Chapter 1

For five years, I was my husband's most prized possession. Not because he loved me, but because I carried the heart of his dead first love, Fallon.

On our fifth anniversary, a ghost walked through our front door. Fallon was alive.

She laughed and told my husband her "death" was a five-year test of his love.

"And the heart inside you?" she sneered, looking at my chest. "Oh, darling. That's not my heart. It must have belonged to some other poor soul."

The foundation of my life, the entire reason for my gilded cage, was a lie.

Chapter 1

It was my fifth wedding anniversary with Cedric Burke. The crystal glasses on the long dining table reflected the cold, expensive light of the chandelier.

Everything in this mansion was cold and expensive, including my husband.

He sat across from me, his eyes fixed on my chest. Not on my face, never on my face.

"How does it feel, Keena?" he asked. It was the same question he asked every day. "Any discomfort? Palpitations?"

"I'm fine, Cedric."

I smoothed the silk of my dress. Five years. For five years, I had been the living, breathing vessel for his dead first love's heart. My life was a prison built of check-ups, organic meals, and early bedtimes-my health managed with the same ruthless efficiency he applied to his tech empire.

The heavy front door opened without a sound. A woman stood there, bathed in the light from the hall. She was beautiful, with a face I had seen in a thousand photographs.

Fallon Bates. The woman who was supposed to be dead.

Cedric froze. The wine glass slipped from his hand and shattered on the marble floor. He stared at her, his face a mask of disbelief.

"Cedric," she said, her voice a soft melody. "I'm back."

She walked towards him, her eyes shining. She didn't even glance at me. I was just part of the furniture.

Fallon stopped in front of our table and looked at me for the first time. Her smile was sharp.

"You've taken good care of it," she said, her eyes on my chest. "But I'm back now. You should know when it's time to leave."

I expected to feel a surge of pain or jealousy. Instead, I felt nothing. A vast, quiet emptiness.

"Of course," I said. My voice was calm. "I'll leave."

Fallon's smile faltered. She seemed surprised by my quick agreement. She probably expected tears, a fight, a pathetic scene. But the woman who loved Cedric Burke had died a little more each day for the past five years. Tonight, she was finally gone.

"Good," she said, recovering quickly. "Cedric has been waiting for me."

I stood up.

"I wish you both well."

I walked out of the dining room without looking back. The cold night air hit my face as I stepped outside. It felt clean. It felt free.

My heart beat a steady rhythm in my chest. For the first time in five years, I didn't think about its health or its history. I just felt it beating. And I knew, with a sudden, sharp clarity, that I no longer loved him. The love had been a sickness, and now I was cured.

My life before Cedric felt like a different lifetime. I'd been a design student when I first saw him at a university gala, a self-made billionaire whose quiet intensity commanded the room. I fell for him instantly, a foolish, girlish crush on a man who was famously devoted to his girlfriend, Fallon Bates. I was just a background character in their perfect love story.

Then my world fell apart. A congenital heart defect I'd lived with my whole life worsened, and the doctors told me I was dying without a transplant. Lying in a hospital bed, I heard the news that Fallon's yacht had been lost in a storm. She was presumed dead. In my haze of pain, I prayed for Cedric's healing, not my own.

Then came the cruel twist of fate. A heart became available just in time. I survived the surgery, only to be told by a pitying nurse that the heart was a donation from Fallon Bates's family.

I found him at her memorial on the cliffs overlooking the ocean, a powerful man broken by grief. My own heart-her heart, I believed-ached for him. Soon after, he entered my life, gentle and attentive. He talked about Fallon, and I listened, thinking he found comfort in the piece of her I carried. I knew he was looking at my chest, not at me, but I was so in love, so grateful to be alive, that I let myself believe it could be real. I ignored the warning signs and married him.

The truth of my gilded cage became clear almost immediately. My life was no longer my own, dictated by a team of doctors and nutritionists. "We need to protect the heart," Cedric would say, his voice soft but firm, as he banned anything that might elevate my heart rate. He would touch the scar on my chest and murmur, "She's still with me," talking not to me, but to Fallon. I was just the incubator.

For years, I tried to make him see me, but the love inside me withered, starved of affection. I was not a person to him, but a precious, fragile container for his lost love.

Then Fallon came back. And she told me the most liberating truth.

As I was leaving that night, I heard them in the hall. "My death was a test," Fallon said. "I had to know if you would truly love me forever. Five years in Europe was a small price to pay to be sure."

I heard a sharp, choked sound from Cedric, like he couldn't breathe. Then Fallon laughed, a sound like breaking glass.

"And that heart inside her? Oh, darling. That's not my heart. I'm perfectly healthy. It must have belonged to some other poor soul."

In that moment, the last chain broke. The foundation of our entire marriage was a lie. A lie he had built, and a lie I had lived in.

I was free.

The love was gone. The hope was gone. All that was left was the desire to escape.

I went to a lawyer the next day and had the divorce papers drawn up. I would not spend another minute as a substitute.

That night, I came home late. The house was dark. I walked into my studio, my sanctuary, and flipped on the light.

Cedric was standing there, in the middle of the room. He startled me.

"Where were you?" he demanded, his voice sharp.

"I was out," I said, avoiding his eyes.

"You know you're not supposed to be out so late. It's bad for your health. What if something happened?"

It was always about my health. Always about the heart.

My chest felt tight, but this time it wasn't my heart defect. It was rage.

"I'm fine, Cedric."

"I'm going to Parsons, Cedric. I was accepted," I said, my voice shaking slightly. "I have a dream."

"A dream?" He scoffed. "Your dream is to stay here and be my wife. To take care of Fallon's heart."

His words, once a source of secret pain, were now just fuel.

He walked over to my design table. My sketches for my Parsons application were laid out, a map of my future.

He picked them up.

"This is a waste of time," he said, his voice cold. He started tearing them, one by one. The sound of ripping paper was the only sound in the room.

My dreams, torn to shreds in his hands.

Something inside me snapped.

"Who do you think I am?" I screamed, the sound raw and torn from my throat. "I am not a doll! I am not a vessel for you to keep on a shelf!"

"I have feelings! I have a life! This heart is MINE!"

His face darkened. "It's Fallon's heart, Keena. And you are my wife. You will do as I say."

"And what if I don't want to?" I cried, tears streaming down my face. "What if I want to be a designer? What if I want a life of my own?"

A sharp pain shot through my chest. My breath caught. I stumbled, clutching the table for support.

His anger vanished instantly, replaced by that familiar, suffocating concern.

"Keena!" He rushed to my side, his hands hovering over me. "Your heart. Don't get agitated."

He was already fumbling for the pill bottle he always kept nearby. The emergency medication. The symbol of my prison.

He coaxed me to take the pill, his voice a low, gentle murmur. It was the voice he used to tame a scared animal.

"Just be good, Keena. Stay with me, and I'll give you anything you want."

I swallowed the pill, the bitterness coating my tongue. I felt nothing for his gentle touch now. It was the touch of a zookeeper, not a husband.

As the pain in my chest subsided, a cold resolve settled in my soul.

I looked at him, my eyes clear.

I pulled the papers from my bag. The divorce agreement.

"I want the penthouse on 57th Street," I said, my voice steady.

He glanced at the document, his brow furrowed in annoyance, not suspicion. He thought I was having a tantrum, making a demand he could easily meet.

"Fine," he said, taking the pen. He didn't even read what he was signing. He just scrawled his name on the line. "The penthouse is yours. Just stop this nonsense about leaving."

"Be a good girl," he added, "and you can have the world."

The scratch of the pen on paper was the sound of my chains breaking.

I watched the ink dry. Cedric Burke. The name that had defined my life for five years.

It was over. I had my freedom.