Chapter 1

Eight years ago, my husband, Greyson, framed me for a car accident that cost me my legs, my parents, and my unborn child. He did it all to protect another woman, his political prodigy friend, Isla.

He threw me in prison for three years, using my mother's fragile life as leverage to keep me silent and compliant. I was his puppet, a broken ballerina whose only escape was the phantom ache of a dance I could no longer perform.

After I was released, broken and alone, he knelt before me on my comeback stage, confessing everything to a live audience. He admitted he faked the explicit photos that ruined my name and that Isla was the one who hit me with her car.

He said he did it all for love, a twisted, possessive love that destroyed everything it touched.

But his confession had a price. He had already killed Isla.

And as he was sentenced to death, he had one last request: to see me.

Chapter 1

Elenora Quinn POV:

His new life was already stamped and sealed, the ink barely dry when I saw Greyson Tillman outside the county clerk's office. Eight years. Eight years since he had taken a wrecking ball to mine, leaving nothing but dust and echoes.

He had just come out, a radiant, laughing woman on his arm. She was smiling, her eyes crinkling at the corners. The kind of pure happiness I had once known.

Then he saw me. His smile evaporated, replaced by a ghost of the man I used to know. His eyes, once so warm, turned cold as a winter lake.

His new wife, a delicate blonde, clung to his arm. She noticed his sudden stillness. She followed his gaze to me, her smile faltering, questions forming in her innocent blue eyes.

Greyson pulled his arm away from her, a subtle move, but I saw it. He took a half-step forward, his body language a confused mix of protection and regret. He tried to hide the freshly signed marriage certificate in his left hand, the white paper crinkling slightly from his grip. Too late. I had already seen it.

His gaze dropped. It landed, as it always did, on my legs. Or rather, on the empty space where my legs used to be, now filled by the sleek, unfeeling metal of my prosthetics. My polished shoes, a size too big for my new feet, felt like a cruel joke.

He swallowed hard. "Elenora," he said, his voice a rough whisper. "I... I didn't expect to see you here."

His words were a jolt. They sent a cold shiver down my spine. The phantom ache in my calves flared, a familiar protest.

He took another step, closer now. His eyes, full of something that might have been guilt, flickered back to my face. "I'm so sorry, Elenora," he murmured, his voice laced with the kind of practiced remorse you hear in bad movies. "For everything."

Sorry? The word hung in the air, heavy and meaningless. Like a feather trying to stop a bullet.

He moved to stand directly in front of me, blocking my path. His wife, now looking utterly bewildered, took a tentative step back, giving us space. A wise move.

"I know it's not enough," he continued, his voice picking up a false strength. "But I want to help. Financially. Whatever you need. It' s the least I can do."

Financial support. After he stole my career, my family, my freedom. The irony tasted like ash in my mouth.

"Help?" I echoed, my voice surprisingly steady. "Greyson, you destroyed me. You took everything. My dance, my parents, my name. You framed me for the car accident that stole my legs. You placed me in a prison cell while you walked free."

The memories crashed over me: the screech of tires, the smell of burning rubber, the blinding pain, then the cold steel bars of a cell. My world, once a vibrant stage, had become a cramped, desolate cage. And he had built it.

He flinched, his jaw tightening. "I know. I know I did wrong. But I've changed, Elenora. I want to make amends."

I met his gaze, a quiet fire burning in my own eyes. "There's nothing to amend, Greyson. We are done."

I tried to move past him, but he extended an arm, blocking me again. "Please, Elenora. Let me help. I owe you. I owe you everything."

He owed me everything? The words were a mockery. He had already taken everything, and now he was offering scraps.

"I don't need your help, Greyson," I said, my voice hardening. "I have everything I need."

I reached into my bag, my fingers brushing against the smooth, cool surface of the laminated card. It wasn't mine, of course. It belonged to Kailey, my best friend, and her husband. A prop. A shield.

I pulled it out, a crisp, white marriage certificate, and held it up, making sure he could see the names printed clearly on it. "I have a new life, Greyson. A good life."

His eyes widened, darting from the certificate to my face, then back again. Confusion warred with disbelief. "What is this?" he stammered, his voice thin.

"It's called a marriage certificate," I explained, a saccharine smile playing on my lips. "I got married. To a doctor. He takes very good care of me."

The lie felt sweet on my tongue, a balm to the old wounds. I watched the color drain from his face, a perverse satisfaction blooming in my chest. This was a small victory, a tiny reclamation.

His hand trembled slightly as he pointed at the certificate. "A... a doctor? Who? When?"

He reached out, his fingers brushing against the edge of the card, attempting to snatch it. I pulled back instantly, guarding my borrowed shield.

"It doesn't concern you, Greyson," I said, my voice firm. I met his eyes, letting my gaze linger on his. "My life is no longer your concern. You made that choice eight years ago."

I pushed past him, my prosthetics clicking softly against the marble floor. I needed to escape, to breathe. His presence was a suffocating shroud.

"Elenora, wait!" he called after me, his voice desperate.

I ignored him, quickening my pace. Each step was a defiance, a declaration of my independence.

He lunged forward, grabbing my arm. His touch was cold, possessive. "Elenora, your leg! You're limping. Let me help you."

His concern, real or feigned, was a cruel, twisted joke. He was the one who had made me limp.

"I told you," I said, pulling my arm free with a sharp tug. "I have someone who cares for me now. A husband. A doctor. He looks after me."

I turned, my voice clear and cutting. "We're divorced, Greyson. You have a new wife. You have nothing to do with my life anymore."

I looked past him, at the blonde woman who stood frozen, watching us with wide, tear-filled eyes. "Go on," I urged him. "Go back to your new bride. She's waiting."

I turned my back on him, on them, and walked away. My heart was pounding, a wild drum against my ribs. I had meant every word, sold every lie.

As I rounded the corner, I heard him call my name one last time, a mournful cry that followed me down the empty hallway. But I didn't look back. I couldn't.

Just as I thought I was free, a small, hard object hit my back, bouncing off my sweater before falling to the floor. I didn' t stop, but the sound echoed in my ears.

"Elenora! Elenora, are you okay?" Kailey's voice, warm and familiar, cut through the buzzing in my head. She rushed towards me, her journalist's bag bouncing against her hip. Her eyes scanned my face, then dropped to my leg. "What happened? You're bleeding!"

I looked down. A thin red line marred the pristine white of my prosthetic, a small gash on the metal, too new to be from my morning routine. I hadn't even felt it. "It's nothing," I said, my voice hoarse. "Just a scratch."

But the throbbing in my chest told a different story.