All Chapters of TRAPPED IN MY ENEMY’S BED: Chapter 1 - Chapter 10

Chloe's POV The alarm went off at seven-thirty. My hand shot out and killed it before the second ring. Even that small sound felt like it was scraping the inside of my skull. I wanted to disappear under the blanket and pretend the day didn’t exist. But the thought came anyway, the same one that had been waking me for months: You can’t sleep. The real suspect is still out there. I pushed the covers off. Twenty-seven years old, and my body already felt used up. I reached for the jug of water, drank, and wiped my mouth. Then, I walked the short hallway to my mother’s room. Mom was still asleep. The left side of her face sagged the way it had since the night the car hit her. The doctors called it severe traumatic brain injury with right-sided hemiplegia. I called it the thing that took my real mother and left this fragile, childlike version behind. One whole side of her body barely moved. Her right arm stayed curled against her chest. When she spoke, the words came slow and broken, lik

Spencer's POV My phone buzzed against my thigh for the third time in five minutes. I ignored it because the board members could wait. Everything could wait except the numbers on that monitor, and I had already memorized them an hour ago. Olivia slept with her face turned slightly toward the window. Pale and thinner than she’d been two years ago. Her eyes opened. "How long have you been here?" she asked, voice rough with sleep. "Not long." I lied. She gave me that look—the one that said she knew I was lying and was too tired to call me on it. She was quiet for a long moment. Then: "I know why you married Ruby." The words landed right between my ribs. I didn't flinch. I'd been hit harder. "Then, you know I'd do anything to keep you alive," I said. "So let's skip the part where you guilt me, and tell me what you actually want to say." Olivia's eyes glistened. "Let her go, Spencer. She’s not a walking blood bag. She’s a person. A real person with a life and dreams and—” I leane

Chloe's POV The man who stepped inside was tall—taller than the guards who’d dragged me here. Broad shoulders filled the doorway, the kind of solid, controlled power that didn’t need to announce itself. Strong arms under a dark shirt. Wide chest. Sharp jaw. Dark hair. The air tightened the second he crossed the threshold. Every instinct screamed that running from him would be useless. He didn’t speak. He didn’t even look at me for more than a second. He walked past me as if I were furniture, crossed to the bar, and pulled out a bottle of whisky. The glass clinked once, sharp in the silence. He poured without hurry. Only then, when he turned slightly under the light, did I see his face clearly. My breath left me. I knew that face. I'd longed to meet him face to face. I’d rehearsed it in the dark, staring at his photograph. I’d practised the words I would say when I finally stood in front of Spencer McCartney and made him answer for what he did to my mother. In those fantasies, I

Spencer’s POVI watched her try to push past Vincent, face twisted with panic and fury.“You belong by my side.” I walked toward her, each step deliberate, unhurried. “Not in front of me. Not behind me. Beside me. We’re a couple, after all.”The hatred in her eyes was pure. Blazing. I drank it in.She was still performing. Still committed to this pathetic little theatre about a dying mother. I was already certain of what we would find inside that apartment: an empty room, maybe a planted prop or two, and whatever sad accomplice her father had paid to play along. Nothing more. Ruby had underestimated how thoroughly I intended to dismantle this stunt.“I need to see my mother.”“And you will.” I stopped beside her, close enough to feel the heat of her anger. “After you remember your place.”She stared at me—and I saw it, the desire to kill me, to hurt me. It was in the clench of her jaw, the tension in her shoulders, the way her hands curled into fists at her sides.“Ma’am.” Vincent’s v

Chloe's POV"You said over your dead body." His voice stayed even. Almost polite. "That can be arranged."My blood turned to ice.No.The word screamed through my mind, but my throat had closed. I couldn't move. Couldn't do anything but stare at the gun in his hand—dark, matte, impossibly solid—and the way it sat there like it belonged.He just held it, letting me see the weight of it, the ease with which it rested in his palm. His finger lay along the side of the trigger guard, casual, unhurried. Like he had all the time in the world.For a moment neither of us moved.My heart was slamming against my ribs so hard I thought it might crack bone. My hands had gone cold. My legs felt like water. Every instinct screamed at me to run, to grab my mother, to do something—but there was nowhere to go. Just this tiny apartment, this monster, and the gun that had appeared in his hand like it was an extension of his body.Then he lifted his arm in one smooth motion and pointed the barrel at the c