Chapter 3: She's back

Marion's POV

I’m driving.

Late.

Again. The rain crashes on my windows.

The road is a blur, headlights slicing through the dark like knives. My hands are locked on the steering wheel. My head is pounding. I can still hear them—the board, the accusations.

Embezzlement.

Insider trading.

Fund mismanagement. Huh!

They’re trying to destroy me.

I fight. I stand my ground. But it’s getting harder. I can feel it. They want me gone. And they’re not going to stop until I give up, but clearly they have no idea who I am.

I pull into the driveway, tears stinging my eyes. The house looms over me like a monument to everything I have built. I used to love this place. I kept it after the divorce, thinking I’d won something.

But it’s just a graveyard now.

I wipe my face, my vision swimming, and lean forward to type in the code.

Reid’s birthday.

The keypad beeps.

“Happy birthday, honey,” I whisper, throat tight. “Sorry, I don’t get to see you.”

The door unlocks.

I step inside.

Cold.

Empty.

One heel clicks against the marble, the other already kicked off. My body feels heavy. My coat slides off my shoulder. I don’t bother fixing it. What’s the point?

I walk deeper into the silence.

And then—

Crack.

Something slams into the back of my head. I stumble forward, hit the floor hard. Pain explodes behind my eyes. I reach up instinctively, fingers brushing something wet.

I look.

Blood.

Thick. Red. Dripping down my wrist.

Then I hear him.

“Honey… I’m home.”

My heart stutters.

I turn slowly.

And there he is.

Richard.

Standing in the doorway.

Smiling.

A baseball bat in his hand.

No warning. No remorse.

Just that same smug expression he always wore when he closed a deal. But this isn’t business. This is something else.

This is personal.

He steps forward.

I try to move, to crawl. But my limbs feel too slow. My vision is starting to tunnel. Then comes the punch — right to the jaw. My head snaps sideways. I collapse again, cheek hitting cold marble.

“You want to know how Reid spent his birthday?” he spits, crouching next to me. “Alone. Crying. Locked in a room. And guess what? You’ll never see him again.”

I can barely breathe. My mouth tastes like metal. My knee is twisted beneath me, and I think something’s broken.

“Unless,” he continues, “you sign everything over. Icarus. All of it. Right now.”

My company. My life’s work. My reason for surviving the past year.

I dig my nails into the floor, dragging myself toward the study. One shoe still on, one leg scraped raw. My blouse clings to my back. My hair sticks to my face.

My mascara is running, but I keep going.

Get to the desk. Get to the phone.

Just one message.

Just one.

I type with shaking fingers.

Please help me.

I hit send.

Then Richard is there. Dragging me up. Papers shoved in my face. Pen in my hand. His voice in my ear.

“Sign.”

I sign.

And then…

Her.

Emma.

Flawless. Pregnant.

And smiling.

She pulls something shiny from her purse.

I blink.

A knife.

No.

It sinks into my stomach before I can scream.

My eyes go wide.

I feel the warmth spread across my skin.

—

I sit up with a gasp, my hand flying to my stomach.

Trembling.

Everything hurts.

The light is too bright.

Voices explode around me.

“Call the doctor!”

“Tell Sir that she’s up!”

My ears ring. My throat is dry, like I’ve swallowed sand. I lick my lips and try to speak.

“Where…” I croak. “Where am I?”

My vision blurs, then sharpens in slow, painful waves. Bandages wrap tightly around my torso. Machines beep steadily around me, but this isn’t a hospital.

Too spacious. Too… luxurious.

I try to sit upright. My limbs protest.

A nurse rushes to my side, placing a hand gently on my shoulder.

“You’re awake,” she says, almost in disbelief. “For a moment there, we didn’t think you’d make it.”

I blink. “Where… am I?” I ask again, more desperate this time.

She opens her mouth, but before she can speak—

The doors burst open.

He steps in.

Tall.

Sharp suit.

Sharper jaw.

And the familiar arrogance.

“Jude?”

His presence swallows the room before he even says a word.

Our eyes lock.

A strange kind of electricity sizzles in the air—confusion, resentment, history.

And something darker.

He doesn’t look surprised.

He looks like he’s been waiting.

“Welcome back, Marion,” he says, voice smooth, calm… smug.

My breath hitches.

Of all the people—

Of all the goddamn people in the world…

I watch as Jude Creed walks toward me.

How are you feeling?” He asks, his voice smooth, unreadable. Too calm.

I blink, disoriented. My vision’s still hazy, but that face—arrogant, sculpted like it was carved from spite and power—there’s no mistaking it.

“Jude Creed?” I croak.

He nods once.

And then it hits me—the message. The one I sent, half-conscious and bleeding out. And fighting for my life. Please help me.

I hadn’t spoken to him in years. Not since he asked to meet in person. Not since I disappeared.

He turns sharply. “Call the doctors. Now.”

I watch as a nurse rushes out. Jude steps closer and picks up a glass of water, places a straw in it, and brings it to my lips.

“Drink,” he urges.

I try, but my throat is like sandpaper. I manage a few weak sips before I shake my head.

The next few minutes blur. The doctors flood in, murmuring something about miracles and second chances. I let them poke and prod while my mind spins in place, still stuck in the burning house, and what Richard had done to me.

When they finally leave, the room settles into a heavy silence.

Jude stays. His eyes are on me like they’re trying to decode me.

I blink up at him.

“My son,” I whisper. “Where’s my son? Is he okay?”

He hesitates, then shrugs. “Last I heard, boarding school.”

“Last you heard?” I whisper, panic rising. “How long… how long have I been out?”

Jude crosses his arms. “In and out… six months.”

Six.

My heart drops.

I grip my chest, trying to breathe, trying to stay grounded.

“Six months,” I repeat, barely recognizing my own voice.

His gaze sharpens.

“You played me, Marion,” he says, colder now. “Two years of messages. I opened up to Puzzle Girl, and it was you all along. Then radio silence. And now this?”

I stare at him, speechless. I don’t have time to unpack that. I can’t.

“I need to go,” I rasp. “I need to find Reid. He thinks I’m dead.”

I try to sit up. My legs swing over the bed.

“No,” Jude says, stepping forward, but I don’t listen.

I push off.

And the world tilts.

Pain shoots through my side. My knees give out.

But I don’t hit the floor.

Jude’s arms catch me, strong, steady, wrapping around me before I crash. I’m pressed against his chest, breath hitching.

“I told you not to move,” he mutters, voice low.

I hate that he’s right. “You never listen.” He whispers.