The school corridor stretched before me, empty and silent in the late afternoon. My heart hammered against my ribs as I pressed myself against the wall, listening for footsteps. Three days had passed since the pen incident, and Axton's behavior had only grown more suspicious. Today he'd mentioned a "parent-teacher conference" with Kiara about Lily's progress—a meeting he'd strangely insisted on attending alone.
"Something doesn't add up," I whispered to myself, wincing as another headache pulsed behind my eyes.
I'd followed him here in my old Honda, parking down the block so he wouldn't recognize my car. Now I was sneaking through the school like a thief, my body still weak from whatever was happening to me.
The hallway to Kiara's classroom was dimly lit, the fluorescent lights flickering overhead. I moved silently, grateful for the thick carpet that muffled my footsteps. Outside her door, I paused, hearing low voices inside.
"—can't keep doing this." Kiara's voice, breathless and intimate.
"Patience." Axton's reply was firm, authoritative. "We need to be smart about this."
I inched closer, pressing my ear against the door. Through the narrow gap beneath it, I could see their shoes—Axton's polished loafers and Kiara's delicate heels, standing very close together.
"The Dorothy situation needs to be handled permanently," Kiara continued, her voice dropping to a whisper. "She's becoming suspicious."
My blood turned to ice. The Dorothy situation? Handle permanently?
"She won't be a problem much longer," Axton replied, his tone chilling in its casualness. "The medication is working. She can barely function now."
Medication? What was he talking about?
"And after?" Kiara asked.
"After, we'll have everything we want." There was a pause, then the soft sound of a kiss. "The house, the money, the recognition—and best of all, no crazy wife to deal with."
I bit my lip so hard I tasted blood, fighting back a cry of rage and betrayal. They were planning something terrible—something permanent—against me.
"I love you," Kiara murmured. "I've always loved you."
"And I've always loved you," Axton replied, his voice tender in a way it hadn't been with me in years. "That's why this will work. We're meant to be together."
I backed away from the door, my legs trembling. I needed to get out of there, to think, to plan. But most of all, I needed proof.
---
Two days later, while Axton was at his "book signing" downtown, I found myself standing outside his study. The room had been off-limits to me for years—his "creative sanctuary" where he wrote his bestselling novels.
I'd never questioned it before. Why would I? He was the successful author, not me.
But now...
"I know you keep a spare key," I muttered, running my fingers along the top of the doorframe.
Nothing.
I tried the small ceramic frog on the bookshelf nearby—Axton's favorite hiding spot for extra keys. Its mouth opened to reveal a tiny brass key.
My hands shook as I unlocked the door. Inside, the study smelled of leather and expensive cologne. Everything was meticulously organized—his desk clear except for his laptop, his books arranged by height and color.
I went straight to the filing cabinet. If there was evidence of what he was planning, it would be here.
The top drawer stuck slightly as I pulled it open. Inside were folders labeled by year—tax records, publishing contracts, royalty statements.
And then I saw it—a folder labeled "Echoes—Final Draft."
Echoes from the Abyss—the title of my first novel, the one that had won critical acclaim before I met Axton. The one I'd never finished.
With trembling fingers, I pulled out the manuscript pages. The handwriting was mine—my distinctive loops and curves—but the paper was newer, cleaner than my original drafts.
Page after page, I recognized my words, my thoughts, my characters—all neatly transcribed in my handwriting, but edited and expanded.
"No," I whispered, sinking into his leather chair. "No, no, no."
This wasn't just plagiarism. This was theft of my very soul.
I flipped through more pages, finding entire passages lifted verbatim from my private journal—ideas I'd jotted down years ago, fragments of stories I'd never finished.
Tears blurred my vision as the full weight of the betrayal crashed over me. While I'd been struggling with my "writer's block" and mysterious health issues, Axton had been stealing my work—my thoughts, my creativity—and publishing them as his own.
And now he was planning to "handle" me permanently.
I clutched the manuscript pages to my chest, my mind racing. I needed to get these somewhere safe, somewhere he couldn't find them.
Because whatever game Axton and Kiara were playing, I was suddenly determined to win.
