Chapter 3

"Elsa," Casey's voice was a lifeline in the darkness. "Are you okay? I've been going out of my mind."

"I'm not okay, Casey," I said, the words coming out cracked and dry.

"I saw the news reports," he said, his voice low and angry. "A random attack? Bullshit. This has Franco's fingerprints all over it."

I was silent. I didn' t have to confirm it. He already knew.

"Why did you help me back then, Casey?" I asked, thinking of the burner phone, the way he'd appeared so quickly.

He was quiet for a moment. "Because I've always known what he is, Elsa. I just... I hoped I was wrong. For your sake." He sighed. "And because I've loved you since we were kids. Before he ever came into the picture."

The words hung in the air between us. A different life, a different path, flashed before my eyes. A life of simple, genuine affection. It was a path I could no longer take.

"Casey, I'm not looking for romance," I said, my voice hard. "I'm looking for revenge."

He chuckled, a short, humorless sound. "Good. Because romance is messy. Revenge is clean. What do you need?"

"Everything," I said. "I need to know everything."

He promised to dig. He had access. As Franco's business partner, his supposed best friend, he was on the inside. He was the one person Franco trusted completely. Another one of Franco's mistakes.

After I hung up, I felt a sliver of strength return. The numbness began to recede, replaced by a cold, hard resolve. I had a purpose now.

I spent the next few days recovering, playing the part of the broken, traumatized victim. Franco was a constant presence, showering me with gifts and affection. Flowers, jewelry, promises of lavish trips once I was better. He was the perfect, doting partner.

He would sit by my bed, reading to me from my favorite books, his voice a soothing balm that now made my skin crawl. He would tell me how much he loved me, how he couldn't live without me.

And all the while, I could smell another woman's perfume on his clothes. A cheap, cloying scent that clung to him like a shroud.

One evening, I came home from a follow-up doctor' s appointment. The house was filled with the scent of my favorite meal, roast chicken with rosemary. The table was set for two, with candles and a bottle of expensive wine.

Franco was in the study, yelling into his phone. "I don't care what it takes! Find them! I want them to suffer for what they did to her!" He was talking about my attackers, the ones he had hired. The performance never stopped.

I saw the missed calls on my phone. Dozens of them. From him.

He saw me and his face transformed. The anger vanished, replaced by a look of pure relief and love. He rushed to me, pulling me into a tight embrace.

"Elsa! I was so worried. You didn't answer your phone." He buried his face in my hair, inhaling deeply. "You're all that matters."

I stood stiffly in his arms. I felt nothing.

"Where did you go?" he asked, his voice soft, but with an undercurrent of steel.

"Physical therapy," I said, my voice even.

"Work can wait," I said, my voice colder than I intended. "Your son is more important, isn't he?"

He froze. Just for a second. A flicker of panic in his eyes before it was masked by hurt.

"Elsa, how can you say that?" he said, his voice wounded. He cupped my face in his hands. "You are my world. You are everything."

Liar.

"It's our anniversary," he said, his voice dropping to a whisper. "Let me take care of you."

He led me to the table, served me dinner, and filled my wine glass. He talked about our future, about all the things we would do together. He was a master artist, painting a beautiful picture over a canvas of filth and lies.

I barely ate. My stomach was a tight knot of disgust.

His phone buzzed again. He glanced at it, a quick, furtive movement.

"I'm sorry," he said, standing up. "It's an emergency at the office. A server is down. I have to go." A lie, another easy, practiced lie.

He kissed me, a long, lingering kiss that tasted of ash. "I'll be back before you know it, my love."

I watched him leave. The moment the door closed, the mask of the loving husband fell away, and I knew he was rushing to his real family.

Casey had installed them. Tiny, undetectable cameras throughout the house. A parting gift from a "concerned friend." I turned on the monitor.

I watched Franco's car speed away. I tracked his location to a sleek, modern condo across town. A place I never knew existed.

I switched to the cameras Casey had managed to get installed there. And I saw her.

Kayleigh Baxter.

She was no longer the plain, mousy assistant I remembered. Franco's money had transformed her. Her hair was a mane of expensive blonde highlights. Her body was toned and sculpted by personal trainers. She wore a silk robe that clung to her curves. She looked like a different person, but the same venomous ambition was in her eyes.

She was waiting for him at the door.

"You're late," she purred, wrapping her arms around his neck. "Did your precious little saint keep you?"

Franco didn't push her away. He pulled her closer, his hand sliding down her back. "Don't talk about her," he said, but there was no heat in his words.

"Why not?" Kayleigh taunted, her fingers tracing the line of his jaw. "Afraid I'll taint her with my wildness? Is that it, Franco? You need her purity and my fire? You can't have both."

"Watch me," he growled, and he kissed her, a hungry, brutal kiss that was nothing like the gentle affection he showed me.

Leo ran into the room then, jumping into Franco's arms. "Daddy! Mommy said you were bringing me a surprise!"

Franco smiled, a genuine, unguarded smile I hadn't seen in years. "I did, buddy."

He pulled a box out of his pocket. It was a new, limited-edition gaming console. The same one I had mentioned wanting to buy for a charity drive just last week.

Kayleigh laughed, a triumphant sound. "He loves you more, you see," she whispered to the boy, loud enough for the camera to pick up. "Not her."

I dropped the tablet. It clattered to the floor. The sound echoed in the empty, silent house. My house. The one he came back to when he was done playing family.

He didn't just have an affair. He had built a second life, a complete, parallel existence. He loved her wildness. He loved my purity. He was a collector, and we were his two most prized, and incompatible, possessions.

The pain was a physical blow, knocking the air from my lungs. I sank to my knees, shaking.

He wasn't just a liar. He was a monster. And I was married to him. No, not even that. I was just a convenience. A beautiful, pure object to display on his shelf.

And I had his money. I had his company.

I would burn his world to the ground.