Ayla Warner POV:

A deafening crash echoed through the night. Craig and Ashley, locked in their embrace, startled. Craig's head snapped up. He looked towards the broken window, then down at the ground below.

His face drained of color. He saw me, crumpled on the cold, hard earth, a spreading pool of crimson beneath me.

"Ayla?" he whispered, his voice laced with a strange mixture of shock and disbelief. He rushed to the window, peering down. "What... what have you done?"

Pain, a searing, all-consuming flame, consumed me. Every breath was agony. My body was broken, shattered. I tried to speak, but only a choked gasp escaped. I could feel the life slowly draining out of me.

My eyes, however, were still blazing. I looked up at him, lying there, broken, but my gaze was filled with an unyielding hatred. He saw it. He recoiled.

Then, the wail of sirens pierced the night, growing louder, closer. Red and blue lights flashed through the trees, painting the scene with an eerie, urgent glow.

With a final, desperate surge of strength, I found my voice, hoarse and ragged. "You... you monster," I rasped, each word a shard of glass in my throat. "You did this. You... you killed our baby. You destroyed Jaylee. You tried to destroy me. You... will pay."

Then, darkness claimed me. Again.

When I next awoke, I was in a different bedroom. Not the sterile hospital room, but a familiar one. My own bedroom. The one I shared with Craig. The windows were sealed shut with heavy, wrought-iron grates. The door was locked from the outside.

Craig sat by the bed, just as before. But this time, his eyes weren't red-rimmed with faux remorse. They were cold, hard, filled with accusation.

"So, you called the police, Ayla?" he said, his voice flat. "You actually tried to ruin me, didn't you? After everything? What is wrong with you? Your jealousy is pathological."

I stared at him, my mind clear despite the throbbing pain throughout my body. "I didn't call anyone, Craig."

He scoffed. "Please. Don't play innocent. The police showed up, asking questions. Thankfully, I smoothed it over. Said you were distraught, hallucinating after the miscarriage." He leaned forward, his eyes narrowed. "But this ends now. You want to push me? Fine. But you're only pushing yourself away. Further and further."

My heart felt nothing. No anger, no pain. Just a hollow, empty space where emotions used to be. The Craig I knew was truly gone. There was only this stranger, this cruel, warped person. And he was completely deluded.

"You're the one who pushed me away, Craig," I said, my voice calm, steady. "You're the one who's become unrecognizable."

He laughed, a harsh, dismissive sound. "Me? Unrecognizable? Ayla, you're the one who's lost it. You withdrew my entire research team from the 'Innovators' Summit'! Ashley had to perform under immense pressure because you sabotaged her! You deliberately tried to make her look bad!"

"I did no such thing," I countered, my voice weary. "My team pulled out because they refused to participate in your charade. They saw Ashley for what she was: a fraud. And they saw you for what you've become: a puppet."

His face flushed with anger. "How dare you! They pulled out because you brainwashed them! You told them to! You're a vindictive, manipulative woman, Ayla! And I'm done with it." He stood up, towering over me. "You need to reflect on your actions. And you're going to do it right here. Until you understand what you've done, you're not leaving this room."

My blood ran cold. "Are you... are you imprisoning me, Craig?"

"Imprisoning?" He scoffed again. "Don't be so dramatic. I'm simply giving you space to think. To recover. To come to your senses." He picked up my phone from the bedside table. "You won't be needing this. No more calls to the police. No more attempts to ruin my life."

He turned and walked towards the door.

"Craig, no!" I cried, trying to scramble out of bed. But my body, still weak and aching from the fall, refused to cooperate. My legs gave out, and I crumpled to the floor with a pathetic whimper.

He didn't even look back. The door swung shut with a heavy thud, the sound of a key turning in the lock echoing through the silent room.

I pounded on the door, screaming his name, but there was no response. Just the chilling silence of my solitary confinement.

Heavy wooden planks were nailed across the outside of my window, blocking out the light, sealing me in. My prison was complete.

Days bled into weeks. A maid, a taciturn woman with eyes that avoided mine, brought me food three times a day. She never spoke, just placed the tray on a small table and left, locking the door firmly behind her. Craig never came.

But I heard them. Ashley's high-pitched laughter, her sweet, manipulative voice. Craig's deep, resonant chuckle. Sounds of a happy home. My home. My prison.

A strange peace settled over me. The pain, the anger, the desperate hope for reconciliation – it all faded, replaced by a cold, quiet resolve. I didn't love him anymore. I didn't even hate him. He was just… irrelevant. A barrier to my future.

One morning, as the maid opened the door with my breakfast tray, I moved. Quick as a flash, I darted past her, out into the hallway.

I heard the familiar sound of laughter coming from the living room. I crept closer, drawn by a morbid curiosity.

There they were. Craig and Ashley. She was curled up on the sofa, her head nestled against his shoulder. He was stroking her hair, a picture of domestic bliss.

Ashley looked up, her eyes widening as she saw me. A flicker of triumph, quickly masked by feigned innocence. "Oh! Dr. Warner! You're out! How wonderful! I was just telling Craig how much I missed you." Her voice dripped with saccharine sweetness.

Craig looked up, his face impassive. He made no move to get up, no move to embrace me. He just watched.

A wave of nausea washed over me. I felt nothing but disgust. I turned to leave, to find an exit.

"Dr. Warner, wait!" Ashley cried, scrambling off the sofa. She rushed towards me, her hand reaching out, trying to grab my arm. "We need to talk! About all the misunderstandings!"

I recoiled, my flesh crawling at her touch. "Don't," I said, my voice cold and flat. "Don't touch me."

She ignored me, her grip tightening. "Please, Ayla! We can fix this! Craig and I still care about you!"

A red mist descended. All the suppressed rage, all the humiliation, all the betrayal, burst forth. My hand moved on its own accord.

SLAP!

The sound echoed through the silent mansion. Ashley's head snapped back, a bright red mark blooming on her cheek.

SLAP!

Another one, even harder. Ashley reeled, stumbling backward, her eyes wide with shock and terror.

"There," I said, my voice trembling with suppressed fury. "Now I've actually hit you. No more accusations. No more lies. This is real." I pointed a shaking finger at her. "And this is just the beginning. You and Craig. You think you've won? You think you've destroyed me? You have no idea what's coming."

Ayla Warner POV:

Ashley shrieked, a high-pitched, piercing sound that tore through the sudden silence of the mansion. Her hands flew to her reddened cheeks, her eyes wide with theatrical horror.

Craig, finally roused from his impassive perch on the sofa, reacted instantly. His face turned a dangerous shade of crimson. He leaped to his feet, grabbing Ashley and pulling her protectively into his arms.

"You crazy bitch!" he roared, glaring at me with raw, murderous intent. "Guards! Get her! Lock her up! And this time, make sure she can't escape!"

He then scooped Ashley up, murmuring reassurances to her as she buried her face in his chest, sobbing hysterically. He carried her out of the mansion, presumably to the hospital again.

That night, alone in my re-imprisoned room, Craig appeared. The lock clicked open, and he stepped in, closing the door softly behind him. He looked strangely calm, his face devoid of the rage from earlier. His eyes, however, held a chilling intensity.

He sat on the edge of the bed, facing me. "Ayla," he began, his voice surprisingly gentle, almost coaxing. "We need to talk. Properly."

I said nothing, just watched him, my heart a stone.

"I need you to do something for me," he continued, his tone softening further. "I need you to transfer all your patents. Your research. Your entire life's work. To Ashley."

My eyes, which had been blank, now narrowed. I stared at him, my mind reeling. Was he truly asking this? After everything?

"And," he added, his voice still unnervingly soft, "I need you to publicly endorse her. To say that her work is revolutionary. That she advanced your research significantly. That she deserves all the credit."

I continued to stare, my gaze unwavering. My medical training, my scientific mind, suddenly clicked into gear. His face was pale, almost gray. There were deep lines etched around his eyes. A tremor ran through his hand as he clasped it.

"Craig," I said, my voice steady. "Have you had a recent check-up? A full physical?"

He stiffened, his gentle facade cracking. "What? Why are you asking that? Don't try to change the subject, Ayla." His voice was sharper now.

"Do you remember what my research was about, Craig?" I pressed, ignoring his irritation. "The core of it? The disease I've been trying to cure?"

His eyes hardened. "I remember you're trying to save the world. Now, stop stalling. We're discussing Ashley."

"No," I countered, a bitter laugh escaping me. "We're discussing your mother, Craig. And the disease that took her." My voice dropped to a whisper. "Early-onset Alzheimer's."

He winced, his face paling further. His hand, resting on his knee, began to tremble noticeably. "Ayla, I'm warning you. Don't go there."

"Are you afraid, Craig?" I asked, my voice laced with a cold irony. "Afraid of facing the truth? The truth about what my research could have done? What it still could do?"

He slammed his hand on the bed, a sudden explosion of anger. "Ashley deserves this! She's worked hard! She's brilliant! You, on the other hand, are a vindictive, jealous woman who tried to destroy her!"

"Brilliant?" I scoffed. "She couldn't differentiate a pipette from a test tube, Craig. She doesn't understand the first thing about genetic sequencing. She'll be exposed the moment she opens her mouth. Do you truly think she can pull this off?"

He rose, his tone dismissive. "I'll take care of it. I'll arrange everything. You just sign the papers and make your statement. It's for the best. For everyone."

I merely smiled, a chilling, mirthless twist of my lips. "I look forward to seeing the show, Craig. It will be quite the spectacle."

He frowned, a flicker of unease in his eyes. He pulled out a tablet and handed it to me. "The documents. Sign them. I'll be back in an hour to collect the transfer. And remember, Ayla," he said, his voice softening, "once this is done, once you've learned your lesson, we can go back to how things were. We can travel. You can restart your research somewhere else. Just you and me."

He even attempted a tender smile. "I miss you, Ayla. I really do."

His words were a bitter mockery. "You won't get the chance, Craig," I whispered, barely audible.

He didn't hear me. He was already turning, a self-satisfied smirk on his face, convinced he had won. He closed the door, and the lock clicked.

Days later, the news was everywhere. Ashley Riddle, draped in a bespoke gown, stood on a brightly lit stage, accepting accolades. "My groundbreaking research," she declared, her voice filled with feigned humility, "will revolutionize the treatment of early-onset Alzheimer's." Craig stood beside her, beaming, his venture capital having smoothed over every rough edge, every factual inaccuracy. She was hailed as a prodigy, a visionary. My name, my years of tireless work, were never once mentioned.

Then, the first crack appeared. A daring journalist, during the Q&A, held up a photo. "Ms. Riddle," he asked, his voice cutting through the celebratory chatter, "this photo shows Dr. Ayla Warner, in this very lab, presenting these exact findings two years ago. Can you explain the discrepancy?"

The screen behind Ashley, seconds later, flashed with the image. My face, tired but triumphant, beside my meticulously organized data.

Ashley gasped, her face draining of color. Her carefully constructed facade crumbled. She clutched at Craig, her eyes wide with terror. "Craig! Make him stop! It's fake! It's all fake!"

Craig immediately rushed forward, his face contorted with fury. "This is slander! False reporting! My lawyers will be in touch!" He bellowed, trying to drown out the murmurs of the crowd. "Ashley Riddle's research is her own! It is entirely original!"

His powerful voice, his sheer intimidation, worked. The image vanished. The journalist was quickly escorted out. The media, ever compliant to power, spun the narrative back in Ashley's favor, vilifying me as a jealous, unstable ex-wife.

That night, at the lavish after-party, Craig celebrated Ashley's "triumph." He was drinking heavily, reveling in her manufactured glory, deflecting every envious glance, every whispered doubt. He even drank a glass of champagne that Ashley, with a sly glance in my direction, claimed was "for her."

Suddenly, Craig clutched his stomach. His face paled. He swayed, his eyes rolling back in his head. Then, with a choked gasp, he collapsed onto the pristine marble floor.

Chaos erupted. Ashley shrieked. Medics rushed forward.

Craig woke to hushed voices. His mother's trembling voice. "Doctor, is it… is it really that bad?"

"Mrs. Davis," the doctor replied, his voice grave. "I'm afraid the tests confirmed our suspicions. It's late-stage pancreatic cancer. Aggressive. And the genetic markers… they indicate a strong predisposition to early-onset Alzheimer's, just like your late husband. I'm so sorry."

"Pancreatic cancer? And Alzheimer's markers?" Craig' s mother sobbed. "Is there nothing? No new treatments?"

"There was a promising target therapy being developed by Dr. Ayla Warner," the doctor said, his voice tinged with regret. "But her research seems to have… vanished. The data was destroyed. It's a tragedy."

Craig's mother gasped. "Ayla! We have to find Ayla! She can save him!"

Craig's heart pounded in his chest, a sickening drumbeat of dread. He felt for his phone, tucked into the pocket of his pajamas. It vibrated. A new message.

It was MY phone. The one he had confiscated. The one he had in his pocket.