Jillian Andrews POV

The cake sat on the nightstand, gleaming like a ruby in the dim light.

Red velvet.

Thick swirls of cream cheese frosting.

To the naked eye, it was a masterpiece.

Alex sat on the edge of the bed, loosening his tie with slow, deliberate movements.

He watched me, his eyes gleaming with a dark, predatory amusement that made the hair on my arms stand up.

"Eat up, Jillian," he murmured, the softness of his tone betraying the cruelty beneath.

"Charlotte recommended this bakery. She said it's simply... to die for."

My stomach lurched violently.

The image of the text message burned behind my eyelids.

A little souvenir from my Rottweiler.

Excrement.

He was feeding me actual filth.

He knew.

He was testing me, waiting to see if I would play the role of the obedient little wife.

If I hesitated, if I refused, the charade would shatter.

He would know I saw the chat.

My escape plan would burn to ash before it even began.

I reached for the fork.

My hand trembled so hard the silver clattered against the plate.

"You're shaking," Alex observed, his voice devoid of sympathy.

He reached out, wrapping his large hand over mine to steady it.

His skin was warm, but his touch felt like a branding iron against my flesh.

"Let me help you," he purred.

He took the utensil from my unresisting fingers.

He sliced a generous piece of the crimson cake, dragging it through the frosting.

He brought it to my lips.

"Open," he commanded.

I stared into his eyes, seeing the monster lurking behind the cool blue irises.

I opened my mouth.

The taste was masked by an overload of sugar and cocoa, but my mind knew what lay beneath the sweetness.

My entire being screamed in revolt.

I forced it down. I swallowed.

He smiled.

"Good girl," he praised. "Again."

He fed me three more bites.

Each one was a violation.

Each swallow felt like a piece of my soul was breaking off and dying.

Ten minutes later, the cramping started.

It wasn't a subtle ache; it felt like a serrated knife twisting in my gut.

I scrambled to the bathroom, barely making it to the toilet.

I retched until my throat burned raw and my eyes watered.

I collapsed onto the cold marble tiles, clutching my midsection as the pain blinded me.

Alex stood in the doorway.

He wasn't panicking.

He wasn't rushing to help.

He was texting.

"Alex," I gasped, the word tearing from my throat. "Help me."

He finished typing his message before he finally looked down at me.

"You probably just have a bug," he said, his tone dismissive. "You've always had a weak stomach, Jillian."

He called Dr. Ricci.

The family's personal physician-the Mob Doctor.

Ricci arrived twenty minutes later, smelling of antiseptic and expensive cologne.

He administered a shot for the nausea and patted my hand patronizingly.

"Acute gastritis," Ricci told Alex, his face a mask of professional neutrality. "She needs rest."

Not poisoning.

Gastritis.

They covered for each other, a silent brotherhood of sinners.

Alex walked Ricci to the door.

I lay in bed, shivering in a cold sweat, the taste of bile and betrayal coating my tongue.

My phone buzzed on the nightstand.

A notification from Instagram flashed on the screen.

Charlotte had posted a story.

I opened it. A picture of two crystal champagne glasses clinking against a blurred city skyline.

The caption read: Celebrating a successful prank. The look on her face must have been priceless.

Alex walked back into the bedroom, shrugging into his suit jacket.

"I have an emergency meeting with the Capos," he lied smoothly. "I'll be late."

He wasn't going to a meeting.

He was going to her.

He was going to laugh about how he had fed his wife filth.

"Okay," I whispered, closing my eyes.

He leaned down, pressing a kiss to my clammy forehead.

"Rest up," he said. "We have the Charity Gala next week. I need you perfect."

He turned and left.

The apartment fell into a heavy silence.

I curled into a tight ball, trying to hold myself together.

The pain in my stomach was nothing compared to the fire igniting in my veins.

I didn't sleep.

I counted.

Seventy-one days.

Jillian Andrews POV

The pity in the City Hall clerk's eyes was the first sign.

It was a look reserved for tragedies, not administrative errands. I had only gone to retrieve a copy of our marriage license for the visa application needed for my "surprise" trip.

"Mrs. Bradley," the clerk said, her voice dropping an octave as she slid a single sheet of paper across the counter. "I don't know how to tell you this."

I looked down at the document.

Void.

The word seemed to pulse in red ink.

"The officiant wasn't licensed in the state of New York," she explained, her tone apologetic but final. "And the signature... it's not Mr. Bradley's legal hand."

The room tilted on its axis.

I wasn't his wife.

I was his mistress.

No.

I was less than that.

I was a kept woman with no legal claim to him, to his fortune, or to his protection.

If I disappeared tomorrow, no one would look for a missing wife.

They would look for a runaway girlfriend.

It was brilliant.

It was diabolical.

I walked out of City Hall into the blinding sunlight, feeling less like a woman and more like a ghost haunting her own life.

Yet, the show had to go on.

That night was the Foundation Gala.

Alex made me wear the red dress-the very one Charlotte had mocked weeks ago. It felt like a costume, a branding.

We entered the ballroom, and the camera flashes assaulted us, blinding and relentless.

Alex's hand rested on the small of my back, guiding me, possessing me.

"Smile," he whispered against my ear, his breath hot. "You look expensive."

Then, I saw her.

Charlotte.

She was wearing a black gown that clung to her curves like oil.

And around her neck rested the Star of Bradley.

The diamond pendant that had belonged to Alex's grandmother.

The same heirloom he had sworn to me was locked in a vault for safety.

She caught my eye across the crowded room.

Slowly, deliberately, she touched the necklace, smirking.

She was marking her territory.

The auction began, blurring into a parade of excess. Alex sat relaxed beside me, sipping his whiskey as if he owned the world.

The auctioneer presented the final item.

"The Heart of the Ocean," he announced, his voice booming. "A sapphire necklace of unparalleled clarity. Bidding starts at five million."

Alex didn't hesitate. He raised his paddle.

"Twenty million," he said, his voice cutting through the murmurs.

The room gasped collectively.

He turned to me, his smile dazzling and predatory.

"For you, my love," he said, loud enough for the press to capture every syllable.

The crowd erupted in applause.

I felt bile rise in my throat.

Why?

Why buy me a twenty-million-dollar necklace when he wouldn't even legally marry me?

"I need to sign the paperwork," Alex said, standing up and buttoning his jacket. "Wait here."

He walked backstage, the picture of a devoted husband.

Ten minutes passed.

Then twenty. The silence at the table grew deafening.

The Auction Manager approached our table. He no longer looked deferential; he looked nervous.

"Mrs. Bradley," he said.

A title I now knew was a lie.

"Mr. Bradley seems to have... stepped out."

"He went to sign," I corrected automatically.

"No, ma'am," the manager said, his voice dropping. "He left the building. And the payment card on file has been declined."

Ice water flooded my veins, freezing me in place.

He had bid twenty million dollars in my name.

And then he had left.

"We need a deposit," the manager said, his voice hardening into steel. "Or we will have to involve the authorities. Fraud is a serious offense."

People were staring.

Whispering. The applause had turned into judgment.

My trembling fingers fumbled with my phone to check my bank account.

Zero.

He had drained it.

I had nothing.

"I..." I stammered, the room spinning again.

"The earrings," the manager said, his gaze fixing greedily on my lobes. "Those look like adequate collateral until Mr. Bradley returns."

My hand flew to my ears instinctively.

They were my grandmother's.

The only thing I had left of my life before Alex.

Before the darkness took me.

"Please," I whispered, my voice breaking. "Not these."

"The police are outside," the manager warned.

I unhooked the diamonds.

My hands shook so violently I nearly dropped them.

I placed them in his outstretched palm.

I sat there, stripped of my jewelry, my dignity, and my husband.

Across the room, Charlotte raised a glass to me.

I didn't look away.

I stared right back at her.

And I added the earrings to the debt they would eventually pay in blood.

Jillian Andrews POV

The air in the Bradley estate was thick with the scent of old money and the metallic tang of fresh blood.

It was Eleanor Bradley's eightieth birthday, and the Iron Matriarch sat upon her velvet throne, observing the room like a vulture waiting for a carcass to cool.

Alex stood at her right hand.

He hadn't spoken a word to me about the auction. In fact, he acted as if it had never happened-as if my public humiliation had been nothing more than a fever dream or a hallucination.

"The gift," Eleanor demanded, her voice cutting through the murmurs of the crowd.

I stepped forward, my hands trembling slightly as I clutched the large, flat box.

I had spent three months painting a detailed watercolor of the family's ancestral home in Sicily. It was meant to be my peace offering. My desperate attempt to be accepted into this shark tank.

"Happy birthday, Donna Eleanor," I said, my voice steadier than I felt.

I lifted the lid.

A gasp tore from my throat before I could stop it.

The painting was gone.

Inside, pinned to the black velvet backing, was a dead rat.

The mockery was grotesque. The carcass was dressed in a tiny, crude wedding veil, and its stiff, cold paws were superglued to a miniature auction gavel.

The sickly sweet smell of rot hit the room instantly, silencing the guests.

Eleanor's face twisted, her features contorting into a mask of pure fury.

"What is this?" she hissed, the sound like steam escaping a valve.

"I... I didn't..." I stammered, backing away as the blood drained from my face.

Charlotte emerged from the shadows like a viper striking from the grass.

"Oh, Jillian," she said, her voice dripping with artificial sympathy that barely masked her glee. "Is this a confession?"

"A rat," Eleanor spat, rising slowly from her throne. "You bring a rat into my house?"

In our world, a rat wasn't just an insult or a prank.

It was an accusation.

It meant traitor.

"No!" I cried, panic rising in my chest. "I painted the house! Someone switched it!"

I turned desperately to my husband.

"Alex, please," I begged, searching his eyes for a shred of humanity. "You saw me painting it. You know I did."

Alex looked down at the rotting creature in the box.

Then, slowly, he turned his gaze to me.

His face was a stone wall-impenetrable, cold, and utterly void of mercy.

"She needs to learn respect, Grandmother," he said evenly.

My heart stopped.

He wasn't going to save me.

He was the one who had opened the cage.

"Butler Fields," Eleanor commanded, pointing a bony finger at the floor. "The cane."

Two enforcers seized my arms before I could move. They dragged me to the center of the room and kicked the backs of my knees, forcing me to the floor.

I didn't scream.

I locked my jaw. I wouldn't give them the satisfaction.

Butler Fields, a man with dead, shark-like eyes, stepped forward gripping a flexible bamboo cane.

"Ten strikes," Eleanor pronounced. "For the disrespect."

The first blow landed, hitting my back like a whip of liquid fire.

I bit my lip so hard I tasted copper.

One.

Alex watched.

He lifted his glass and took a slow, indifferent sip of his scotch.

Two.

Charlotte smiled, her fingers idly tracing the Star of Bradley pendant resting on her neck.

Three.

The pain radiated outward, wrapping around my ribs like a crushing vice. I forced my eyes open, focusing on the intricate pattern of the Persian rug.

I focused on the hate.

It was the only thing keeping me conscious.

Four.

Five.

By the tenth strike, I couldn't breathe. My back felt as though it had been flayed open.

The enforcers released me, and I slumped forward onto the floor, gasping for air.

Alex walked over. I saw his polished shoes stop inches from my face.

He crouched down.

He didn't offer a hand. He didn't help me up.

Instead, he leaned close, his lips brushing my ear.

"Don't ever embarrass me again," he whispered, his voice dark and lethal.

He stood up, adjusted his cuffs, and walked away with Charlotte on his arm.

I lay there on the rug, shivering.

Through the agony, I started counting.

Not the pain.

The days.

Sixty-two days.