Chapter 2

Mel's POV

The next morning, I sat inside a private room at a legal firm, pushing a manila file folder across the desk.

"I want a divorce from Zachary," I said plainly. "As fast as humanly possible."

The attorney pulled out a stack of documents and flipped through them, his brows knitting into a tight knot.

"Zachary is your legal guardian," the attorney stated. "He committed you to a closed rehabilitation facility for three years. If there are any procedural violations in that commitment, we can immediately file to revoke his guardianship."

A guardian.

I couldn't sign a document, make a phone call, or see a single visitor inside that facility—all because of that legal title hanging over my head.

The attorney opened another file. "He has managed all the family assets you inherited before the marriage for the past three years. Once the guardianship is overturned, every single dollar can be legally recovered."

I clutched the strap of my bag, my knuckles turning bone-white. "What should I do right now?"

"Gather evidence," the attorney instructed. "His written instructions ordering your forced confinement, bank transfer records showing he misappropriated your assets—the more documentation, the better. Don’t alert him. Let him keep thinking you're still that terrified, broken patient."

I gathered the documents. "Understood."

Playing dumb and acting crazy was an art I had perfected inside that iron cage.

Leaving the firm, I hailed a cab and headed straight back to the house.

The place was dead silent.

I pushed open the study door and yanked open the bottom drawer.

Zachary’s old spare phone was tucked deep inside a document pouch, plugged into a charger.

I swiped the screen awake, went into the archived contacts, and hovered my finger over the name of the head orderly from the facility.

I tapped into the conversation and rapidly scrolled up.

The chat log was overflowing with photos.

In the pictures, I was dressed in a dingy gray-and-white hospital gown, strapped to an iron cot by thick leather belts. My face was pale blue, and my lips were bitten to a bloody pulp.

There was a voice message from the orderly: *Mr. Hayes, we increased her dosage again today. She's being completely docile.*

Zachary’s reply was always the exact same word: *Fine.*

Staring at that single word, a chill crept up my spine.

During those pitch-black nights, breaking into cold sweats after being forcibly drugged, I had gritted my teeth and chanted his name over and over in my head, foolishly believing he was coming to save me.

Meanwhile, Zachary had been lounging in this study hundreds of miles away, casually unlocking his phone to toss out a careless "Fine."

Biting down hard on my lower lip, I kept scrolling.

Beneath the messages were transfer receipts and signed agreements.

The orderly’s son had been given a cozy spot in the Hayes Group's procurement department; his daughter’s private school tuition had been paid directly from corporate accounts; even the six hundred thousand dollars in gambling debts the orderly owed had been quietly cleared by Zachary's people.

Every injection I endured in that hellhole, every hard slap across my face—my husband had paid for it all.

My knees gave out. My back slammed into the desk leg, and I slid down the wood onto the floor.

Outside the window, the daylight faded, leaving the study cloaked in darkness.

I remembered the year I first met Zachary. He had been cornered and beaten in an alley; I was the one who pulled off my coat to blind the ringleader, grabbing Zachary’s hand and dragging him over the wall to escape.

Later, when he pursued me, he smashed plates and fought violently against his family just to marry me.

I thought that was love.

It turned out it wasn't a lifeline at all—it was a noose Zachary had slipped around my neck.

I pulled out my own phone, opened the camera on silent mode, and took photo after photo of the old screen.

The orderly’s pictures, Zachary’s replies, the financial transfer slips.

I verified every single shot I took, capturing eighty-six photos in total.

I moved the photos into an encrypted album and sent the compressed file directly to the lawyer’s secure email address.

I slipped the old phone back into its hiding spot, coiled the charging cord into the exact number of loops, and gently slid the drawer shut.

My eyes stung with a burning ache. I raised my arm, roughly wiping my sleeve across my face.

I couldn't afford to cry right now.

If my eyes were swollen, Zachary would see right through me with a single glance.

I had to keep these tears locked away, saving them as the stepping stones that would send Zachary straight behind bars.