The sharp crack of the leather belt echoed beneath the vaulted, hand-painted ceilings of the grand hall, followed by a white-hot burn across my back.
I bit my lower lip so hard I tasted blood. I refused to scream. I refused to give him the satisfaction of hearing my pain.
The final strike tore through the thin cotton of my dress. My strength gave out, and I collapsed forward onto the imported marble floor, palms slapping against the cold stone. My breath came in broken, shallow gasps. Pain burned through my spine, blurring the edges of the room. A single drop of blood from my split lip fell onto the flawless white marble.
Above me stood my husband, Nathaniel Cross.
He stood in the center of the Bel Air mansion he falsely believed belonged to him, adjusting the cuffs of his navy suit as if he had just finished a business meeting instead of beating his wife. His breathing was steady. His face held no panic, no guilt, no rage.
Only disgust.
“Look at her,” Savannah purred.
She stepped into view in a champagne silk dress, the kind of dress bought with money I had quietly provided for years. She crouched near my face, her expensive perfume mixing with the metallic taste of blood in my mouth.
“Still pretending she’s innocent,” she whispered. “Still playing the silent victim.”
Then she stood, placing one hand over her flat stomach.
“Nathaniel, darling, could you ask the maid for sparkling water? The baby simply cannot stand the smell of your scotch tonight.”
Nathaniel’s face softened instantly.
“Of course, my love.”
Then he looked back at me, cold again.
“I’m done carrying dead weight, Isabella. I built this empire from nothing. I rescued you from your small, pathetic life and gave you everything. All I asked was that you become a quiet, grateful wife. But you became a liability.”
He pulled a thick legal document and a gold fountain pen from his jacket, then threw them onto the floor beside my trembling hands.
“Sign it,” he demanded. “A post-nuptial amendment and non-disclosure agreement. You give up all claims to my assets, and you keep your mouth shut about tonight. If you refuse, I’ll have my friend Chief Harris drag you out of here in handcuffs for trespassing.”
I looked at the paper. My bloodied thumb left a crimson smear across the signature line.
A bloody contract for a dead marriage.
In that moment, the final piece of hope inside me turned to ash.
I reached into the pocket of my ruined dress and pulled out my phone. With shaking fingers, I dialed a private encrypted number.
Nathaniel laughed and snatched the phone from my hand.
“Who are you calling?” he mocked. “Your mechanic father?”
He pressed speakerphone.
“Let’s tell your pathetic old man exactly how worthless his daughter is.”
The line clicked open before the first ring finished.
Nathaniel leaned toward the phone.
“Listen to me, old man. Your daughter is a barren, useless—”
“Nathaniel Cross.”
The voice that came through the speaker was not hesitant or poor or afraid.
It was deep, calm, and impossibly powerful.
It was the voice Nathaniel heard on financial news every morning.
The voice of Edward Whitmore, billionaire chairman of Whitmore Global.
Nathaniel froze.
