Chapter 2

Chapter 2

ADRIA

I forced my feet to move, one step after another, away from that door and the truth that had just shattered my entire world. The hallway stretched endlessly before me, each step echoing in my ears like a countdown to something I couldn't yet name. My hands trembled as I smoothed down my plain cotton dress—the one Damien had once commented made me look "appropriately humble."

Appropriately humble. God, I'd actually taken that as a compliment.

The staircase loomed ahead, its wrought-iron railings gleaming under the club's ambient lighting. I descended carefully, mechanically, my mind still trapped in that moment of revelation. A borrowed necklace. Two years. All of it, every degrading moment, every sacrifice, every piece of myself I'd murdered to become his perfect, spineless wife—all for a piece of jewelry he couldn't even be bothered to return to its owner.

I was halfway down when I heard his voice.

"Adriana!"

My spine stiffened. That voice, the one I'd once thought sounded like coming home, now grated against my raw nerves like sandpaper on an open wound.

I turned slowly, schooling my features into the same placid, eager expression I'd worn for eighteen months. The mask settled over my face with practiced ease, even as something inside me screamed to rip it off and throw it at his feet.

Damien stood at the top of the stairs, backlit by the hallway's chandelier like some dark prince in a twisted fairy tale. His friends clustered around him—Marcus with his perpetual smirk, Kieran checking his phone with disinterest, and two others whose names I'd never bothered to learn. And there, tucked against his side like she belonged there, was Adina.

His secretary. His mistress. The woman keeping his bed warm until his precious Amber came home.

She wore a dress that probably cost more than I'd spent on clothing in the past year, crimson silk that hugged curves I'd never have. Her hand rested possessively on Damien's arm, her perfectly manicured nails a shade of red that matched her lips. She smiled at me, and it was the smile of a victor looking down at the defeated.

A month ago, that smile would have destroyed me. Today, it barely registered.

"There you are," Damien said, descending the stairs with his entourage following like courtiers attending their king. "I was just telling everyone how dedicated you are, coming all the way here to bring soup."

The words sounded kind, but I'd learned to hear the mockery underneath. I'd just been too desperate to acknowledge it before.

"Of course," I said softly, keeping my eyes downcast the way he preferred. "I wanted to make sure Miss Amber had something warm to eat."

Adina giggled, the sound sharp and grating. "How sweet. Damien's wife playing servant to his guests."

Something hot flashed through my chest, but I swallowed it down. Not yet. I couldn't afford pride yet.

Damien reached the bottom of the stairs and held out his hand. For one absurd moment, I thought he wanted to hold mine. Then I saw the expectation in his eyes, the same expression he wore when he wanted his coffee or his dry cleaning.

The thermos. He wanted the thermos.

My mind flashed to the container I'd dropped upstairs, soup seeping into expensive carpet. "I—"

"You did bring it, didn't you?" His voice sharpened. "Don't tell me you came all this way and forgot it upstairs."

"No, I have it." The lie came easily. I'd become so good at lying, at pretending, at being whatever he needed me to be. "Let me get it from my bag."

I turned toward the coat check, my mind racing. I could say I left it in the car. I could offer to make more. I could—

"Adriana." His hand clamped around my wrist, spinning me back to face him. The grip was tight enough to hurt, but I'd learned not to flinch. "Stop wasting time. Go get it. Now."

I met his eyes for just a moment—cold, dark, and utterly devoid of the warmth I'd imagined I'd seen sixteen years ago in a fever dream. Had I really convinced myself this man could have been that boy? That gentle voice in the darkness, those careful hands?

"Yes, of course." I pulled free from his grasp and hurried back up the stairs, my heels clicking against the marble. Behind me, I heard Marcus say something that made the others laugh, followed by Damien's voice: "She's pathetic, but at least she's obedient."

My hands clenched into fists, nails biting into my palms hard enough to leave marks.

The thermos lay where I'd dropped it, a dark stain spreading across the carpet around it. I picked it up, feeling the remaining warmth through the metal, and stared at it for a long moment. Chicken soup. I'd spent two hours making it from scratch, simmering the bones, skimming the fat, adding the herbs Damien had once mentioned his mother used.

For Amber. For his first love. While I played the devoted wife delivering comfort to my husband's true desire.

The laugh that bubbled up from my chest was bitter and foreign.

I descended the stairs again, slower this time. They were waiting for me at the bottom, a tableau of judgment and casual cruelty. Adina had pressed even closer to Damien, her head resting on his shoulder. He didn't push her away.

"Finally," Damien said, holding out his hand again.

I placed the thermos in his palm, and he immediately unscrewed the lid. Steam rose from the opening—less than before, but still warm.

He sniffed it, frowned, then poured a small amount into the lid. His expression soured immediately.

"It's cold," he announced, loud enough for his friends to hear. "You brought cold soup for Amber?"

It wasn't cold. It was still warm, I'd just made it less than an hour ago. But contradicting him would be a mistake, and I needed to play this carefully. I needed to stay close enough to figure out which one of these people had lent him that necklace.

"I'm sorry," I whispered, letting my voice crack just slightly. "I can make more—"

"Do you have any idea how disrespectful this is?" He cut me off, his voice rising. "I ask you for one simple thing, and you can't even do that right?"

My jaw ached from clenching it, but I kept my expression remorseful. Apologetic. Pathetic.

"Damien, it's fine," Kieran said, sounding bored. "It's just soup."

"No, it's not fine." Damien's eyes never left my face, and I saw something in them I'd missed before—the pleasure he took in this. In humiliating me. In breaking me down in front of his friends. "She needs to understand that there are standards in this relationship. Expectations."

Before I could process what was happening, he tilted the thermos and poured the remaining soup down the front of my dress.

The liquid was still hot enough to make me gasp, soaking through the cotton to my skin. Vegetables and noodles stuck to the fabric, sliding down to pool at my feet. The thermos clattered to the ground, rolling across the marble with a hollow, metallic sound.

"There," Damien said, his voice cold and satisfied. "Now go home and make it properly this time. And Adriana?" He stepped closer, his voice dropping low enough that only I could hear. "Clean yourself up. You look pathetic."

I stood there, dripping soup and humiliation, and felt something inside me finally, irrevocably break.

Not my heart—that had already shattered upstairs. This was different. This was the death of whatever desperate, delusional thing had kept me chained to this man, to this life, to this version of myself that I'd carved down to nothing.

Marcus laughed. "Man, that's harsh even for you."

"She'll be fine," Adina purred. "She always is. Aren't you, Adriana?"

I looked up at her, then at Damien, then at each of his friends in turn. One of them had my necklace. One of them was the key to finding the boy who'd actually saved me.

I smiled—a soft, defeated smile that I'd perfected over eighteen months.

"Yes," I said quietly. "I'll make more soup right away."

The lie tasted like freedom.