The burner phone felt foreign in my trembling hands. I'd purchased it with cash from a convenience store clerk who didn't ask questions. The battery was almost dead, but it would be enough for one call.
I huddled in the hospital bathroom, water running to mask my voice. Chase had stationed security outside my door—for my "protection," he'd claimed. Protection. The word tasted bitter now.
"Nemesis," answered a voice after three rings. No greeting, no identification. Just a single word that sent ice through my veins.
"I need help," I whispered, my voice cracking. "I need... a contract husband."
Silence stretched across the line. Then: "You understand our services are exclusive. And expensive."
"Name your price." My father's old contact information had led me to this shadowy agency. I remembered his words: "If you ever need something that exists outside normal channels, call this number."
"The Blackbird Diner. Tomorrow. 2 AM. Come alone."
---
The Blackbird Diner sat on the edge of town like a forgotten relic. Its neon sign flickered erratically, casting sickly green light across the cracked asphalt. I pulled my hood lower over my face as I pushed through the door.
Only one customer occupied the diner—a man seated in the farthest booth, his back to the wall. He wore a simple black shirt and jeans, but something about his posture spoke of coiled power. When he turned slightly, I caught glimpses of sharp cheekbones and eyes that seemed to see right through me.
"Hannah Taylor," he said, not a question but a confirmation.
I slid into the booth across from him. Up close, he was even more intimidating—tall, broad-shouldered, with an intensity that made my breath catch.
"Jace Myers," he offered, extending a hand. His grip was warm and steady, nothing like Chase's possessive claw.
"You're the fixer?" I asked, studying his face for any hint of recognition. There was something vaguely familiar about him, but I couldn't place it.
"I'm whatever you need me to be." His voice was deep, controlled. "You want to escape your husband. You want revenge."
"I want him destroyed," I said, surprised by the venom in my own voice.
Jace's lips curved into something that wasn't quite a smile. "Then we'll destroy him together."
---
"Go home," Jace instructed three days later. "Act broken. Act defeated."
I stared at him across the diner booth. "That's your plan?"
"It's not a plan. It's strategy." He leaned forward, his eyes intense. "Chase expects resistance. He expects tears. Give him what he expects while we prepare."
"And if he hurts me again?" My hand unconsciously moved to my stomach—flat now, empty.
"He won't." Jace's voice hardened. "Because you'll be wearing this."
He slid a small device across the table—a nearly invisible earpiece with a microphone.
"Plant these in his study and Felicity's bedroom." He demonstrated how to activate the devices. "We need evidence."
---
The mansion felt like a prison when I returned. Chase was waiting in the foyer, his expression unreadable.
"Where have you been?" he demanded.
"The hospital discharged me early." I kept my eyes downcast, shoulders slumped. "I didn't want to bother you."
Something in his expression shifted—satisfaction at my apparent submission. "Good. You're learning."
Dinner was a silent affair. I picked at my food while Chase drank scotch and talked about business deals. When he finally left for his study, I exhaled slowly.
Later that night, I slipped from our bedroom with the listening devices Jace had given me. Chase's study was dimly lit, the air heavy with cigar smoke. I placed one device beneath his desk, another behind a row of books.
Felicity's bedroom was next—opulent and cold, like her. I shivered as I planted the final device beneath her vanity.
---
"Play the recordings," Jace instructed a week later as we sat in his car, parked in a shadowy corner of the city.
I pressed the button on the small device he'd given me. Chase's voice filled the vehicle:
"The Taylor estate in Martha's Vineyard sold for eight million. The buyer was discreet."
"Good," Felicity's voice replied. "Charli's next procedure will cost at least six."
"And Hannah suspects nothing?" A third voice—their lawyer, I realized.
"She's too broken to question anything," Chase said with a chuckle. "Besides, she signed the power of attorney after the second miscarriage."
Jace's knuckles whitened on the steering wheel. "Bastards," he muttered.
"There's more," I said, scrolling through the files. "Look at this."
The screen showed bank statements—millions flowing from Taylor family accounts to a consulting firm called "Felicity Medical Solutions."
"Felicity is listed as a medical consultant," I whispered, the pieces clicking into place. "She's been siphoning money from my family's assets to pay for Charli's treatments."
Jace's eyes met mine, dark and determined. "We've got them, Hannah. Now we just need to spring the trap."
As he spoke, something flickered in his expression—a memory, perhaps, or a recognition I couldn't quite grasp. For a moment, I felt as though I'd seen that look before, long ago, in a life that seemed to belong to someone else entirely.
