Chapter 5

The hospital became my sanctuary, a sterile white fortress where I could hide from Franco's suffocating "love." He had me moved to a private wing, a place so exclusive it felt more like a luxury hotel. He was punishing the "attackers" he'd hired, putting on a grand show of justice for the public. A man was in jail, a low-level thug who took the fall, his family now financially secure for life.

Franco was always there, the ever-present, grieving husband, his eyes red-rimmed from what the world saw as sleepless nights of worry. I saw it for what it was: exhaustion from juggling two lives.

"It's all my fault," he'd whisper, burying his face in my hands. "I should have protected you."

He was a phenomenal actor. I almost had to admire the craft.

One evening, he announced a surprise. "A charity auction," he said, his eyes gleaming. "To raise money for victims of violent crime. In your honor, my love."

The hypocrisy was breathtaking.

He had me dressed by a team of stylists, my bruises carefully concealed under layers of makeup and silk. He led me into the grand ballroom of the city's most expensive hotel, my arm linked through his. We were the picture of resilience and devotion. Cameras flashed. People murmured their sympathies and admiration.

The auction was a spectacle of wealth and power. Franco was in his element, magnanimous and charming. He bought everything I even glanced at. A diamond necklace. A vintage sports car. A private island. Each purchase was a public declaration of his love for me, a performance for the fawning crowd.

He would lean in and whisper, "Is there anything else you want, my Elsa? Anything at all? I'd buy you the moon."

I felt nothing but a cold, hollow ache.

He knelt before me in the middle of the auction floor, in front of everyone, to massage my feet, complaining they must be sore. He took off his thousand-dollar suit jacket and draped it over my legs, claiming I might be cold. The crowd sighed with collective adoration.

Then, the final item was brought out. A stunning sapphire and diamond necklace. 'The Heart of the Sea.'

My breath caught in my throat. It was my mother's. The last piece of her jewelry, the one thing I had been unable to save after my parents' deaths. It had been lost, sold to pay off debts. I had mourned it for years.

The bidding started. It was fierce. But Franco was relentless. He outbid everyone, paying a truly obscene amount of money. The hammer fell. It was his. It was mine.

A waiter brought the velvet box to our table. As he presented it to me, his hand trembled, and the box slipped. The necklace clattered onto the floor.

Franco's face turned to thunder. "You clumsy fool!" he roared, his voice cracking like a whip in the suddenly silent room. The mask had slipped. The charming philanthropist was gone, replaced by a cold, cruel tyrant.

The waiter, a young boy no older than twenty, turned pale and collapsed to his knees, stammering apologies.

"Get him out of my sight," Franco snarled at his security. "And make sure he never works in this city again."

The auctioneer tried to intervene, but one look at Franco's face and he backed away.

Franco turned back to me, his expression instantly softening back into one of deep love. "Don't worry, my love. I'll get you another one. A better one."

I just stared at him, my mind reeling. Then, I heard a sound from the direction of the restrooms. A woman's voice, trying to stifle a sob.

It was Kayleigh.

I excused myself. I needed to see. I followed the sound into the ladies' lounge. She was there, bent over a sink, splashing water on her face. Her glamorous makeup was smeared.

"That clumsy oaf," she muttered to her reflection. "He almost ruined everything."

Then I saw it. The imprint on her beautiful, expensive dress. The shape of the necklace. It hadn't just fallen. It had been pressed against her, hard.

"He's so rough sometimes," she complained to a friend on the phone, her voice a whiny drawl. "I told him not to hide it there. It's so uncomfortable."

My blood ran cold. He hadn't bought the necklace for me. He had bought it for her. And he had made her hide it on her body, under her dress. He was parading his mistress, wearing my mother's necklace, right under my nose.

I saw the necklace then, lying on the counter beside her purse. She had retrieved it from the floor. She picked it up, her expression a mixture of triumph and greed.

"But it's mine now," she cooed. "All mine."

I felt a blinding rage, so pure and hot it burned away the last vestiges of my grief. He had taken my mother' s memory, the one pure thing I had left, and he had used it to adorn his whore.

I backed out of the room, my movements stiff and robotic. I walked back to the table. Franco was waiting, his face a perfect mask of concern.

"Are you alright, my love?" he asked, taking my hand.

He led me from the ballroom, away from the prying eyes. In the empty hallway, he pulled me into his arms.

"I'm sorry that happened," he whispered into my hair. "I'll deal with that waiter. I promise."

I looked up at his face, the handsome, lying face I had once adored.

"Franco," I said, my voice dangerously calm.

"Yes, my love?"

"It's over."

The words hung in the air, simple and final. The love was gone. The grief was gone. All that was left was a promise.

A promise of ruin.