Chapter 4

A servant came to the basement door. "Mr. Johnson requests your presence for dinner."

The servant' s voice was hesitant. She was afraid of me, but more afraid of him. I knew I had to go. Brennan had my mother. He was paying for her expensive medical treatments. My compliance was the price of her health.

I pulled myself up, every muscle protesting. The dampness of the basement had seeped into my bones, and my knee throbbed with a familiar, deep ache.

When I finally reached the dining room, Brennan and Debbi were already finishing their meal. Debbi was nestled against him, looking pale and fragile.

"Oh, Alyssa," she said, her voice a soft whisper. "I'm so sorry about what happened. Let me get you some soup." She feigned a pained expression as she stood up.

She brought a bowl of steaming soup to me, her eyes holding a malicious glint. "You must be hungry."

I saw Brennan' s eyes narrow slightly. He was watching me, waiting for my reaction. I reached for the bowl, my hand wrapped in a makeshift bandage.

At that moment, Debbi "tripped." The bowl flew from her hands, and the scalding hot soup splashed all over my front, soaking through my clothes and onto the fresh bandage on my hand.

The pain was searing. My wound, which was just beginning to heal, felt like it had been ripped open again. I cried out and stumbled backward, falling to the floor.

"Brennan!" I gasped, looking at him, pleading with my eyes.

For a second, I saw a flicker of concern. He started to move towards me.

But then Debbi let out a high-pitched scream. "My hand! It burned my hand!"

Brennan' s attention snapped to her instantly. He rushed to her side, ignoring me completely as I lay on the floor in agony.

He examined her hand, which had a small red mark on the back. "Does it hurt?" he asked, his voice full of tender concern. He kissed her fingers.

"It's nothing," Debbi said, tears welling in her eyes. "I'm more worried about Alyssa. It's my fault. I'm so clumsy."

Brennan' s face hardened as he looked at me. "Look what you've done," he said, his voice cold with disgust. "You can't even sit at a table without causing a scene."

He dragged me to my feet. "Apologize to her. And then you will put ointment on her hand."

He forced me to my knees in front of her, a position of ultimate humiliation.

I refused. I looked up at him, my eyes burning with defiance. "Who am I to you, Brennan? Your wife? Or your dog?"

His face contorted with fury. "You want to talk about status?" he hissed. "Fine. How is your mother doing at the clinic? It would be a shame if her funding was suddenly cut."

Tears streamed down my face. My mother. My sweet, frail mother, whose life was in his hands. He knew my weakness. He knew exactly where to strike to make me bleed.

I had no choice.

With trembling hands, I took the ointment. My own hand was screaming in pain, the burn throbbing under the wet bandage. But I carefully, gently, applied the cream to the tiny red mark on Debbi' s hand. Each touch was a new wave of humiliation.

A single tear escaped and fell onto her skin.

Brennan, who was watching over my shoulder, let out a soft, mocking chuckle. He patted the back of my head, a gesture that was once loving, now utterly condescending. "Good girl," he murmured.

That night, the infection from the burn sent me into a high fever. I was delirious, drifting in and out of consciousness. In my fever dreams, I heard Brennan's voice, whispering threats and promises.

I woke up in a sterile white room. A hospital.

Brennan was asleep in a chair by my bed. His face, in sleep, looked younger, more like the man I had married. For a fleeting moment, my heart ached with a phantom love.

He woke up as I stirred. "Why didn't you call for help?" he asked, his voice rough with sleep and something that almost sounded like concern.

I remembered tossing and turning in the cold basement, calling his name, my calls going unanswered. I had tried to reach his phone, but he never picked up. He was with her.

"I was busy," he said, reading the accusation in my silence. He ran a hand through his hair, a gesture of frustration. "Debbi was scared after the... incident."

I turned my head away, looking out the window. I had nothing to say to him.

His phone rang. It was Debbi. Her voice, sweet and cloying, came through the speaker. "Brennan, darling, are you coming to the show tonight? You promised."

"I'll be there," he promised.

He hung up and looked at me. I saw a flicker of something in his eyes – guilt? Pity? It was gone as quickly as it appeared.

I saw my chance. I used his guilt. "I want to see my father's old collection," I said, my voice weak. "The one at the city museum."

He agreed immediately, as if granting this small request could absolve him of his sins. "Of course. Anything you want."

"Just behave, Alyssa," he warned, his voice hardening again. "No more trouble."

A small, genuine smile touched my lips for the first time in days. "I promise."

The doctor who was treating me was an old family friend. Brennan trusted him. He would be my key. My way out.