I was the true heiress.
She was the housekeeper's daughter.
She stole my life, including my fiancé.
I was two months pregnant when she and I were kidnapped together.
My husband rushed to our rescue.
I crawled toward him. "Save me... save our child."
He shot me a look of disgust, then rushed her to the ambulance.
"Pregnant? Stop lying to me!"
"We're even now. My lawyers will send the divorce papers," he sneered.
The ambulance sped away.
But later, that same man would cry himself hoarse, screaming:
"I'm sorry, Elodie! I'll find who did this! I swear I'll find that bastard!"
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1
I never imagined I would die in such a filthy, humiliating way.
The kidnappers tore my dress, rubbing gravel against my skin as if I were a dirty rag.
They threw me onto the cold sands of Jones Beach on Long Island.
The salty, rank waves assaulted me again and again, washing over my broken body.
Warm blood gushed from between my legs, staining the frigid seawater a murky red.
Gideon Caldwell.
My husband.
His mind, his heart—they were filled with only one person: Freya Carrington.
He didn't spare me a single thought.
By the time I was brought to the Caldwell Medical Center, I had nearly bled out. My legs were mangled, twisted like a broken Barbie doll.
The doctors and nurses stared, their eyes wide with the kind of terror reserved for seeing a ghost.
Faced with my ravaged body, they didn't even know where to begin.
A nurse whispered, "Should we call Dr. Caldwell? He's the top neurosurgeon. Maybe..."
Another immediately cut her off. "Dr. Caldwell is busy saving the woman he loves. You think he'd leave her for some stranger?"
I was not a stranger.
I was his wife, Elodie Carrington.
Resentment, like iron chains, locked my soul in place. I floated in mid-air, unable to leave.
I gazed down at my own unrecognizable flesh, numb.
A force suddenly pulled me away.
Suddenly, I was standing in an emergency room, watching Gideon and Freya.
Freya lay on a hospital bed while Gideon, dressed in sterile scrubs, used those same hands, capable of repairing the most delicate nerves, to carefully stitch a trivial wound for her.
It was just a scratch.
And yet, he treated it like a life-or-death crisis.
I could see the raw panic and lingering fear in his eyes.
"Freya, don't be afraid. I promise, your skin will be as smooth as it was before," he soothed her, his voice softer than I had ever heard it.
He bandaged the wound himself before having her moved to a VIP suite.
When they were alone in the room, he leaned down and placed a reverent kiss on her forehead.
A nurse came in to disinfect Freya's wound, stealing glances at Gideon as she worked.
"It's so unfair. Both of you were kidnapped, but Miss Carrington, you were lucky enough to have Dr. Caldwell's care and survive. But that other woman who was brought in around the same time—"
"Don't mention the kidnapping in front of Freya," Gideon interrupted her sharply. "It will affect her recovery."
He knew that other woman was me.
But he didn't want to hear it.
I couldn't help but sneer. It was almost comical how protective Gideon was of Freya. He was afraid a scar would ruin her career as an influencer with millions of followers, afraid the kidnapping would leave her with psychological trauma.
But what I had endured? He couldn't have cared less.
Which, of course, made perfect sense.
He hated me.
When Gideon found us on the beach with the ransom money, I used my last ounce of strength to crawl toward him, begging him to save me, to save the child in my belly.
He gave me nothing but a look of disgust.
Then, with a sliver of pity that felt more like charity, he dialed 911.
"Elodie Carrington, your soul is rotten to the core. To save your own life, you'd stoop to a cheap lie like pregnancy. It's sickening. Freya was kidnapped because you invited her to that party in the Hamptons. I will never forgive you."
"The debt for saving my life? Consider it repaid. Come to the hospital later to sign the divorce papers."
With that, Gideon scooped the terrified, sobbing Freya into his arms and onto the first ambulance, insisting they take her to the city hospital first.
The moment the ambulance doors closed, I was still desperately trying to crawl ashore.
The Long Island wind cut at me like a knife. Blood continued to pour from my body.
The rising tide could swallow me whole at any moment.
