Chapter 3

The rain was relentless, turning the city streets into slick, dark mirrors. My designer dress was ruined, clinging to my skin like a shroud. A passing taxi splashed a wave of dirty water over me, and the heel of my shoe snapped, sending me stumbling. I kicked off the other one, the sharp gravel of the sidewalk digging into my bare feet. I didn't care.

It was past midnight when I finally reached the penthouse. The party was over. The silence was heavy, oppressive.

Damien was in the living room, a glass of whiskey in his hand. He looked up as I entered, his eyes widening in shock at my state.

"Ella? What happened to you?" he asked, rushing toward me.

He took in my soaked clothes, my bare, bleeding feet. He immediately wrapped his large, dry coat around my shivering shoulders. "My God, you're freezing."

His voice was filled with a concern that, just hours ago, would have melted my heart. Now, it was just another layer of his sickening performance.

He knelt, his expression full of what looked like pain as he saw the cuts on my feet. "You foolish girl. Why didn't you call me?"

He gently cleaned the wounds with an antiseptic wipe from the first-aid kit, his touch as careful as if I were a precious doll. The sting of the wipe was real, but the gentleness of his hands was the cruelest lie of all.

"You need a hot bath," he said, his voice a low murmur. He prepared the tub, filling it with steaming water and fragrant oils, just the way I liked it.

As he turned his back, a single tear escaped and traced a path down my cheek. I wiped it away, my jaw tight. I would not cry for him. Not anymore.

This man's love was a poison, and I had been drinking it for two years.

As I walked towards the bathroom, my eyes caught a small, elegantly wrapped box on the coffee table. It was the gift I had brought back for him from Boston. A rare, vintage fountain pen he had mentioned wanting months ago.

He noticed my glance and picked it up, a look of genuine surprise on his face. "What's this?"

He opened it, and his eyes lit up. "Ella... this is incredible. How did you find it?"

He pulled me into a hug, burying his face in my hair. "Thank you."

I stood stiffly in his arms, every muscle tensed. I pushed away gently. "It was nothing. I saw it in a shop and thought of you."

"I'm going to take a bath," I said, my voice flat. I needed to get away from him before I shattered completely.

He let me go, his eyes still shining with pleasure from the gift. He didn't notice the coldness in my eyes or the tremor in my hands. He was too absorbed in his own satisfaction.

In the bathroom, I locked the door and slid down against it. I didn't get in the tub. I just sat on the cold floor, the steam filling the room like a fog. His phone, which he'd left on the vanity, buzzed.

A text message lit up the screen. It was from Kiersten.

"Did you get the pen? I can't wait to see it. It's the perfect gift for our engagement announcement."

My heart, which I thought couldn't break any further, split into a thousand tiny pieces.

The pen wasn't for him. It was for her. I was just the errand girl, picking up a gift for their celebration.

A sharp, searing pain shot through my chest. This wasn't my home. This was their home. I was just a temporary guest, a long-term housesitter who had overstayed her welcome.

I remembered the words I'd overheard. Ella knows she's the real Bentley heiress.

It was the only truth in a sea of lies. The only thing I had left.

A new resolve hardened in my gaze. I would not be a ghost. I would not disappear.

I would find my family. I would claim my birthright.

And I would start tomorrow.