"Mommy, you're scary!"

Lucas shrieked, batting my outstretched hand away. The toy sports car I bought him clattered onto the sterile linoleum floor.

"Lucas, please," I begged, leaning forward in the hospital bed. "It's just me. It's Mommy."

"No!" The five-year-old scrambled backward. He buried his face into Alexander's expensive wool trousers. "Make the monster go away!"

I recoiled. A phantom ache throbbed beneath the thick bandages on my right cheek. Three years in this secluded private sanatorium had done nothing to soften the jagged, melted ruins of my face.

Alexander patted the boy's shoulder. My husband stared fixedly at the blank wall above my head.

"Don't force it, Scarlett," Alexander commanded. His tone held zero warmth. "He's terrified."

"He hasn't seen me in six months." I gripped the edge of the mattress. "You promised to bring him every week."

"My shooting schedule is packed." Alexander checked his gold Rolex. "And clearly, this environment traumatizes him."

"Traumatizes him?" I threw my legs over the side of the bed. "I am his mother! He needs to know I love him!"

"Look at yourself." My husband finally met my single working eye. A cruel sneer curled his lips. "Can you blame the kid?"

My throat closed up.

"I saved your life, Alex," I reminded him, my voice cracking. "I took that chemical burn for you."

"And I've paid for the best surgeons in the country to fix you," he shot back. "What more do you want? A medal?"

"I want my family."

"You're scaring the boy." Alexander hoisted a crying Lucas into his arms. The child kept his eyes squeezed shut, whimpering softly.

"We're leaving," Alexander announced. "I'll have my assistant wire your monthly allowance."

"Alex, wait. Don't take him away yet."

"Goodbye, Scarlett."

The heavy oak door slammed shut.

That was the final time my husband visited. Weekly visits turned to monthly check-ins. Then came the brief text messages. Finally, absolute silence.

***

"Look at her eye," a hushed voice whispered from the hallway. "It's completely hollow."

"I heard Alexander throws up every time he visits her."

"I would too. She looks like a melted candle."

I grabbed the metal wheels of my chair and pushed myself toward the open doorway. Two young nurses huddled over a glowing smartphone screen.

"Give me that," I demanded. I snatched the device from the blonde nurse's grip.

"Mrs. Blackwood! Wait!" she gasped.

I locked onto the screen. A high-resolution image of my face stared back. No medical gauze covered the damage. Just the raw, twisted scar tissue and the sunken crater of my missing right eye.

The headline screamed in bold red letters: *The Actor's Monster Wife: Alexander Blackwood's Tragic Secret.*

"Who took this?" My voice shook with rage. "Who leaked my medical files?"

"We don't know," the brunette nurse stammered. She backed away toward the nurses' station. "It was posted anonymously last night."

I scrolled down the page. Thousands of comments blurred together.

*Disgusting.*

*No wonder he hides her.*

*He deserves better.*

I hurled the phone against the wall. The screen splintered into a spiderweb of cracked glass.

"Leave my room," I ordered.

The nurses scrambled down the hall. I wheeled myself back to the center of the suite and grabbed the TV remote. I mashed the power button, desperate for any distraction.

An entertainment news anchor flashed a blinding smile on the flat screen.

"—spotted again outside a Manhattan restaurant," the anchor chirped. "Alexander Blackwood and socialite Isabella Astor looked awfully cozy last night. Sources say the heiress might just be the real deal for the rising movie star."

Footage played on loop. Alexander held a car door open for a stunning brunette in a silk red dress. Isabella laughed, resting her manicured hand flat against his chest. He grinned down at her.

A real grin. The kind he hadn't given me in three years.

***

I snatched my cell phone from the nightstand. My fingers fumbled as I dialed his private number.

It rang four times before connecting.

"What?" Alexander barked into the receiver.

"Isabella Astor?" I shouted. "Are you out of your mind?"

"Keep your voice down, Scarlett. I'm on set."

"I don't care where you are! The news says she's your new girlfriend."

"Don't believe everything you see on TV."

"I saw the way you looked at her, Alex. You never look at me like that anymore."

"Because you refuse to heal," he retorted. "You just sit in that room and wallow."

"I lost my face saving you!"

"And I'm paying millions to keep you comfortable. Isn't that enough?"

"Someone leaked my photos today. The whole world is calling me a monster!"

"It's the internet. People are cruel. Get over it."

The cold indifference in his voice hit me like a physical blow. I squeezed the plastic phone case until my knuckles turned white.

"Did you leak the photos?" I asked. The sickening realization dawned on me.

Silence stretched over the line.

"Don't be ridiculous," he finally muttered.

"You did it. You wanted them to see how ugly I am so they'd pity you. So they'd justify you cheating with Isabella!"

"You're overthinking it," Alexander sighed. His tone dripped with utter boredom. "I have to go. They need me for scene five."

"Alexander, don't you dare—"

The line went dead. The dial tone buzzed in my ear.

***

Later that evening, the ward matron, Nurse Higgins, knocked softly on my doorframe.

"Mrs. Blackwood?"

I sat in the dark, facing the window. "What is it, Higgins? Did my husband send another check to keep me locked up?"

The older woman stepped into the room. She clutched a clipboard against her chest.

"That's just it, ma'am." She hesitated, shifting her weight from foot to foot. "I just got off the phone with administration."

I turned my head. I fixed my one good eye on her nervous face. "Speak."

"Your hospitalization insurance is about to expire." Higgins swallowed hard. "By midnight tonight."

"Then bill my husband's accountant. He always renews it."

"We tried." The nurse lowered her gaze to the floor. "Mr. Blackwood hasn't renewed it."

The cold seeped into my bones.

"Cancel it?" I echoed.

"His team explicitly instructed the firm to let your policy lapse. They also emptied the joint account paying for your private suite."

"Emptied it? That's my money too."

"I'm so sorry, Mrs. Blackwood. The hospital administrator says you have until eight tomorrow morning to vacate the premises."

Higgins placed a stack of discharge papers on the edge of my bed. She gave me a pitying look, then hurried out of the room.

I sat alone in the pitch-black suite.

The air conditioner clicked off, plunging the room into a suffocating, dead silence.

Three years of isolation. Three years of surgeries, skin grafts, and agonizing physical therapy. I had stayed hidden in this sterile prison because Alexander told me it was best for us.

*He hasn't renewed it.*

My son hated me. The public reviled me. And now, my husband was throwing me out onto the street with nothing.

He wasn't just hiding me anymore. He was erasing me from my own life.

I touched the rough, bumpy scars on my cheek. A dangerous heat sparked in my chest, burning away the despair.

If Alexander wanted to erase me, he was going to have to try a lot harder than this.

The door handle rattled.

Someone was trying to get inside.

"Who is out there?" I shouted at the heavy oak door.

The handle stopped shaking. A key slid into the lock.

Nurse Higgins pushed the door open. She held a black remote control in her right hand.

"Just me, Mrs. Blackwood," she said.

"You scared me to death," I snapped. "I thought the administrator sent security to drag me out tonight."

"Not until morning." Higgins walked to the foot of my bed. "I thought you might want this."

"Why would I want to watch TV?"

"The Oscars are on." She pointed the remote at the flat screen on the wall. "Your husband is nominated."

"Turn it off, Higgins. I don't care."

"You do care," the nurse challenged. "You've watched his old movies every night for three years."

"That was before he cut off my insurance."

"Just watch this one category. If he loses, we turn it off."

"Fine."

The screen flared to life. The Dolby Theatre stage glowed under a thousand golden spotlights. An aging actress stood at the podium, holding a red envelope.

"The nominees for Best Actor in a Leading Role are..." the presenter announced.

The camera cut to a split screen of five men. Alexander occupied the top right square.

I stared at his face.

"He looks nervous," Higgins observed.

"He always rubs his thumb against his index finger when he's anxious," I noted. "He's doing it right now under the table."

"Do you want him to win?" she asked.

"I want him to pay for what he did to me." I gripped the thin hospital blanket. "But yes. I want him to win."

"Why?"

"Because we starved for that statue," I answered. "We lived in a roach-infested apartment in Queens for four years. I danced double shifts so he could afford acting classes."

"And the Oscar goes to..." The presenter tore the envelope open. She smiled. "Alexander Blackwood!"

The theater erupted into a deafening roar.

Despite the eviction notice, despite the cruelty, my chest tightened. He actually did it.

"He won," I whispered.

"Look at the crowd," Higgins said.

Alexander stood up. He buttoned his tuxedo jacket and hugged the director sitting next to him. He practically jogged up the steps to the stage.

He took the golden statue. He flashed that signature movie-star smile.

"I want to thank my studio," Alexander spoke smoothly into the microphone. "My director. My incredible team. You believed in me when nobody else did."

"He's not going to mention you," Higgins said softly.

"I know."

"He should."

"He won't."

Alexander gripped the podium. His expression shifted into something serious, something deeply emotional.

"But I need to thank one specific person," he continued, his voice dropping an octave. "The woman who stood by me through the darkest times. My rock. My fiancée."

My good eye widened.

"My fiancée," Alexander repeated to the silent, captive audience. "The love of my life, Isabella."

"Fiancée?" I repeated. "We aren't even divorced."

"He's lying to the whole world," Higgins gasped.

The camera panned to the front row. Isabella Astor stood up. She wore a stunning, backless emerald gown.

Alexander stepped down from the stage. He walked straight to her, ignoring the outstretched hands of his co-stars.

He grabbed Isabella's waist. He pulled her into a deep, passionate kiss.

The cameras zoomed in tight. Every network broadcast their embrace to a billion viewers.

Isabella wrapped her arms around his neck to deepen the kiss.

Her sleeve slipped back. A heavy diamond watch slid down her forearm, exposing her pale skin.

Right below the watch band, a mark stood out.

A birthmark. A red, rose-shaped mole on the inside of her right wrist.

I stopped breathing. The blood roared in my ears.

"Mrs. Blackwood?" Higgins asked. "Are you okay? You look pale."

I pointed at the screen. My finger trembled so violently I could barely keep it straight.

"Do you see that mark?" I asked.

"The red spot on her wrist?" Higgins squinted at the TV. "Yes. It looks like a little flower."

I closed my remaining eye. The memory slammed into me, sharp and violent.

"She had a glass jar," I muttered.

"What?" Higgins stepped closer to the bed.

"The woman in the alley three years ago." I opened my eye and looked at my own hands. "She screamed at him. 'Liar! You belong to me!'"

"The crazy fan?"

"I shoved Alexander out of the way," I said, my voice rising in pitch. "I grabbed her arm. My nails dug into her wrist."

"You fought her?"

"I scratched her!" I yelled. "Deep. Right over a red, rose-shaped mole."

Higgins covered her mouth. "Oh my god."

"It was Isabella." My voice dropped to a hollow whisper. "She threw the acid."

"Maybe it's a coincidence," Higgins offered weakly. "Lots of people have birthmarks."

"Not like that. Not in that exact spot." I touched the bandages on my ruined face. "She burned my skin off, Higgins. She melted my eye. And my husband helped her do it."

"Why would he do something so evil?"

"Because a divorce would ruin his image," I realized, the pieces finally snapping together. "He was the wholesome newcomer. Dumping his nobody wife for a billionaire heiress would kill his career."

"But a tragic accident..." Higgins trailed off.

"Exactly. A tragic accident makes him a victim. A martyr." I laughed, a harsh, grating sound. "And Isabella gets to play the hero who mends his broken heart."

"Are you sure?"

"I will never forget that mark as long as I live."

"But your husband..." Higgins stammered. "He wouldn't..."

"He knew." I grabbed the metal bedrails. "He knew exactly who she was."

I remembered his words outside my door. The phone call I overheard.

*The acid did exactly what it was supposed to do. She thinks it was a random attack.*

He didn't just know. He planned it with her.

They wanted me disfigured. They wanted me hidden. They wanted my silence so he could play the tragic, single rising star, and eventually introduce his wealthy savior.

"They planned it," I said. The words tasted like ash.

"I need to call the police," Higgins said. She reached for the phone on the nightstand.

"No." I slapped her hand away.

"Mrs. Blackwood, they tried to kill you!"

"No cops," I ordered. "They have lawyers. They have millions of dollars. They'll crush me before I even make it to a courtroom."

"Then what do we do?"

I stared at the TV. Alexander and Isabella were still smiling for the cameras, waving at the adoring crowd.

The tears that had threatened to fall suddenly vanished. The agonizing sorrow in my chest hardened, freezing into solid ice.

I wiped a single stray drop from my good cheek.

"Fine," I said.

"Fine?" Higgins echoed. "What does that mean?"

I turned to the nurse. "I have until eight o'clock tomorrow morning to leave this room. Get my clothes."

"Where will you go?"

"To a very old friend," I replied. "Someone Alexander thinks is dead."