The guest room bathroom was smaller than the master, the tiles older, the water pressure weak. Ayla stood under the spray, watching the water run clear.
She stepped out and wiped the steam from the mirror. A fresh bruise was blooming on her hip where she had slammed into the pantry shelf. It was a mottled purple, ugly against her pale skin.
She wrapped a robe around herself and walked into the bedroom. The balcony doors were slightly ajar. The curtains billowed inward.
Ayla frowned. She had closed them.
She walked over, her heart picking up speed. On the floor, just inside the threshold, sat a small, matte black paper bag. No logo.
She stepped onto the balcony. The night air was salty and cold. Below, the driveway was empty, but in the distance, she saw the taillights of a black car disappearing down the winding road.
She picked up the bag. Inside was a tube of ointment-a custom-compounded formula in a sterile, unmarked container-and a note.
Don't scar. - J
Ayla stared at the handwriting. Sharp, angular strokes. He had been here. He had climbed the balcony? Or maybe he had bribed the staff. With Julian, anything was possible.
She sat on the edge of the bed and applied the ointment. It was cooling, smelling of menthol and arnica. The pain subsided almost instantly.
Hours later, thirst woke her. Her throat felt like sandpaper.
She crept downstairs, the house silent and dark. She didn't turn on the lights. She knew the layout by heart.
As she passed the study, she saw a sliver of light under the door. Voices.
She stopped.
"...just a few more months, Chloe. Be patient." Spencer's voice. Slurred. Drunk.
"I'm tired of waiting, Spencer," Chloe whined. "That woman is pathetic. Why do we even need her?"
"Because of the trust fund clause," Spencer snapped. "My grandfather was a lunatic. The trust doesn't fully vest until I'm thirty-five and 'happily married' for five years. If I divorce her now, I lose forty million dollars."
Ayla pressed a hand over her mouth. Five years. They had been married three. He was using her for a payout.
"And her mother?" Chloe asked. "Is she really sick?"
Spencer laughed. It was a cruel, ugly sound. "She's sick, sure. But the 'experimental treatment' Dr. Evans is giving her? It's a custom cocktail. Mostly metabolic inhibitors and sedatives. Keeps her weak, keeps her dependent. Keeps Ayla compliant."
The world spun. Her knees hit the floor.
Metabolic inhibitors. Sedatives.
He wasn't saving her. He was keeping her sick. He was poisoning her to keep Ayla.
"You're evil," Chloe giggled. "I love it."
"I'll divorce her the day the money hits the account," Spencer said. "Throw her back to the trailer park."
Ayla couldn't breathe. The hallway was closing in. Rage, hot and blinding, surged through her. She wanted to burst in there. She wanted to kill him.
A hand clamped over her mouth.
She screamed against the palm, but the sound was muffled. An arm wrapped around her waist, dragging her backward into the shadows of the alcove under the stairs.
Ayla struggled, kicking out.
"Shh," a voice whispered in her ear. "It's me."
Julian.
She went limp. He held her tight against his chest, his heart beating steadily against her back. They stood there in the dark, hidden, as the study door opened.
Spencer and Chloe stumbled out, giggling, and headed up the stairs to the master bedroom.
Only when their door clicked shut did Julian release her.
Ayla spun around, grabbing his lapels. "Did you hear that? Did you hear what he said?"
"I heard," Julian said. His face was a mask of fury in the shadows.
"He's killing her," Ayla sobbed, the tears finally coming. "He's keeping her sick. I have to... I have to get her out."
"We will," Julian said.
"How are you here?" Ayla asked, suddenly realizing.
"I never left," he said simply. "I was watching the house. I saw the lights go on."
He reached out, wiping a tear from her cheek with his thumb. "Now you know. Your sacrifice wasn't a trade, Ayla. It was a swindle."
"I want to leave," she choked out. "I can't stay here. Not tonight."
"If you leave now, you lose," Julian said. "He wins. He keeps the money, he keeps the power, and he probably hurts your mother to spite you."
"I don't care about the money!"
"I do," Julian said. "I care about you watching him bleed. Metaphorically. And literally."
He gripped her shoulders. "Do you want to run away, or do you want to burn him to the ground?"
Ayla looked up at him. The despair in her chest was hardening into something cold and sharp. A weapon.
"I want him to suffer," she whispered.
Julian smiled. It was terrifying. "Good girl."
"Take me away," she said. "Just for tonight. Please. I can't be under the same roof as him."
Julian didn't hesitate. "Let's go."
