Chapter 1

Prologue

After being locked away in a psychiatric hospital for three whole years, I finally got to see Zachary.

He came in person to check me out, promising he would never let me go again.

Yet when I returned home, I discovered another woman living in my bedroom.

Worse yet, that woman was my former best friend, Wendy!

It turned out he hadn’t just used his status as my legal guardian to throw me into an asylum—he had used the opportunity to seize the family fortune I inherited, using my money to keep Wendy in luxury.

Now, he assumes I’m still that crazy woman he can manipulate at will.

What he doesn't know is that I’ve already secured the evidence and quietly hired a lawyer.

This time, I'm taking back everything that belongs to me, and I’m going to make Zachary and Wendy pay for every single thing they did!

Mel's POV

Zachary had been missing for three full years.

Under the label of severe mental illness, I was locked inside a closed psychiatric care facility.

I was strapped to an iron frame bed and force-fed medication more than two hundred times.

When the heavy iron gates slid open, Zachary stood at the bottom of the steps in a tailored gray overcoat.

He stepped forward, reaching out to take the fabric bag from my hand.

"Mel," he said softly, "I’m taking you home."

I stood frozen in place, my fingers digging desperately into the strap of my bag, so thin I was practically a walking skeleton.

I stared straight into his face. "You’re not dead?"

Zachary took the bag, reaching out to gently brush the dust off my shoulder. "I was badly attacked back then. I had to hide out of town to recover and didn't dare let you know. Now that I’m fully healed, the very first thing I did was come get you."

My throat constricted; my nails dug deep into my palms.

For three years, the only interactions I had with the orderlies were beatings and verbal abuse.

It had been an eternity since I last heard words this tender.

My voice came out raspy. "I'll go back with you. Just don't go back on your word."

"I won't," Zachary promised. "I'll never send you back here again."

The guard pulled open the heavy outer gate.

My roommates from the ward clung to the iron bars, staring blankly at me.

As the car door slammed shut, my lower legs began to tremble uncontrollably.

Zachary placed his palm over the back of my hand.

His hand was warm, the knuckles familiar, just as they had been years ago.

Then, a faint, sweet trace of women’s perfume drifted from his collar.

I remembered clearly—Zachary had never worn or liked perfume.

Zachary glanced sideways at me. "Was the food decent in there?"

I shook my head.

"Could you sleep at night?"

I shook my head again.

He let out a heavy sigh. "Everything’s going to be fine from now on."

Staring at the windshield ahead, I asked, "Then why didn't you come sooner? I lost count of how many years went by in that place."

Zachary kept his eyes glued to the road. "I could barely protect myself back then. But things are fine now. I will never let you go back."

I slowly pulled my hand from beneath his and rested it flat on my lap.

Barely protect himself.

On those countless nights when I was pinned to a cot by leather straps, violently forced to swallow pills, no one had cared whether I could protect my own life, either.

The car pulled up the driveway and came to a stop before the front steps.

I pushed the front door open.

The shoe rack sat in its familiar spot, the throw blanket on the couch was neatly folded into a square, and even the ivy on the windowsill had been replanted into a brand-new ceramic pot.

It felt as though I had just stepped out for groceries a few minutes ago.

The study door was half-ajar. On the desk, the fountain pen rested to the left of the holder, precisely where I liked to keep it.

Zachary took off his coat by the entrance. "Nothing’s been touched. It’s exactly the way you left it."

I gave a faint hum of acknowledgment, my fingertips lightly grazing the doorframe. Not a speck of dust.

I turned and walked into the master bathroom.

Two toothbrushes sat in the rinsing cup. One had frayed, falling bristles; the other was pristine, its plastic handle spotless and its bristles aligned in perfect order.

On the nearby rack hung two towels. The feminine one was still damp to the touch.

Someone had washed their face here just yesterday.

The bed in the master bedroom was stretched taut, not a single wrinkle in sight.

Zachary grabbed a change of clothes and walked into the hallway bathroom. The sound of running water started up immediately.

He called out through the door, "There’s soup on the stove. If you're hungry, grab a bowl."

I called back an answer and stepped toward the kitchen.

I reached out to turn the burner on, but my eyes caught on the refrigerator door, and my entire body froze.

A yellow sticky note was plastered across the metal surface.

The handwriting was unmistakably a woman’s: *Soup is on the stove, remember to drink it.*

I peeled the note off, my fingertips going numb.

I pulled open the fridge door. Several glass containers sat neatly stacked, their labeled dates reading yesterday.

The pot on the stove was indeed still lukewarm.

Someone else had been living in this house all along.

That person cooked here, left sweet little notes, and even knew the exact placement of my fountain pen in the study.

Zachary’s phone, left sitting on the vanity table, buzzed loudly, its screen lighting up.

I walked over. Before my hand could even touch it, an uploaded photo popped up on the display.

On the large master bed, Zachary was lying with his arms wrapped around a long-haired woman.

Taped to the wardrobe door behind them was a brain CT scan.

I recognized that scan. The hairline fracture in the upper right corner was the injury I sustained years ago when someone struck the back of my head with a blunt weapon.

My hands shook violently; my palms went ice-cold.

So, all my torment in that facility was merely to clear this bed for someone else to sleep in.

Zachary’s claim that "nothing’s been touched" was simply because another woman took the time every single day to restore the house to look like the day I vanished.

The water shut off in the bathroom.

I folded the yellow sticky note into a tiny square, tucked it into my inner coat pocket, and swiped the notification away.

I backed up, sat down on the sofa, straightened my spine, and laid my hands flat against my thighs.

The doorknob turned, and Zachary stepped out, rubbing his wet hair with a towel.

I looked up at him. A wave of sickening disgust rose up in my throat, but I forced it down.

The Mel who waited behind iron bars for him to come save her died today.

First, I needed to figure out who was living in this house. Then, I would settle the score with Zachary for these past three years.