The Unwanted Wife's Ultimate Escape Plan

Chloe sat on the cold leather sofa, her hands pressed against the knot twisting in her stomach. Outside the floor-to-ceiling windows, the lights of Manhattan blurred into a painful glare.

The antique clock on the wall chimed two, each strike echoing in the cavernous silence of the penthouse. The sound tightened the steel band around her chest. She bit down on her lower lip, the small pain a welcome distraction.

A heavy thud came from the foyer, the sound of the solid oak door hitting its frame. A blast of cold, damp air swept into the living room, and Chloe's body went rigid.

Julian stumbled in, smelling of whiskey and the city's rain. He ripped at the knot of his silk tie, his eyes, cold and dark, landing on her.

"Don't you ever sleep?" he slurred, his voice a low growl.

She tried to stand, a practiced motion of the dutiful wife, but her legs had gone numb from sitting so still for so long. She stumbled back onto the cushions.

A short, ugly laugh escaped him. "Pathetic."

He crossed the distance between them, his expensive shoes silent on the Persian rug. His shadow fell over her, a physical weight that made it hard to breathe. She instinctively shrank back, the leather cool against her spine.

"Did you need anything?" she asked, her voice trembling just enough to betray her. "I can make you some soup."

He didn't answer. He reached into the inner pocket of his suit jacket and pulled out a folded piece of paper. He tossed it onto the glass coffee table. It slid off the edge and landed by her feet.

The logo of the Northwood Private Care Facility was printed at the top. Below it, a string of numbers with too many zeros. Her grandmother's life. Her breath hitched.

He leaned down, his fingers clamping around her jaw. They were ice-cold, his grip brutally tight, forcing her head up until her eyes met his. The smell of alcohol was suffocating.

"Let's be clear," he said, his voice dangerously soft. "This is what you are. An expense. A line item I pay to keep a dying woman comfortable. You exist in my world because I allow it."

Tears pricked the corners of her eyes. "It's not just about the money, Julian."

His grip tightened, cutting off her words. "Isn't it? Then why sign the Medical Proxy? Why agree to every humiliating clause if not for the money?"

He shoved her head back and released her. She fell against the sofa, gasping, the sting of his fingers imprinted on her skin. The tears she refused to shed burned in her throat.

He turned his back on her and walked to the bar, the sound of a crystal decanter and a heavy tumbler filling the silence. It was a sound she had come to dread.

She watched his rigid back, the perfect cut of his Tom Ford suit. Her mind flashed to an image from seven years ago-a chaotic scene of fire, screaming, and the crushing weight of the ocean. He had pulled her from the wreckage of the yacht, his face grim, his arms the only solid thing in a world that was coming apart. That was the man she had married. Not this monster.

A sharp, searing pain shot through her lower abdomen, far worse than the nervous knot from before. It stole her breath. She doubled over, a strangled gasp escaping her lips as she pressed her hands hard against the source of the agony. Cold sweat beaded on her forehead.

Julian turned, the amber liquid swirling in his glass. He saw her curled into a ball on the sofa. A flicker of something-was it concern? -crossed his face before it was replaced by a familiar, ugly sneer.

"Don't even start," he said, taking a slow sip of his drink. "I'm not in the mood for one of your performances tonight."

She looked up at him, her eyes wide with a mixture of pain and disbelief. The cramping was so intense she couldn't form words, could only shake her head in a desperate, silent plea.

Her denial seemed to fuel his rage. He slammed the glass down on the bar, the sound cracking through the room. In two long strides, he was in front of her. He grabbed her by the wrist, his fingers digging into the bone, and hauled her to her feet.

The world tilted. A wave of dizziness washed over her. She tried to pull away, a weak, useless struggle against his iron grip. He yanked her flush against his chest.

He lowered his head, his lips brushing against her ear. His voice was a venomous whisper. "You have a contract to fulfill. And if you even think about refusing, I will make one phone call. By sunrise, your grandmother's ventilator will be unplugged. Do you understand me?"

The threat, so casually delivered, shattered the last of her defenses. The fight drained out of her, leaving an empty, hollow shell. She stopped struggling, her body going limp in his arms. She was a doll, and he was the master pulling the strings.

He seemed to dislike her sudden compliance even more than her resistance. A frustrated sound rumbled in his chest. He shoved her away from him. She stumbled backward, her legs giving out, and she landed hard on the cold marble floor.

She closed her eyes, a single tear finally escaping, tracing a cold path down her temple. The physical pain in her abdomen was a roaring fire, but the gaping wound in her soul was infinitely worse.

He stood over her for a moment. She could feel his stare, heavy and suffocating. Then, he straightened his suit jacket. He took out his wallet, pulled out a few hundred-dollar bills, and let them flutter down onto the coffee table. A payment. A final, crushing humiliation.

The sound of his footsteps receded. The front door opened, then slammed shut, the sound echoing with a brutal finality.

Chloe remained curled on the floor, alone in the vast, silent darkness. A warm, sticky wetness began to spread beneath her, a slow tide of dark red seeping into the fibers of her silk dress. Then, the world faded to black.