The spring air was sharp, and my bare feet trembled on the asphalt.

I'd walked this road countless times. The worst was when the Moore family faltered. They drugged me and delivered me to Craig's bed like a commodity to secure their survival.

Now the Moore Group was gone. Freed from groveling, I felt an odd lightness, a release.

"Madam," Mervin called out, hurrying toward me.

Before I could turn, he draped a coat over my shoulders. "Mr. Kennedy sent this. He cares for you. Why let it..."

"Pass on my thanks to him," I cut him off.

He sighed before heading back.

The coat, familiar and heavy, pulled me into memories. Craig had bought it for me when I was still the cherished Moore heiress. His eyes had brimmed with love, and he had promised to protect me forever.

As a child, he shielded me from every slight. Once, when someone bullied me, he fought them, earning a beating from his family's discipline. Bedridden, he still made faces to make me laugh.

I wept for his pain, and he clumsily wiped my tears. "Don't cry. I won't let anyone hurt you."

In high school, when delinquents cornered me, he charged in alone, battered but unyielding. Even as he struggled to stand, he asked if I was scared, making me laugh through my tears.

Back then, he shunned other girls, proudly telling his friends, "My girlfriend keeps me on a tight leash."

We were childhood sweethearts envied by all as a perfect match, destined for marriage on the day our families set.

But fate turned cruel. The Moore Group faced a crippling crisis, and my family, fearing the Kennedys would break our engagement, drugged me and sent me to Craig's bed. I handed him the drugged wine, unaware of its contents.

I explained countless times, but his eyes always held the same disgust from that morning, appraising me like a tainted object.

He believed I'd schemed to save my family, seducing him with despicable means. From that moment, I was branded with shame, stripped of any right to defend myself.

Yet he honored the engagement, giving me a grand wedding that sparked envy. He saved the Moore Group, and I thought he still loved me.

But on our wedding night, he brought home another woman. Every night after, he paraded new ones, trophies that could fill a nightclub.

He took pleasure in humiliating me in every imaginable way and never seemed to grow tired of it. It was as though my pain was his only joy.

I endured, believing he'd relent and reconcile with me one day.

Three years passed, ending in the Moore Group's collapse and my parents' suicides.

Penniless, I walked barefoot from the hillside down the city. By the time I reached a park, my feet were raw, blood seeping from torn skin.

With the pen I'd used to sign the divorce agreement, I borrowed paper from passersby and sat on the steps, quietly sketching the scenery. The tranquility felt like a return to the days before I married Craig.

I laid my small, delicate drawings on the ground. A young girl crouched before me. "Miss, your feet are bleeding. Doesn't it hurt?"

I glanced down. The long walk had mangled my soles, but I felt nothing. The heart's pain had drowned out that of the body.

Not wanting to frighten her, I tucked my feet away and smiled. "It doesn't hurt."

She tilted her head, pulling a crumpled ten-dollar bill from her pocket. "Miss, this is all I have. Can I buy one of your drawings? They're beautiful, like something my old friend would make."

Her grown-up tone made me smile. A little girl like her couldn't have any old friends.

"If you like them, take them all. Thank you for the ten dollars," I said.

I never imagined my only money would come from a child. With it, I entered a small internet café, buying an hour online. I logged into the social media account that had tormented me for three years.

The pinned posts were glaring.

[A woman must uphold virtue, obey her husband.]

[A wife should be gentle, submissive, and never complain.]

[Chastity is a woman's foundation. It must be untainted and pure.]

Craig had forced me to post these vile words. Early in our marriage, I'd argued when he brought women home. Then he punished me, making me kneel in the garden while his mistresses watched, reciting archaic virtue texts he'd found.

I fought back fiercely, but he forced me to share them online.

"I paid for you," he'd said. "Act like it. Show the world what a 'virtuous' wife you are."

Whenever I angered him, he made me post more, turning my account into a battleground for trolls. They called me brainwashed, feudal trash, and a disgrace to women.

I couldn't respond or fight back. Silence was my only shield.

But his satisfaction with merely humiliating me began to wear thin. He demanded that I attend to the women he brought home.

The women who shared his bed were the ones I had trained. He said that someone like me, shameless and devoid of self-respect, knew best how to please a man.

Each time, he would stand on the sidelines, watching with twisted delight as I endured the crushing weight of humiliation and pain.

Over time, I grew numb. I stopped arguing or protesting.

He grew bored of the spectacle and no longer cared to watch. He shifted tactics, demanding I beg him not to divorce me.

I complied for my family, but now, with nothing left, I was free.

I deleted every post and sighed deeply. As the last one vanished, I felt the chains of those years shatter.

Exhausted, I slumped over the table, my mind going blank. For a moment, I didn't know if I was alive or dead.

A gentle tap on my back startled me. "Michele?"

I turned to see a kind, surprised face.

It was my mentor in college, Jedediah Kemp.

When my marriage to Craig was announced, he'd opposed it, calling me relentlessly. He didn't attend the wedding.

Unable to explain my family's coercion, I let him drift away. Now, he was my only elder.

My eyes welled up, my voice trembling. "Professor."

Tears broke free, years of suppressed grievances flooding out.

"Don't cry," he said. "My daughter bought your drawings. Michele, do you want to continue your studies?"

His eyes held the same encouragement as years ago. I nodded, tears falling.

Had the crisis not occurred, I'd have gone abroad with him for my first art exhibition.

We handled the paperwork and waited at the airport.

At the Kennedy Villa, Craig paced the living room, agitated. "Still no sign of Michele?"

The butler shook his head.

"Find her! Keep looking until you do!" Craig's voice was sharp, his usually calm eyes wild with panic.

Lucia, wearing my nightgown, draped herself over him. "She is probably just out sulking. She has no friends and no family. What's there to worry about?"

She twisted her waist, leaning in to kiss him.

Craig shoved her off, his glare deadly. "Get out! Who permitted you to wear her clothes? Take them off. No one touches her things."

Lucia ran off, crying.

Craig sat on the sofa, waiting stubbornly. Each tick of the clock fueled his irritation. He called me repeatedly, leaving furious voicemails after the system prompted him.

"Are you running away? Get back here in an hour, or I'll divorce you for real!"

An hour later, he yelled again, "Time is running out. Even if you beg, I'll end this!"

By the third message, his voice cracked with desperation. "You're testing me, right? Come back! You want money? I'll give you anything. You betrayed me first. Why act like this? Come back and say you love me. I'll let it slide. You didn't care about the other women. Why can't you tolerate Lucia? She's gone. Come back. Don't be foolish!"