The cracked screen cast a sickly pale glow over my trembling fingers. I tapped the single contact saved in the device.
No name. Just a ten-digit number.
I hit send and pressed the cold plastic to my ear.
One ring. Two.
"Room 402," a male voice answered. Smooth. Unbothered.
"Who is this?" I asked, keeping my tone barely above a whisper.
"Someone who hates a rigged game, Mrs. Thorne."
"How do you know my name?" I gripped the phone tighter. "Who put this device under my mattress?"
"Questions waste precious time," the man replied. "You have a choice right now. Hang up, go to sleep, and enjoy the institutional oatmeal tomorrow. Or wait ten minutes for me to walk through your door."
"I don't play blind games," I warned him.
"Neither do I. Ten minutes."
The line went dead.
I shoved the phone beneath the torn fabric of the mattress and paced the narrow stretch of concrete. My pulse drummed a frantic rhythm against my ribs. I counted the seconds, tracking the sliver of moonlight as it crawled across the floor.
Exactly ten minutes later, the heavy steel bolt slid back.
The door swung wide. A man stepped inside, shutting it firmly behind him.
He didn't wear scrubs or a white coat. He wore a charcoal bespoke suit that looked entirely out of place in a psychiatric hold. His shoes made no sound on the linoleum.
"Evelyn Thorne," he said, pulling a silver card case from his breast pocket.
"You're not a doctor," I stated, backing up until my calves hit the edge of the flimsy bed.
"God, no." He extracted a pair of reading glasses, sliding them onto his face. "Arthur Galloway. Mergers and acquisitions. I also happen to own the shell company that funds Fairview Institute."
"A lawyer." I crossed my arms across my chest. "Did my husband send you to finish the job?"
Arthur laughed, a short, sharp sound that echoed off the concrete walls.
"Liam couldn't afford my retainer if he mortgaged your entire estate," Arthur said. "I am here for my own interests."
"Which are?"
He pulled a sleek audio recorder from his jacket pocket. "Leverage. And profit."
"I don't have anything to give you," I told him. "My husband just locked me in a padded box."
"He thinks he did," Arthur corrected. "But Liam is a careless man. Careless men leave messes."
Arthur pressed a button on the side of the device.
Static filled the damp room, followed by a voice that made my stomach twist into a hard knot.
"Double the standard donation," Liam’s voice crackled through the tiny speaker.
"Mr. Thorne, an involuntary hold requires extensive documentation," another man replied. The hospital director.
"She's unstable. I have the paramedic reports. I just need her kept away from a phone for six months. Long enough to transfer the trust."
"Six months is a long time to keep a sane woman locked up."
"Then make sure she stops being sane."
Arthur clicked the device off.
I stared at the metal box in his hand. I didn't scream. I didn't throw myself against the walls.
Instead, a dry, hollow laugh scraped its way up my throat.
Arthur raised an eyebrow. "Most women cry when they hear their husband selling them out."
"Tears are for people who still have hope," I noted, my voice sounding like it belonged to a stranger. "He sold my sanity for a trust fund."
"He certainly tried." Arthur reached into his jacket again, producing a thick, folded document and a heavy gold fountain pen. He laid them flat on the grey blanket.
"What is this?" I asked, looking down at the legal jargon.
"Your father left you a multi-million dollar empire," Arthur explained. "Liam is currently trying to bleed it dry. I have a team of fourteen litigators who specialize in hostile takeovers, asset protection, and destroying careless men."
"And your price?"
"Twenty percent of your trust management rights." Arthur met my gaze directly. "I tear your husband to shreds, I free you from this concrete box, and I take my cut."
"Twenty percent is a massive fortune."
"Freedom isn't cheap," Arthur countered. "Neither is vengeance."
"Ten percent," I shot back automatically.
"I'm not a contractor, Evelyn. I'm a mercenary." Arthur tapped the bottom of the page. "Twenty. Non-negotiable."
"If you fail to get my assets back?"
"I don't fail."
I looked at the gold pen resting on the blanket.
My husband had shoved a pill down my throat. My children had watched me get dragged away like garbage.
I picked up the pen.
"Where do I sign?" I asked.
Arthur pointed to the dotted line. "Right there."
I pressed the nib to the paper. My knuckles turned stark white from the sheer force of my grip. The metal point tore through the top layer of the page, emitting a harsh, scratching shriek in the quiet room.
Giving away a fifth of my hard-earned empire should have hurt.
It didn't. The sting of losing millions was absolutely nothing compared to the violent tear in my chest from my family's betrayal.
As the dark ink bled into the torn paper, a massive shift occurred inside my mind. The devoted mother who baked for school drives died in that chair. The loyal wife who bought anniversary silk vanished.
I was no longer prey.
I handed the signed document back to Arthur.
"Make him bleed," I said, my voice entirely flat.
Arthur smiled, a terrifying, shark-like curve of his mouth. "Oh, we are going to gut him, Mrs. Thorne."
He folded the contract away and pulled a thin tablet from his briefcase.
"Before we begin the extraction, you need to see the current battlefield."
He handed me the screen.
It was a live news broadcast. The banner at the bottom flashed in bright red letters: *THORNE FAMILY TRAGEDY.*
I stared at the moving image.
Liam stood on the front steps of our estate. Chloe stood right beside him, wearing the exact silk robe I saw her in earlier, now partially covered by a dark coat.
"My wife has suffered a severe psychological collapse," Liam told the cluster of microphones, wiping a perfectly timed tear from his cheek. "We are heartbroken."
Chloe leaned into his shoulder, her face a mask of practiced sorrow.
"We ask for privacy during this trying time," she added, lifting her left hand to brush a stray tear away from her eye.
The camera instantly zoomed in on her hand.
A massive, flawless diamond sparkled on her ring finger. Right next to a matching band on Liam's hand.
"They move fast," Arthur murmured, watching the screen over my shoulder. "Engaged on the very day they lock you up."
I traced the edge of the glass screen, my pulse steadying into a cold, rhythmic beat.
"Let them celebrate," I whispered.
"You don't look surprised," Arthur noted.
"I stopped being surprised the moment he forced that pill into my mouth." I handed the tablet back to him. "When do I get out of here?"
"Tomorrow morning. My team will file an emergency injunction at dawn."
"Good."
Arthur slipped the tablet into his bag. "Get some sleep, Evelyn. Tomorrow, you go to war."
He turned and walked out, the heavy door shutting behind him. The bolt slid into place.
I sat on the edge of the bed. I didn't lie down. I didn't close my eyes.
I watched the moonlight shift across the floor, waiting for the sun to rise.
