I touched the small, flesh-colored device behind my right ear. The doctor’s words from this morning still rang loudly in my head.

"Your hearing is returning, Violet. A full recovery is imminent. You will not need the aids for much longer."

Three years. Three years of muffled sounds, frustrating lip-reading, and relying on these tiny machines since the car crash. The crash where I threw my body in front of a speeding truck to save my fiancé, Dylan Miller.

I pushed open the heavy mahogany front door of our penthouse.

"Dylan?" I called out into the foyer.

No answer.

I kicked off my shoes and walked down the hallway toward the master bedroom. I wanted to see his face when I told him the news. I wanted to thank him for staying by my side through the darkest period of my life.

My hand reached for the brass knob.

A sound stopped me.

A low moan. Then a sharp, wet slap of skin against skin.

I froze. My fingers trembled as I turned the volume dial on my hearing aid up to the maximum.

"Fuck, Nancy," Dylan groaned from the other side of the wood. "Right there."

"You like my pussy?" Nancy’s voice drifted through the crack in the door. His secretary. My closest friend. "Better than your deaf little saint?"

My stomach dropped to the floor.

"That woman is completely deaf," Dylan sneered. "She doesn't hear a fucking thing we do. I could fuck your wet cunt on the couch while she reads a book, and she wouldn't know."

"You're terrible," Nancy giggled. The bedsprings squeaked in a rapid, violent rhythm. "Fuck me harder, Dylan. Ram it in."

"I got bored of fucking her a long time ago," he grunted. "She's just a charity case now. Spread your legs wider."

I pressed my hand over my mouth, biting down on my knuckle to keep from screaming. The man I sacrificed my life for. The man who promised to take care of me forever.

"Are you really never going to tell her?" Nancy asked, her voice catching on a loud gasp.

"Tell her what?"

"That you lied about the car crash."

The hallway spun violently around me.

"It was just a stupid test to see if she actually loved me," Dylan said, his voice straining with effort. "I paid that truck driver to swerve. I didn't expect the stupid bitch to actually jump in front of it and ruin her hearing."

"You ruined her," Nancy purred. "But at least I get to ride your cock."

"Shut up and take it," he snapped. "I'm going to cum inside you."

A lie.

My deafness, the endless surgeries, the pitying stares from his wealthy family. All a test. A sick, twisted game.

My knees buckled. I stumbled backward, my shoulder catching the edge of the glass console table.

The heavy porcelain vase tipped over.

It shattered against the hardwood floor with a deafening crash.

The wet, slapping noises inside the bedroom stopped instantly.

"What was that?" Nancy asked, panic replacing her pleasure.

"Stay here," Dylan ordered.

My legs refused to move. Shards of porcelain dug into my bare knees, but I felt absolutely nothing. I stared at the bedroom door, waiting for the nightmare to end.

It swung open.

Dylan stood there, hastily buckling his leather belt. His chest was flushed, slick with sweat. He stared down at me, his eyes wide, flashing from the broken vase to my trembling hands.

Nancy appeared behind him, clutching a white silk sheet over her bare breasts. Her messy blonde hair stuck to her sweaty neck.

"Violet!" Nancy gasped. She pushed past Dylan and dropped to her knees beside me. "Oh my god, are you hurt?"

Her face twisted into a mask of perfect, angelic concern. She reached out, her manicured fingers gently brushing the hair out of my eyes.

"Dylan, help me get her up," Nancy said, her voice laced with fake worry. "She must have tripped. Poor thing."

Dylan didn't move. He just stared at my ears.

"She didn't hear anything," he muttered, more to himself than to us. "Her aids are probably off."

"Let's get you to the couch, sweetie," Nancy cooed.

She hooked her arms under my armpits and hauled me upward. I let her pull me, my body limp, my brain short-circuiting.

As I stood, Nancy leaned in close. Her lips brushed the shell of my ear, right over the tiny microphone of my hearing aid.

"You pathetic, broken retard," she whispered, a venomous smile plastered on her face. "He's mine."

She pulled back, patting my shoulder affectionately.

I stared at her. The woman who brought me coffee every Tuesday. The woman who held my hand in the waiting room during my last surgery.

She thought I was deaf. She thought I was completely oblivious.

"I'll get a broom," Dylan said, finally snapping out of his daze. "Violet, go sit down."

He pointed toward the living room, using the exaggerated hand gestures he always used when he thought I failed to read his lips.

I didn't move. I just looked at the two of them.

My hearing was back. And the first thing I heard was the destruction of my entire life.

"Did you cut yourself, Violet?" Nancy asked loudly, pointing to a small scratch on my shin.

I looked down at the blood. Then I looked back up at Dylan.

"No," I said, my voice eerily calm.

Dylan's jaw tightened. "Why are you home early?"

I reached into my pocket, my fingers brushing against the doctor's note. The note I had rushed home to show him.

"My appointment finished early," I replied.

"You should watch where you're walking," he scolded, stepping over the shattered porcelain. "You could have really hurt yourself."

He didn't care. He never cared.

Nancy smirked, adjusting the sheet around her waist. "I'll go get dressed, Mr. Miller. Since Violet is home, I should probably head back to the office."

Mr. Miller. They were playing their roles again. Boss and secretary. Fiancé and disabled burden.

"Yeah," Dylan said, running a hand through his messy hair. "I'll see you tomorrow, Nancy."

Nancy turned to me, offering one last sympathetic pout. "Take care of yourself, Violet. Call me if you need anything."

She walked back into the bedroom, closing the door softly behind her.

Dylan sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "I'm going to call housekeeping to clean this up. Go to the kitchen and get a glass of water."

He turned his back on me, pulling his phone from his pocket.

I stood in the hallway, the pieces of the broken vase scattered around my feet. The pain in my chest was sharper than any physical wound.

Three years of my life stolen. Given away for a lie.

I reached up and touched my hearing aid again. I didn't turn it off. I wanted to hear every single lie he told from now on.

"Dylan," I called out.

He stopped, glancing over his shoulder. "What?"

"We need to talk about the wedding."

"Later," he dismissed, walking away. "I have a headache."

I watched his retreating back. Yes, we would talk later.

And he would pay for every single second he stole from me.

I adjusted the tiny flesh-colored dial behind my ear. The volume crackled to life, picking up the rustle of fabric.

"I will be late tonight," Dylan announced from the walk-in closet. He didn't bother facing me. He thought I couldn't hear him from the bedroom.

I walked to the doorway, leaning against the frame. "Did you say something?" I asked loudly, pointing to my ear.

He sighed, turning around. He exaggerated his lip movements, treating me like a toddler. "Work. Late."

"Another merger meeting?" I asked, keeping my tone light.

"Yes." He shoved his phone into his suit pocket. "Do not wait up for me."

"I have my final check-up at the clinic today," I told him. "Dr. Evans wants to discuss the last stage of my recovery."

"Good luck with that," he muttered, brushing past me. He didn't ask what the last stage meant. He didn't care.

"Will you come with me?" I asked, grabbing his sleeve.

He yanked his arm away. "I just told you I have work, Violet. I do not have time to sit in a waiting room."

"Right. Work."

"Do not give me that attitude," he snapped. "I pay for those appointments. The least you can do is go by yourself."

He walked out the front door. I listened to the heavy thud of the wood shutting. The silence in the apartment felt suffocating. He was going to see her. I knew it.

***

Dr. Evans tapped his pen against my chart. "Your neural responses are incredible, Violet. You are fully capable of navigating without the aids now."

"I want to keep them a little longer," I said.

"There is no medical need."

"It is for my peace of mind," I insisted. "I need to be sure."

He nodded slowly. "Very well. But you are healed. You have your life back."

"Thank you, Doctor."

I left his office, clutching my purse. I didn't have my life back. I had a front-row seat to a nightmare.

I turned the corner toward the pharmacy to pick up some vitamins. A burst of childish laughter echoed down the corridor.

I glanced up. My blood turned to ice.

A man stood at the pediatric registration desk. Broad shoulders, custom tailored navy suit. Dylan.

He held a little boy in his arms. The child looked about three years old, with messy brown curls and chubby cheeks. Dylan bounced him gently on his hip, a soft, genuine smile spreading across his face.

I had never seen him look like that. Not at me. Not at anyone.

"Daddy, juice," the boy whined, tugging at Dylan's expensive silk tie.

"In a minute, buddy," Dylan murmured. He kissed the boy's forehead. "Let me finish these forms, okay?"

Daddy.

The word echoed in my skull. The floor seemed to vanish beneath my feet. I gripped the edge of a nearby trash can to keep from falling.

A three-year-old boy.

My accident was exactly three years ago. The timeline clicked into place with sickening clarity. He hadn't just cheated. He had built an entire family while I was recovering from the injuries I sustained saving his life.

I forced my legs to move. I marched down the linoleum corridor, my sneakers squeaking against the polished floor.

"Dylan."

He flinched. The clipboard slipped from his hand, crashing onto the counter. Papers scattered everywhere.

He whipped his head around. His face drained of color. "Violet."

He immediately took a step backward, shielding the boy with his body.

"Who is this?" I asked. My voice sounded hollow, like it belonged to someone else.

Dylan refused to meet my eyes. He fixed his gaze on the exit sign above my head. "What are you doing here?"

"My appointment," I replied. "Who is that child?"

"It is not what you think," he stammered, shifting his weight from foot to foot.

"He called you Daddy."

"You misheard," Dylan shot back. His tone turned defensive, sharp. "Your hearing is still bad. You are confused."

"I heard him perfectly!" I shouted, stepping closer.

"Keep your voice down," a woman snapped from behind me.

I spun around.

Nancy marched down the hall, clutching a plastic juice bottle. She wore a tight red dress, completely out of place in a pediatric ward.

She brushed past me and snatched the boy from Dylan's arms.

"Mommy!" the toddler cheered, reaching for the bottle.

Nancy kissed his cheek, then shot me a withering glare. "Violet, why are you screaming in a hospital? You are scaring people."

"Why is my fiancé holding your son?" I demanded, my hands balling into fists. "Why did he call him Daddy?"

Nancy let out a loud, mocking laugh. "He is my friend's kid. Dylan is just his godfather. He calls all my male friends Daddy. He does not know any better."

She turned to Dylan, patting his chest. "Right, Mr. Miller?"

Dylan stared at his shoes. "Yes. I was just helping out with the paperwork."

"You are lying," I said, my voice trembling. "Both of you."

"You are being hysterical, Violet," Nancy scolded. Her voice dripped with fake sympathy. "Your disability is making you paranoid. You always overreact. You need to calm down."

"I am not paranoid!" I lunged forward, grabbing Dylan's arm. "Look at me! Tell me the truth!"

Dylan yanked his arm away as if I had burned him. "Get off me, Violet. You are making a scene."

"Tell me!" I screamed.

The little boy scowled at me. He wiggled out of Nancy's grip and dropped to the floor.

He ran straight at me.

"Bad woman!" the toddler shrieked.

He shoved his small hands hard against my knees.

Caught off guard, my ankles twisted. I stumbled backward, my heels catching on each other.

I crashed onto the hard tiles. Pain shot up my spine, radiating through my shoulders.

"Hey!" I gasped, clutching my hip.

I looked up, expecting a hand. Expecting an apology.

Dylan stood two feet away. He didn't reach out. He didn't scold the child. He just turned his head, refusing to look at me on the ground. His silence was louder than any confession.

"Do not scare him," Nancy ordered sharply. She scooped the boy back up, shielding him from me.

"He pushed me," I whispered, staring at Dylan. "Your son just pushed me."

"He is just a kid," Dylan muttered, still looking at the wall. "Get up, Violet. People are staring."

I stared at Nancy from the cold floor. A tiny, triumphant smile flashed across her red lips. She had won, and she wanted me to know it.

I scrambled to my feet. My palms burned from the impact.

"Violet, wait," Dylan said weakly, finally glancing in my direction.

"Do not speak to me." I backed away, shaking my head.

I spun around and ran.

I pushed through the double glass doors, bursting into the cold afternoon air.

My chest heaved. I ran until my lungs burned, until the hospital disappeared behind me.

Dylan had a son. With Nancy. A three-year-old son.

The crash happened three years ago.

I stopped on the sidewalk, wrapping my arms around my stomach.

My phone buzzed in my pocket. A text from an unknown number.

I pulled it out, my fingers trembling.

*He is taking everything from you tomorrow.*

I pushed the heavy mahogany door open. The penthouse felt entirely different. The scent of my vanilla candles was gone, replaced by the sharp, synthetic smell of expensive floral perfume. Nancy’s perfume.

I dragged my soaked sneakers across the marble foyer and froze.

Above the fireplace, a massive canvas dominated the living room wall. My stomach twisted into a hard knot.

It was a family portrait. Dylan wore a sharp tuxedo. Nancy stood beside him in a white gown, her hand resting intimately on his chest. The little curly-haired boy sat on Dylan’s shoulders, grinning widely.

My photos. My paintings. The antique clock I bought at a flea market. All of it had vanished.

"You came back," Dylan stated.

I spun around. He leaned against the kitchen counter, swirling amber liquid in a crystal glass. He wore his tailored suit trousers, the collar of his white shirt unbuttoned.

"Where are my things?" I demanded.

"The maid packed them." He pointed his glass toward a single black suitcase sitting by the elevator doors.

I stared at the small piece of luggage. "Three years of my life. Reduced to one bag."

"Do not make this harder than it needs to be, Violet."

"Harder for who?" I marched toward him, my hands balling into fists. "You erased me. You replaced me in my own home!"

"It was never your home," he replied coldly. He took a sip of his scotch. "It is my name on the lease."

"I threw myself in front of a speeding truck for you." My voice broke. I hated how weak I sounded. "I lost my hearing. I endured endless surgeries. I gave you everything."

"I did not ask you to play hero." He slammed the glass onto the granite counter. The ice cracked loudly. "I paid that driver to swerve. It was a controlled situation."

"Did you ever love me?" I asked. The question burned my throat. "Even for a single second?"

Dylan looked at me. His eyes were flat, devoid of any warmth or guilt. "No."

A dry, hollow laugh bubbled up from my chest. It erupted out of me, sharp and entirely wrong for the moment.

Dylan frowned, taking a step back. "Are you insane?"

"You were just part of the plan back then," he continued, his tone hardening. "My father’s board members wanted a wholesome family man before they handed over the CEO title. You were a naive orphan. You fit the narrative."

"A prop." I smiled, though my face felt entirely numb. "I was a prop."

"You were a convenient shield," he corrected. "Now, I do not need you anymore."

I stopped laughing. The last thread connecting me to this man snapped.

"Keep the ring," Dylan offered, gesturing vaguely toward my hand. "Pawn it. Consider it severance."

I pulled the diamond off my finger. I didn't throw it at him. I just dropped it onto the floor. It bounced against the hardwood and rolled under the sofa.

"Goodbye, Dylan."

I walked to the elevator, grabbed the handle of my black suitcase, and pressed the button. I didn't look back.

***

The storm hit the second I stepped out of the lobby.

Rain lashed against my face, cold and unforgiving. The sky was a bruised, pitch-black canopy above the city.

I dragged the suitcase down the pavement. The wheels rattled aggressively over the cracked concrete. I had nowhere to go. No family to call. No money in my personal account—Dylan had frozen my cards hours ago.

Two figures stepped out from a narrow alleyway, blocking the sidewalk.

I stopped.

Broad chests. Dark raincoats. They didn't look like muggers. They stood too straight.

"Keep walking," the taller man ordered.

"Get out of my way," I said, gripping the suitcase handle tighter.

The shorter man reached out and grabbed my shoulder. "Nancy sends her regards. She thinks you might have trouble understanding your new reality."

I shoved his hand away. "Don't touch me."

"Stay away from Dylan Miller," the tall one warned. He stepped into my personal space, towering over me. "If you keep pestering them, you will disappear completely."

"Are you threatening me?"

"It is a promise."

He shoved me hard in the chest.

My wet sneakers slipped on the slick concrete. I fell backward, my hands flying out to catch myself. My palms scraped violently against the pavement.

The tiny flesh-colored device popped out from behind my ear. It bounced onto the asphalt, landing right next to the tall man’s heavy work boot.

He looked down at it. Then he looked at me.

He raised his foot.

*Crunch.*

The sharp sound of plastic shattering echoed for a split second.

Then, absolute silence.

The doctor told me my natural hearing was returning. But the trauma of the fall, combined with the roaring storm, overwhelmed my senses. The world instantly muted into a fuzzy, distorted hum. The rain became a visual assault rather than an auditory one.

The men mouthed something else. The tall one laughed, a silent contortion of his face. They turned and walked away, disappearing into the shadows of the alley.

I lay on the wet ground. The freezing rain pounded against my skin.

I had no way out. The realization crushed the remaining air from my lungs.

My vision blurred. The edges of the streetlights smeared into long yellow streaks. I couldn't move my legs. I closed my eyes, letting the cold darkness pull me under.

A sudden, blinding glare pierced the night.

Tires screeched. The violent vibration rattled through the concrete, shaking my spine.

A sleek, black Rolls-Royce stopped mere inches from my head.

The rear passenger door swung open.

A pair of polished leather dress shoes stepped onto the wet pavement. Long legs wrapped in tailored charcoal trousers followed.

A man stood over me. He held a large black umbrella, casting his face in deep shadow.

I blinked through the rain, struggling to keep my eyes open.

Sharp jawline. Piercing gray eyes. A face carved from ice. He exuded an overwhelming aura of wealth and absolute authority. Jacob Mercer. The heir to the city's oldest fortune.

He crouched down. His large hand gripped my chin, tilting my face up. His fingers were shockingly warm against my freezing skin.

I stared at his lips, falling back on the skill I had mastered over the last three years.

"Get in," he commanded.

I shook my head weakly. "Who..."

"I bought your life," he articulated clearly, making sure I caught every syllable.

He didn't wait for my response. He slid his arms under my knees and shoulders, lifting me effortlessly from the flooded street.

The scent of expensive cedar and rain enveloped me.

He placed me onto the plush leather seat of the car. The door slammed shut, trapping me inside the dry, quiet cabin.

The engine roared to life, a deep vibration beneath my feet.

I stared at the dangerous stranger sitting beside me in the dark. We were speeding away from everything I knew, driving straight into an entirely unknown world.

He pulled a pristine white handkerchief from his breast pocket and tossed it into my lap.

"Dry off," he ordered, his gray eyes locking onto mine. "Your real nightmare starts tomorrow."