I stared at the screen, Ysmael’s message glowing in the dim light of the guest room.
I’m outside. Let’s go.
My heart hammered against my ribs, a frantic bird trapped in a cage. I was ready. My bag was packed. But I couldn't just walk out. Jennie was downstairs, prowling the house like a prison warden in designer heels.
I heard footsteps approaching. I shoved the phone under my pillow and squeezed my eyes shut, forcing my breathing into a slow, rhythmic pattern.
The door creaked open. The scent of cloying vanilla perfume filled the room.
"Olivia?" Jennie’s voice was sharp, testing.
I didn't move. I didn't twitch.
"She's out cold," Jennie said, her tone shifting to a smug satisfaction. She was on the phone. "Yeah, I crushed two sleeping pills into her tea. She won't wake up until tomorrow."
She paused, listening.
"I know, Paul," she whined. "But it's boring here watching her sleep. I want to go out. I want to shop for the gala tonight. You said I could get that bracelet."
I held my breath.
"Fine," Paul’s voice drifted from the speaker, tinny but audible. "Go. But be back before I return from the board meeting. I need you to look presentable."
"You're the best, baby!" Jennie squealed. "I'll be back in two hours."
The door clicked shut.
I waited. One minute. Two.
I heard the front door slam, followed by the roar of Paul’s sports car engine—the one he let her drive—fading down the driveway.
I opened my eyes. The house was silent.
I threw off the covers and grabbed the small duffel bag I had hidden inside the ventilation duct the night before. I didn't look back at the room that had been my cell. I didn't look at the photos of Paul and me on the hallway walls.
I ran.
I slipped out the service entrance, bypassing the security cameras I had disabled remotely ten minutes ago.
A black SUV was waiting at the end of the street, idling in the shadows. The window rolled down.
Ysmael.
"Get in," he said, his eyes dark and serious.
I climbed into the passenger seat, throwing my bag in the back. "Drive."
He didn't ask questions. He floored it.
The courthouse was empty, save for the judge Ysmael had paid off to keep the records sealed.
"Do you, Olivia, take this man?" the judge asked, looking at his watch.
I looked at Ysmael. He wasn't Paul. He didn't look at me like I was a possession or a stepping stone. He looked at me like I was a weapon he was proud to wield.
"I do," I said, my voice steady.
"And do you, Ysmael?"
"I do," he said, slipping a simple platinum band onto my finger. It felt heavier than the diamond Paul had given me. It felt like armor.
"Then by the power vested in me, I pronounce you husband and wife."
We didn't kiss. We shook hands. The deal was sealed.
"One more stop," I said as we walked back to the car.
Ysmael nodded. "The clinic."
The waiting room was sterile and cold. I sat on the paper-covered table, staring at the ceiling.
"Are you sure?" the doctor asked, checking my chart. "You're ten weeks along."
"I'm sure," I said.
Paul wanted an heir. He wanted a shackle to bind me to him forever, a child he could use to manipulate his grandfather and secure his legacy. He didn't care about the baby. He cared about the leverage.
I was taking it away.
"Proceed," I said.
It was over in an hour.
I walked out of the clinic feeling hollowed out, but lighter. The physical tether to Paul was gone. The emotional one was severed. I was empty, and in that emptiness, I found a terrifying kind of freedom.
"Are you okay?" Ysmael asked, leaning against the car.
"I'm free," I said.
I opened my bag and pulled out a small box. Inside was the positive pregnancy test I had saved, along with the discharge papers from the clinic stamped TERMINATED. I also included the divorce papers, and our wedding ring.
I sealed the box.
"Have this delivered to Paul," I told Ysmael’s driver. "Mark it 'Personal and Confidential' for him."
"Consider it done, Mrs. Hale," the driver said.
We were halfway to Ysmael’s estate when my phone buzzed.
It was Paul.
Where the hell are you? Jennie said you're not in your room. The guards can't find you.
I stared at the screen. I could imagine his face—red, veins bulging in his neck, the panic setting in as he realized his prisoner had escaped.
Another message popped up.
Answer me, Olivia! You have nowhere to go. Come back home now and I won't punish you. Don't make me come find you.
I let out a short, dry laugh.
I typed a reply, my fingers flying across the screen.
Sorry. I’m not coming back. Be sleeping with random men. After all, you called me a whore. Though, check your desk. I sent you a gift. Goodbye.
I hit send.
The phone buzzed again immediately.
I didn't read the rest. I blocked the number.
I rolled down the window. The wind whipped my hair across my face, smelling of rain and asphalt.
I threw the phone out the window.
It shattered against the pavement, a thousand pieces of my old life left in the dust.
