Chapter 8: Breaking Point I

Aria’s POV

I sat on the edge of the guest room bed, with my hands folded neatly in my lap. 

The suitcases Jason had carried back upstairs sat unopened at my feet like evidence of my failed escape.

Everything was perfectly still.

I was perfectly still.

And then I started laughing.

It was very quite at first—a small sound that could have been mistaken for a hiccup. Then louder. Harder. Until I was doubled over, clutching my stomach, laughing so hard no sound came out.

This was my life. This was what I’d chosen. A man who threatened orphans to keep me trapped in a loveless marriage. 

A man who monitored my every move and called it protection. 

A man who looked at me like I was an inconvenience he’d purchased and now had to maintain.

The laughter turned hysterical, it was almost as if I was a manic. Tears streamed down my face, but I couldn’t stop. I couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t—

The laughter broke into sobs.

Huge, gasping sobs that shook my entire body. I pressed my hands over my mouth, trying to muffle the sound, but it poured out anyway. 

“Stupid,” I choked out between sobs. “So stupid. So goddamn stupid—”

My stomach lurched violently.

I barely made it to the bathroom before I was on my knees, vomiting into the toilet. 

Everything from tonight came up—the whiskey from Marcellus, the dinner I’d barely touched, the bitter taste of humiliation.I heaved until there was nothing left. 

Until I was empty.

I sat back against the cool tile floor, wiping my mouth with shaking hands. 

My reflection stared back at me from the bathroom mirror, I had mascara streaked down my cheeks,my eyes were red and swollen, and my hair were falling out.

I looked destroyed.

I looked exactly how I felt.

After a moment, I pulled myself up and walked back into the bedroom. 

My eyes landed on the nightstand drawer. I knew what was in there—I’d hidden them days ago, unable to throw them away but unable to look at them either.

I yanked the drawer open and pulled out the stack of letters and cards. 

Every anniversary card Jason had given me. Every birthday note. Every Valentine’s Day message written in his neat, emotionless handwriting.

“To my wife, Happy Anniversary. - Jason”

“Happy Birthday. - Jason”

“Valentine’s Day. - Jason”

Not “Love, Jason.” Not “Yours, Jason.” Not even “Fondly, Jason.”

Just his name. Like signing a business memo.

I grabbed the matchbox from the drawer—the fancy one from some expensive restaurant we’d been to where Jason had networked the entire night while I sat alone. 

My hands were steadier now as I struck the match.

The first card caught fire quickly. I watched Jason’s signature curl and blacken, the expensive cardstock turning to ash. Then the next one. And the next.

I burned them all in the bathroom sink, watching two years of fake sentiment turn to smoke.

The fire alarm didn’t go off—of course it didn’t. Jason had probably disabled it in here when he’d had the penthouse customized to his exact specifications. 

Everything in this place bent to his will.

Everything except me. Not anymore.

When the last card was nothing but ash, I washed it down the drain and stared at my reflection again.

“He wants eight months,” I said to the woman in the mirror. “He’ll get eight months.”

My voice was calm now. I almost hated how cold I sound. All I want to do is love this person but he chooses to hurt me again and again.

“This will not be the eight months he’s expecting.”

I walked back to the bedroom and sat on the bed, my mind moving through the pieces like a chess game.

Jason thought he’d won. Though his threats about St. Catherine’s would keep me docile and obedient. 

Thought I’d spend the next eight months playing the perfect wife, afraid to step out of line.

He was wrong.

I had wanted to leave quietly. Pack my things, walk away with some dignity intact, start over somewhere he’d never think to look. I’d wanted mercy—for both of us.

But Jason didn’t want mercy. He wanted control. He wanted to own me for eight more months like I was a car lease he’d signed.

Fine.

He could have his eight months.

But when it was over, I wouldn’t just leave. I’d make sure he regretted ever meeting me. Regretted every cruel word, every cold glance, every moment he’d made me feel like I was nothing.

I would find every weak point in his perfect armor and I would destroy him.

“You want to play games, Jason?” I whispered to the empty room. “Let’s play.”

My phone buzzed on the nightstand. I’d forgotten I’d turned it back on.

It was from an unknown number: “Are you okay? I saw you go back inside.”

Kyle.

I stared at the message. In everything that had happened tonight—the confrontation at Marcellus, the slap, the fight in the parking garage, Jason’s threats—I’d completely forgotten about Kyle who’d been watching me

Jason’s brother. I typed back slowly: “I’m fine. Just needed to regroup.”

My hands tightened on the phone. “Can we meet?” I typed. “Not tonight. But soon. I need to understand what you want from all this.”

The three dots appeared and disappeared several times. Finally: “I want to help you destroy him. If you’re ready to stop playing victim and start playing to win.”

The words should have offended me. Instead, they felt like permission.

“I’m ready,” I typed back.

“Good. I’ll be in touch.”

I saved the address and deleted the conversation. Jason might monitor my accounts, but I’d learned a few things about covering my tracks over the past year. 

There were ways to hide messages if you knew where to look.

I stood and walked to the window, looking out over the city lights. Somewhere out there, Kyle Hartley was watching. 

And somewhere in this penthouse, Jason was probably in his study, working like nothing had happened. Like his wife hadn’t just tried to leave him. Like destroying people was just another Tuesday.

I pressed my hand against the cold glass.

“You wanted me to stay, Jason,” I whispered. “You wanted eight more months. I hope you survive them.”

Behind me, my phone buzzed one more time.

Jason: “Breakfast tomorrow at 7 AM. Don’t be late. We have things to discuss.”

I didn’t respond. Just turned off the bedside lamp and lay down in the darkness, fully clothed.

Today I didn’t cry myself to sleep.

I smiled instead.

A cold, sharp smile that would have terrified me if I’d seen it on someone else’s face.

Jason Hartley thought he’d caged me.

He’d actually just created a monster.

And she had eight months to plan his destruction.