip. "I'm a chef! You can't!"

The boot came down.

A white-hot, blinding pain shot up my arm. I heard a sickening crunch. My own scream sounded distant, foreign. My hand was a mangled mess of blood and bone.

James knelt beside me. He took a silk handkerchief from his pocket and gently wiped the blood from the corner of my mouth. His eyes were cold, empty.

"I have to protect her, Hannah," he said, as if explaining a simple business decision. "She's fragile. You're strong. You can handle this."

He gestured to the guard. "The other one, too."

I twisted my head away, a wave of nausea and hatred washing over me. "You're disgusting."

His face tightened. The mask of calm finally cracked. He stood up, pulling Kirsten into his arms.

"Let's go, my love," he said, his voice soft again as he spoke to her. He kissed her, a long, passionate kiss, right in front of me.

I watched them, my mind numb. Was this the man who swore he'd love me forever?

The boot came down again. My left hand shattered.

The pain was immense, a roaring ocean that threatened to drown me. But it was nothing compared to the agony in my heart. My hands, my tools, my identity-all destroyed.

My dreams were gone.

The guard finally let go. I lay on the floor, cradling my broken hands to my chest.

Kirsten's lackey, the one who had helped her film Kelley, sneered down at me. "Looks like you won't be cooking for a while, chef."

He laughed and walked out, leaving me in a pool of my own blood and despair.

My phone, lying on the floor nearby, lit up with a new notification. A video from Kirsten.

With a clumsy, agonizing movement, I managed to tap the screen with my nose.

It was my bedroom. Our bedroom. Kirsten was there, writhing on our bed, wearing one of my nightgowns. She picked up the small, worn teddy bear I'd had since I was a child, the last gift from my mother before she died. She held it between her legs, her movements obscene.

I felt a wave of sickness rise in my throat.

The camera panned to show James, sitting in the armchair by the window. Kirsten climbed onto his lap, her face flushed, her breathing heavy.

She looked directly into the camera, a triumphant smirk on her face. "James, darling," she cooed, "who do you love more? Me or her?"