Chapter 4

Meritt's POV

I stared at his name glowing on the screen. Michael.

For a brief second, my thumb just stood over the green button out of habit. But the pain in my heart snapped me out of my misery and I swiped red unremorseful.

The ringing ended, leaving the room to return to it's absolute silence.

A second later, a text notification chimed.

Stop sulking. It's late, come home now.

I let out a breathless and dry laugh.

Sulking.

That was all my pain was to him. A temporary reaction that he could command me to snap out of.

I went to turn off the device completely, but my trembling fingers shook against the screen, accidentally opening my hidden gallery folder.

Instantly, the sound of roaring applause filled the room.

It was an old video. A clip from my final stage rehearsal before the fire.

I watched the girl on the screen, vibrant, beautiful, and absolutely glowing with immense confidence as she hit a flawless high note.

She was so brilliant and had the world humblef at her feet and a promising career in musical theater waiting for her.

Tears blurred my vision as the flames of that cursed night blurred in my memory. I never rushed into that fire because I wanted to trap him. I never asked him to marry me. I had fully prepared to disappear and mourn my ruined dreams alone.

He was the one who came to my hospital room. He was the one who held my bandaged hand, his eyes filled with what I thought was love, promising that he would take care of me forever.

He gave me hope, only to lock me in a cage of pity.

I turned off the video, the silence crashing back on me. I wiped my face, stepped into the bathroom, and turned on the tap. I splashed the cold water over my face, letting the shock fill me.

Resting my hands on the sink, I forced myself to look into the mirror. I looked at the rough skin on my left cheek and neck.

Get a hold of yourself, Meritt. You have a recording session tomorrow. You need to sleep.

I took a deep breath. I was suddenly overwhelmingly grateful that I had stubbornly maintained my daily vocal warm ups over the last six years.

What started as a desperate way to pass the time waiting for him had become my saving grace.

I closed my eyes, and another painful memory forced its way to my mind.

I remembered exactly when I had started locking myself away to practice.

It was during the first month of our marriage. He had been coming home very late every night. Worried that he was overworking himself, I had spent hours making his favorite meal, packing it into a flask, and taking a cab to his office.

The floor was empty but I didn't mind. I walked softly toward the boardroom, hoping to surprise him. But as I neared the slightly open door, I heard his voice, followed by the voice of his closest friend.

"Man, everyone left hours ago," the friend had said, sounding genuinely confused. "You literally just got married. Aren't you eager to go home and be with your wife?"

But Michael didn't say a single word.

"Wait," the friend said, his tone heavy with the shocking realization. "Don't tell me... it's been a month, Michael. Have you guys not slept together?"

I froze in the hallway, holding the warm flask to my chest.

Michael sighed heavily, shattering my heart.

"I've tried," his voice was heavy with so much frustration. "I really have. I owe her my life, and I want to be a real husband to her. But every time I look at her face... I just can't get hard."

The flask almost slipped from my grip, but I caught it just before it hit the floor.

I didn't breathe. I couldn't. In that moment, I learned that the face I had destroyed to save his life completely disgusted him.

I didn't cry. I just turned around, walked into the nearest room, and threw the homemade meal straight into the trash. I never visited his office again and from that day on, I never asked to attend public events, never brought up intimacy, and hid behind my hair, living in the shadows in the same house with him.

Opening my eyes in the hotel bathroom, the memory finally lost it's painful effect on me. The truth had set me free.

I cleaned my face, climbed into the hotel bed, and for the first time in six years, I fell into a deep and peaceful sleep.

The next morning, I woke up feeling lighter than I had in years.

I grabbed my phone. Twenty-four missed calls. Eighteen text messages, but I didn't read a single one. I put the phone on silent and headed straight to the recording studio.

Standing in the soundproof area, stepping up to the microphone, it felt like coming back to life.

The session went flawlessly. The moment I sang the first note, every ounce of doubt vanished. The studio staff were stunned, showering me with endless praise. They didn't look at my scars, they didn't care about it, they only listened to my voice.

By the time we were done, a long lost fire of passion and confidence was burning fiercely in my chest. I thanked the producers, wearing a bright smile on my face.

I pushed open the doors of the studio building, stepping out into the bright morning sun, allowing the soft air to feel me, feeling entirely reborn.

Standing right at the end of the other side, leaning against his black Maybach with a cold expression on his face, was Michael.