Chapter 2

The betrayal I had witnessed in the guest room shattered my mind, triggering a severe, debilitating panic disorder.

Even the smallest things—a slammed door, a ringing phone, the smell of breakfast cooking in the kitchen—sent my heart racing into violent, suffocating attacks. I couldn't breathe.

I couldn't sleep.

I was a prisoner in my own trembling body, constantly waiting for the next strike.

And Marvin used every single second of it to his advantage.

"Breathe, Denise," Marvin whispered, his cool hand stroking my sweat-dampened hair.

I was sitting on the edge of our plush mattress, gasping for air after another terrifying panic attack. My chest heaved.

Marvin carefully wrapped the black cuff of a blood pressure monitor around my upper arm. The machine whirred to life, squeezing my bicep tightly.

He checked the digital screen. Then, he pressed two warm fingers against the pulse point on my wrist, checking my heart rate.

"Baby, I need to keep track of your vital signs at all times," Marvin murmured. "Your body went through a massive trauma with the allergic reaction. I can't lose you. I need to make sure your heart is strong enough to heal."

He kissed my trembling knuckles. For a split second, a pathetic, desperate part of me wanted to believe him.

The illusion of his love was a warm blanket in a freezing, terrifying world.

I wanted to sink into his chest and pretend the woman in the guest room never existed.

Marvin’s phone vibrated on the mattress. He glanced at the screen.

"I need to get James his apple juice," Marvin said softly, kissing my forehead. "Rest, my love. I'll be right back."

He left the room, leaving his phone face-up on the bed.

I stared at the glowing screen. I shouldn't look. But the memory of his hands tangled in my stepsister’s blonde hair burned like acid behind my eyes.

I reached out with shaking fingers and picked up the phone.

Louise: Is it done yet? I can't keep waiting in this cheap apartment. When is the bitch dying?

My stomach dropped into a bottomless abyss. I swiped up, my thumb trembling so violently I almost dropped the device.

The phone unlocked—he hadn't changed his passcode since the day we got married.

I opened their text thread.

Marvin: Don't worry. I'm recording her allergy data every day. Her heart rate, her blood pressure, everything. I'll be able to calculate the exact lethal dose soon. One more 'accident' and her heart will just stop. No one will suspect a thing.

The phone slipped from my numb fingers, landing silently on the thick duvet.

The room spun wildly.

I had to leave. Now.

I waited until Marvin took James out to the backyard to play. Through the bedroom window, I could hear my sweet, innocent three-year-old giggling as Marvin pushed him on the wooden swing. The sound tore my heart into jagged, bleeding pieces.

I pulled a small duffel bag from the back of my closet. A few changes of clothes for James. A heavy sweater for me. Cash from my hidden emergency stash.

I needed our passports. We had to leave the country immediately.

I crept into Marvin’s home office and locked the heavy oak door behind me. I knelt in front of the massive bookshelf and pushed aside a row of thick encyclopedias.

Behind them was my personal, high-tech biometric safe. It was the only place in the house Marvin couldn't access.

I pressed my thumb against the glowing green scanner.

The heavy steel door swung open.

I reached inside for the stack of blue passports. But my hand brushed against something cold and hard. Something that absolutely did not belong there.

I pulled it out.

It was a cheap, black flip phone.

My blood ran cold. How did this get in my biometric safe? Only my fingerprint could open it. The terrifying realization hit me like a physical blow.

Someone had recorded my fingerprint while I was heavily sedated in the hospital. Marvin had planned this perfectly.

The flip phone vibrated in my palm. A single, glaring text message lit up the small screen.

Unknown: Leave Marvin and give up your inheritance, or I'll ruin you and your son.

I stared at the glowing letters, the pieces of the horrifying puzzle finally snapping together in my mind.

My father had left me a massive fortune when he died. But there was an ironclad clause in the will: if I died, the money went into a trust for James, controlled by a strict court-appointed guardian. But if I was declared mentally incompetent, Marvin—as my husband—would gain full power of attorney over my entire estate.

That was why Marvin recorded that deep-fake video in the hospital. That was why they were driving me to the absolute brink of insanity.

"Mommy?"

I jumped, shoving the flip phone deep into my pocket.

James was standing in the doorway, clutching his stuffed bear. Marvin stood right behind him, his hands resting heavily on our son's small shoulders.

Marvin looked at the open safe. He looked at the duffel bag on the floor.

A slow, terrifying smile spread across his handsome face.

"Going somewhere, baby?" Marvin asked, his voice dripping with lethal sweetness.

I looked at my son. I looked at the monster holding him.

I closed the safe.

"No," I lied, my voice terrifyingly steady. "Just organizing."