CHAPTER 3

Anya’s POV

Five years later.

I stared at my reflection in the mirror for a long time, not really recognizing the woman staring back at me. My hair was the same soft brown it had always been, just duller now. My face looked older, not by much, but enough that I could see the difference. The sadness in my eyes was deeper, heavier, like it had settled there and refused to leave. I ran my fingers down my cheek, tracing the faint line near my temple—one of the many reminders of my mistakes.

I let my gaze fall lower, to the marks on my body. Some were faint, fading scars that told quiet stories of pain. Others were new—red, purple, angry-looking. A bruise on my shoulder, a cut on my arm, the ugly mark on my side. My heart tightened as I looked at them. They were proof of what my life had become. Proof of what love had turned into.

Kennedy Davenport. My husband. My nightmare.

We had been married for four years, but every single day felt like a punishment I couldn’t escape. To the world, Kennedy was perfect. Handsome, charming, polite—the kind of man people adored. Everyone saw the loving husband, the successful businessman, the man who always smiled for the cameras. But behind closed doors, it was different. Behind those doors, I saw who he truly was. Cruel. Controlling. Dangerous.

I bent down slowly to pick up my blouse from the floor, and a sharp pain shot through my ribs. I gasped softly, pressing a hand to my side where he had slammed me against the table earlier that morning. My fingers brushed over the bruise there, and I bit my lip to keep from crying.

All I had done was ask him about the text messages from his secretary—the ones filled with hearts and suggestive words. I hadn’t even accused him of anything. I just wanted to understand. But that was enough to set him off. He called me names, told me I was ungrateful, paranoid, stupid. Then he grabbed me by the arm and shoved me so hard I hit the table. The sound of glass shattering still echoed in my ears.

I winced as I slipped the blouse over my head, the fabric scraping lightly against my sore skin. My hands trembled as I buttoned it up, trying to cover every mark, every bruise, and every piece of evidence that told the truth about my life.

By the time I was done, I looked… normal. Just another woman getting ready to face the day.

But inside, I was breaking. Slowly. Quietly.

And the worst part was… no one knew.

I jumped when my phone rang, the sudden sound making my heart race. My hands were still shaking a little as I picked it up from the dresser. When I saw Kennedy’s name flashing on the screen, my stomach twisted. I hesitated for a second before answering.

The moment I said hello, his voice came through sharp and angry.

“Where the hell are you?” he shouted. “The meeting’s about to start and you’re nowhere to be found!”

I froze, gripping the phone tighter. His voice always had that effect on me—like it could reach through the phone and slap me. My throat felt dry, and I quickly said, “I’m sorry, I’m on my way.”

He didn’t calm down. He never did.

“Sorry?” he barked. “If you’re not here in ten minutes, Anya, I swear you’ll have more bruises to hide.”

My breath caught in my throat. That familiar fear washed over me again—the kind that made my chest feel tight and my skin go cold. I swallowed hard and said softly, “I’ll be right there.”

There was a short pause, then I heard him mutter something under his breath. One word.

“Useless.”

Then the line went dead.

I just stood there, the phone still pressed to my ear, listening to the silence that followed. My hands trembled, and my heart thudded painfully in my chest. I took a deep breath, trying to steady myself, but it didn’t help much.

I glanced at the mirror again. My makeup had smudged a little, and my blouse was wrinkled. I fixed them as best as I could, trying to make myself look presentable—trying to look like the perfect wife he wanted everyone to see.

Then I grabbed my purse and hurried out the door, my only thought being to get there before he had another reason to hurt me.

I rushed into the company lobby, my heels clicking loudly against the marble floor. My heart hadn’t stopped racing since the call. The receptionist gave me a polite smile, but I didn’t have the energy to return it. I pressed the elevator button and tapped my foot impatiently, trying to fix my blouse and smooth my hair in the reflection of the metal doors. My mind kept spinning—what could be so urgent that he was this mad? A shareholders’ meeting, he said. But why now?

When the elevator dinged open, I hurried out and made my way to the boardroom. The moment I stepped inside, I spotted Kennedy near the windows. His expression darkened as soon as he saw me. Before I could even apologize again, he strode over, grabbed my arm hard, and yanked me close.

His grip hurt. I tried not to flinch, but his fingers dug into my skin.

“Next time you keep me waiting,” he hissed in my ear, his breath hot and bitter with alcohol, “I’ll make sure everyone sees your next bruise—right on your face.”

My stomach knotted. I whispered, “It won’t happen again,” and kept my eyes down. He lingered for a moment, eyes sharp with warning, but before he could say more, the door opened and voices filled the room.

The board members and shareholders began to walk in. Kennedy instantly changed—his grip loosened, and his fake smile appeared, all charming and confident. He walked over to greet them like nothing had happened, leaving me standing there, trying to steady my breathing.

I took my seat quietly, keeping my face composed even though my arm still ached. Kennedy sat at the head of the table like he owned the place. Technically, he did now. My father had handed the company over to him, refusing to give it to me simply because I was “his little girl.” I had worked hard, learned everything I could, but it had never been enough for him.

Kennedy began his presentation, his voice smooth and practiced. He talked about the company’s financial problems, about how badly we needed a strong investor to keep things running. Then he smiled and said, “But we may have found our solution.”

The door opened again. I heard steady footsteps behind me, echoing in the quiet room. Kennedy’s smile widened. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he said, turning toward the door, “please welcome our potential investor—Mr. Orion Nikandros.”

I turned too—and my heart stopped.

The man walking in looked familiar in a way that made my chest tighten painfully. He was tall, his suit fitting him perfectly, and his hair darker now, swept neatly back. But it was his eyes that froze me in place.

Grey. Cold. Once they had been warm and soft whenever they looked at me. Now, they were unreadable.

Chase.

Or rather—Orion Nikandros.