Chapter 7

This time, the spell was broken. Cedric thrust Kortney away from him with such force she stumbled and fell to the floor.

"Get out," he snarled, his voice a low, dangerous rumble.

He didn't spare her another glance. He rushed to my side, his face a mess of horror and a panicky concern that was, for the first time, purely for me. He gathered me into his arms, his touch surprisingly gentle as he lifted me back onto the bed.

"Keena, I..." he started, his voice choked.

He looked at my mangled, bloody hands and his words died in his throat.

"Don't worry about her," he whispered, trying to soothe me. "I'll handle it. She won't bother you again."

The doctors rushed in. The diagnosis was brutal. Both of my hands were shattered. Multiple fractures in every finger, in every metacarpal. My life as a designer, the one dream he hadn't been able to burn or tear up, was over.

In the days that followed, I was a ghost. I lost the ability to feed myself, to dress myself, to do anything at all. The divorce was days away, and I was utterly helpless, completely dependent on the man who had broken me.

Cedric became my hands. He fed me, bathed me, brushed my hair. His touch was infinitely gentle, his face a constant mask of guilt and pain. He was meticulous, patient, devoted.

But I was numb. My heart, the one he had cherished, was a dead stone in my chest. I was a puppet, and he pulled the strings. My eyes were vacant. My responses were mechanical. The woman he was caring for was just an empty shell.

The day I was discharged, Kortney was waiting for us at the car, her face a mask of contrition.

"Cedric, I'm so sorry," she began.

"I don't want to see you," he said, his voice flat and dead.

But she pleaded and cried, and in the end, he let her get in the car, too exhausted to argue.

We pulled up to the mansion to the sight of flashing lights and thick black smoke. The west wing, where my studio had been, was engulfed in flames.

Cedric's face went white. Before the car had even stopped, he threw open the door and ran towards the burning building.

"Sir, it's not safe!" a firefighter yelled, trying to hold him back.

Cedric shoved the man aside and plunged into the inferno.

I watched, my heart still and silent. I knew what he was going for. It wasn't me. I was safe in the car. It was the fireproof safe in the back of my old studio. The safe where he kept a small box of Fallon's things-her first love letter, a lock of her hair, a dried rose.

He emerged moments later, coughing, his clothes singed, clutching a metal box to his chest. He had risked his life, not for me, but for the remnants of a ghost.

A bitter, soundless laugh escaped my lips. Tears I didn't know I had left to cry rolled down my cheeks. It was the final, brutal confirmation. I was, and always would be, second to a memory.

After the fire was out, an investigation began. A maid, her face smudged with soot, pointed a trembling finger at me.

"It was her!" she cried. "I saw her go into the studio just before the fire started! She was angry about her hands! She wanted to burn the whole house down!"

Kortney immediately jumped in. "She's trying to destroy everything that reminds Cedric of my sister!"

Cedric's face, already pale from the smoke, turned to stone. He looked at me, his eyes dark and unreadable. He didn't give me a chance to speak. He didn't ask if it was true.

"Lock her in the cellar," he commanded his bodyguards.

They grabbed my arms. I struggled, shaking my head, trying to deny it, but no words came out.

The cellar. He knew I had severe claustrophobia. A childhood trauma had left me terrified of small, dark places. He knew.

They threw me into the darkness. The heavy door boomed shut. The lock clicked.

I was alone in the pitch black. The walls pressed in on me. My breath came in ragged, panicked gasps. I curled into a ball in the corner, my body trembling, my shattered hands throbbing with a pain that was eclipsed by the terror.

I don't know how long I was in there. Hours? A day? Time ceased to have meaning.

Finally, the door opened. A sliver of light pierced the darkness. Cedric stood there, a dark silhouette against the light.

He looked down at my shaking form on the floor.

"I hope you've learned your lesson," he said, his voice cold.

He didn't help me up. He just stood there.

"Fallon's anniversary is tomorrow," he said. "I'm going to the memorial. You will stay here. And you will not cause any more trouble."

He turned and left, leaving the door open.

I didn't move. I waited until the sound of his car faded into the distance. Then, slowly, painfully, I got to my feet.

I walked out of the cellar and didn't look back. I went straight to my lawyer's office. The divorce papers he had signed were already filed. It was official.

I took the certificate, my hands shaking. I looked at the crisp, official paper that declared me a free woman. My eyes burned.

Then I made a phone call.

"Fallon? It's Keena. It's done."

I went back to the house one last time. I had a small bag packed with the few things he hadn't destroyed.

The doorbell rang. Fallon Bates stood on the doorstep, looking radiant and victorious.

"Is it done?" she asked, her eyes gleaming.

I held out the divorce certificate. "He's all yours."

I handed her the paper. A symbolic transfer of ownership.

"Good luck," I said. The words tasted like ash.

She took the certificate, a triumphant smile spreading across her face. "This is the best anniversary gift I could have given him. My return."

I just nodded, picked up my small bag, and walked past her towards the door.

"Where will you go?" she asked, a flicker of curiosity in her eyes.

I didn't turn around. I kept walking.

"Somewhere he can't find me."

The heavy door closed behind me, shutting out the past. I was no longer a substitute, no longer a vessel, no longer a ghost in my own life.

I was free. I could finally be Keena.