Episode 6 — The woman they chained to him

Rehabilitation begins at six in the morning.

I learn this on my third day at the Hunt residence, when the nurse wheels Marcus into the therapy room and closes the door in my face. I stand in the hallway, listening to the sounds of his pain—the grunts, the curses, the sharp commands to stop, to wait, to give him a minute.

He doesn't want me there. He's made that clear.

But I stay anyway.

The days blur together. I learn his medication schedule—the pills for pain, the pills for nerve damage, the pills that make him sleep, and the pills that keep him awake. I learn the names of the specialists, the dates of the consultations, and the exercises he's supposed to do between sessions.

Marcus hates all of it. He hates the wheelchair. He hates the therapy. He hates the way his body has become a stranger to him.

And he hates me most of all.

"You don't need to be here," he snaps one afternoon when I bring him his medication. "I have nurses for this."

"I know."

"Then why are you here?"

I don't answer. I set the pills on the table beside him and turn to leave.

"Wait." His voice stops me at the door. "I don't want your pity."

I look back at him. "I'm not pitying you."

"Then what are you doing?"

"Helping."

"I didn't ask for your help."

"I know." I open the door. "But you're getting it anyway."

His mother visits that weekend. Victoria Hunt sweeps into the house like a storm—all diamonds and disapproval.

"How is he?" she asks me, as if I'm a nurse and not her daughter-in-law.

"Struggling," I say honestly. "The therapy is painful. He's frustrated."

"Frustrated?" She says the word like it's a sin. "He's a Hunt. Hunts don't get frustrated. They get results."

I don't know what to say to that.

She finds Marcus in the study and spends an hour with him, her voice low and urgent. When she leaves, his face is darker than before.

"What did she say?" I ask.

He turns on me so fast I take a step back.

"Nothing you need to worry about." His voice is ice. "And don't ask me questions about my mother again. You're not my confidante. You're not my friend. You're the woman they chained to me, and the sooner you remember that, the easier this will be for both of us."

The words hit like a slap.

I open my mouth, but nothing comes out.

"Now get out."

I get out.

That night, I sit alone in my room and stare at the ceiling.

You're the woman they chained to me. Not my friend. Not my confidante. Nothing you need to worry about.

The words keep playing in my head.

I know I shouldn't cry. I've cried enough over this man to fill an ocean. But the tears come anyway—hot and silent, soaking into my pillow.

My phone buzzes.

KARINA: How was your day?

I stare at the message for a long time. Then:

FREYA: He told me I'm the woman they chained to him.

KARINA: He said that?

FREYA: Word for word.

KARINA: I'm going to kill him.

FREYA: Don't. I need him alive to suffer.

Karina sends back a laughing emoji. I don't laugh, but something in my chest loosens, just a little.

My parents call a week later.

"Freya." My father's voice is sharp. "The media is camped outside our gates. Your mother can't leave the house."

I close my eyes. Of course. Not "How are you?" Not "Are you all right after your wedding?" Just the inconvenience.

"What do you want me to do about it?"

"Release a statement. Something gracious. Tell them you're honoured to carry the Vance name into the Hunt family, that your sister's absence is a private matter, that—"

"Stop."

He stops.

"You want me to lie. You want me to stand in front of the whole country and pretend this was my choice," my voice shakes. "You want me to protect the family name while everyone calls me the replacement bride."

"Freya—"

"Who told the press I was taking her place? Because it wasn't me. I've never spoken to a single reporter."

Silence on the other end.

"Your mother thought it was better to control the story," he says finally. "To get ahead of the rumours."

They put me in front of the world as the spare daughter who stepped up, and now they want me to smile about it.

"No."

"Excuse me?"

"I said no. Write your own statement."

"You ungrateful—"

I hang up before he can finish.

My hands are trembling. I stand in the dark kitchen, and something inside me that's been cracking for years finally splits open.

It doesn't hurt the way I expected.

That night, I'm in the garden when I hear the soft whir of wheels behind me.

I turn. Marcus is there, his face half in shadow.

"I heard you," he says.

I freeze. "Heard me what?"

"On the phone. With your father." He pauses. "You refused him. You told him to write his own statement."

My heart stops. "Yes."

"Why?"

I don't know what to say. "Because it was a lie."

He stares at me for a long moment, and something in his expression shifts—confusion, maybe, or the first crack in a wall I've been staring at for years.

"You could have made yourself look good," he says slowly. "The devoted wife. The loyal daughter. Playing the part for the cameras."

"I don't want to play a part."

"Everyone plays a part."

"Not me." My voice comes out steadier than I feel. "I've spent my whole life being what other people needed me to be. I'm tired of it."

He doesn't answer.

The garden is silent except for the distant hum of the city below us.

"You called me your husband," he says at last.

My breath catches. "What?"

"On the phone. You said 'my husband.'" He looks at me, and there's something quiet and unsettled in his eyes—like he's seeing me for the first time and doesn't know what to do with what he finds. "You didn't have to say that. He'd already hung up on you. Nobody was listening."

I don't know what to say.

"You're a strange woman, Freya Vance."

"Freya Hunt," I correct quietly.

Something flickers across his face. Then he turns his wheelchair around and leaves without another word.

I stand in the garden alone, unsure if I've made things better or worse.

The next morning, I bring him his medication as usual.

He doesn't thank me. He doesn't acknowledge my presence. But when I turn to leave, he speaks.

"Freya."

I stop.

"The therapy session. Tomorrow. You can... come. If you want."

I turn slowly. He's not looking at me.

"What?"

"Don't make me repeat it."

I'll be there."