Chapter 7

The pain in my back was a constant fire, but my spirit felt strangely calm. The end was near.

My phone, the one Fletcher allowed me to have, buzzed with a news alert. A picture of Fletcher and Aislinn dominated the screen. The headline read: 'Billionaire Fletcher Dillon Gifts Fiancée Aislinn Norton a Ten-Million-Dollar Diamond Ring.'

Aislinn immediately sent me a close-up photo of the ring on her finger. It was ostentatious and gaudy, just like her.

Another message followed. A picture of her and Fletcher kissing.

And another. And another. A constant stream of their happiness, designed to torture me.

I thought of my own wedding ring. A simple, thin gold band he'd slipped on my finger without a word, his touch cold and impersonal. My entire marriage was a joke. My existence was a joke.

I could hear them in the living room downstairs. Aislinn's high-pitched laugh, Fletcher's deep murmur.

"But my necklace, Fletch," Aislinn whined, her voice carrying up the stairs. "The one Kiara stole. It had such sentimental value."

"How should we punish her?" Fletcher asked, his voice indulgent.

"She's a thief," Aislinn said, her voice turning hard. "Thieves belong in prison. Imagine the scandal. 'Billionaire's Wife a Common Criminal.' It would destroy the Norton family's reputation. Your reputation."

A moment of silence, then Fletcher's voice again, this time from my doorway. "What do you think, Kiara? Should I send you to prison?"

I looked at him, my face a blank mask. "Do whatever you want."

He seemed to enjoy my lack of resistance. "Take her to the holding cell in the basement," he ordered his guards.

They dragged me down to a cold, damp room with a single bare bulb hanging from the ceiling. It was smaller and filthier than the wine cellar.

Aislinn appeared at the barred door a short while later. "I've arranged for some special 'care' for you in here," she sneered. "Enjoy your stay."

Her "care" began that night. Two brutish female guards, hired by Aislinn, came into my cell. They mocked me, they beat me, they starved me. They broke my fingers, one by one, laughing when I refused to cry out. My hands, the hands of an artist, were mangled and useless.

In the darkness, I would scratch a mark on the wall with a broken fingernail. Each mark was a day survived. A day closer to my escape.

'Just one more day,' I would tell myself, over and over. 'Just hold on for one more day.'

After what felt like an eternity, the door to the cell creaked open. The sudden light was blinding.

Fletcher stood in the doorway, a dark silhouette against the bright hall. I couldn't see his face.

He walked slowly toward me. As he drew closer, I saw his hand was trembling. Just slightly. He reached out, as if to touch my face, then stopped.

Aislinn appeared behind him, ruining the strange, quiet moment. "Look at her," she said with disgust. "Playing the victim to get your attention. It's pathetic."

Fletcher's hand dropped to his side. His face hardened, the brief flicker of uncertainty gone.