The boutique fell silent as Kennedy's words hung in the air. Every eye in the store fixed on us—the elegant shoppers with their designer bags, the assistants frozen behind the counter, even the security guard who'd been pretending to check the perimeter displays.

"Your husband probably doesn't even know what you really are," Kennedy repeated, her voice carrying that practiced tremor of false sympathy. "Does he know about your... condition?"

Seven years ago, I would have crumbled. Seven years ago, I would have fled in tears, exactly as she wanted.

But I wasn't that girl anymore.

"Kennedy," I said quietly, my voice steady despite the familiar pressure building in my chest. "Are you still so desperate for Jack's attention that you'll manufacture drama anywhere you can find it?"

Her perfect smile faltered. "What?"

"You heard me." I stepped closer, lowering my voice so only she could hear. "You've spent your entire life as his shadow, haven't you? Always needing to be the center of his world. Always terrified that someone might actually see you for what you are."

The color drained from her face. "Rebecca—"

"A pathetic, empty person who can only define herself through her obsession with her brother." I kept my tone conversational, almost gentle. "Tell me, Kennedy, what do you actually have without him?"

Her mouth opened and closed like a fish gasping for air. Around us, the boutique's elite clientele pretended not to listen while hanging on every word.

"You're nothing without Jack's protection," I continued, my voice never rising above its calm register. "You always have been."

Naya stepped closer to me, her presence solid and reassuring at my back.

"You don't know anything about me," Kennedy hissed, but her voice lacked its earlier venom.

"I know everything about you," I replied simply. "I always have."

The boutique door chimed before she could respond. Jack strode in, his eyes wild as they scanned the room. For a moment, I thought he might be looking for me—but his gaze locked onto Kennedy.

"Kennedy," he said sharply. "What are you doing here?"

She turned to him with practiced innocence. "Jack! I was just shopping when Rebecca and I ran into each other. What a coincidence, right?"

But Jack wasn't listening. His attention had finally landed on me, standing there in my half-zipped dress.

"Rebecca." My name escaped him like a prayer.

Before I could step back, he crossed the distance between us and grabbed my arm. His fingers dug into my flesh with bruising force.

"Please," he said, his voice breaking. "Just listen to me. Five minutes. That's all I'm asking."

The touch hit me like electricity—not the pleasant kind, but the dangerous, sparking-wire variety that could kill.

"Let go of me," I whispered, but he was already pulling me toward the door.

"Jack, stop!" Naya shouted.

And then it happened.

The world tilted sideways. Suddenly I was back in that apartment, seven years ago. Jack's face contorted with rage as I told him I was pregnant. His foot connecting with my abdomen. The sickening crack of bone. The blood.

"Rebecca?" Someone was calling my name from very far away.

I couldn't breathe. My chest constricted as if bound by iron bands. The artificial heart monitor in my purse began beeping frantically—the warning signal Dr. Martinez had programmed for emergencies.

"Get away from her!" Naya's voice cut through the fog.

Strong hands shoved Jack back. Through blurring vision, I saw Naya's fierce expression as she positioned herself between us.

"She's having a panic attack," Naya snapped. "Can't you see what you're doing to her?"

The boutique had become a blur of concerned faces and reaching hands. Someone was calling for water. Someone else was asking if they should call an ambulance.

"No," I managed to gasp. "Hotel. Take me to the hotel."

---

The hotel room was quiet except for the distant hum of Seattle traffic and the steady beep of my heart monitor, now calmed to its regular rhythm. I sat on the edge of the bed, my hands still trembling slightly as I pulled out my phone.

Quinn answered on the first ring.

"Rebecca?" His voice was warm, concerned. "You're earlier than expected."

"I need you," I whispered, the words catching in my throat.

There was a brief pause—just long enough for him to process my tone.

"What happened?" No accusations, no demands. Just steady, supportive questioning.

"Jack found me today," I said, the words tumbling out now. "At a boutique. He grabbed my arm and—"

"Breathe, sweetheart," Quinn interrupted gently. "Nice and slow. In through your nose, out through your mouth."

I followed his instructions automatically, feeling the familiar panic begin to recede.

"That's it," he continued. "You're safe now. I'm right here."

"He touched me and I remembered," I confessed, my voice small. "The kick. The blood. Everything."

Quinn's sigh was soft but carried the weight of understanding. "I know, love. I know."

He talked me through the breathing exercises Dr. Martinez had prescribed for PTSD episodes. His voice never wavered—calm, authoritative, yet tender in a way that made me feel anchored to the present moment.

"You're strong," he reminded me. "Stronger than he knows. Stronger than she knows."

As my breathing steadied, I closed my eyes and focused on Quinn's voice—the antithesis of Jack's desperate pleas and Kennedy's venomous taunts.

"I love you," I whispered.

"I love you too," he replied simply. "Now get some rest. I'll be there before you know it."

As I set down the phone, I realized something profound had shifted within me. The ghosts of my past still lingered, but they no longer had the power to haunt my future.

Or so I thought.

The immigration office was a sterile, fluorescent-lit building that smelled of dust and disappointment. I clutched my folder of paperwork—birth certificate, marriage license, medical records—as I waited in the uncomfortable plastic chair. My appointment was scheduled for 10:30 AM, but like most government agencies, they were running behind.

"Ms. Duncan?" A clerk called my name, her expression apologetic. "There seems to be an issue with your file."

My stomach dropped. "What kind of issue?"

She tapped at her computer, frowning. "It's showing as 'incomplete' even though all the documents appear to be here."

I felt a familiar tightness in my chest—not the artificial heart this time, but pure anxiety.

"Let me call my supervisor," she offered, picking up her phone.

As she stepped away, I pulled out my cell to text Quinn. His plane had landed an hour ago; he was supposed to meet me here after checking into his hotel.

*Having issues with paperwork. Clerk says file shows as incomplete.*

His response came almost instantly: *Stay calm. I anticipated this. Call me.*

I dialed his number, my fingers trembling slightly.

"Rebecca," Quinn's voice was steady, reassuring. "I flagged your file with my credentials before we left. Any attempt to access or alter it would trigger an alert."

"You knew this might happen?" I whispered, moving to a corner of the waiting area.

"Kennedy's desperation makes her predictable," he said simply. "She's trying to delay your departure."

The clerk returned, her expression now confused rather than apologetic. "Ms. Duncan, I'm not sure what happened, but the system is showing your file as complete now. The supervisor says we can proceed with your appointment."

I glanced at my phone, where Quinn had sent a follow-up text: *Dark web contacts traced. Kennedy's plan failed.*

---

Two hours later, I emerged from the immigration office with a mixture of relief and exhaustion. The underground parking lot was dimly lit, the concrete pillars creating pools of shadow between the fluorescent lights overhead.

"Rebecca."

I froze at the sound of Jack's voice. He stepped out from behind a pillar, his expensive suit wrinkled, his eyes bloodshot.

"Please," he said, holding up a manila folder. "Just five minutes of your time."

"I have nothing to say to you." I clutched my purse tighter, my fingers brushing against the heart monitor inside.

"It's about your father's estate," Jack continued, moving closer. "The property was never properly transferred to your name after he died."

I stopped walking. "What are you talking about? I sold that house years ago."

"You couldn't sell it," Jack said, his voice gaining confidence. "It was held in trust. Kennedy handled the paperwork, but she never finalized the transfer."

My mind raced. Could this be true? Had Kennedy manipulated even this?

"I have the documents right here," Jack said, opening the folder. "If you sign them, the property is yours. I've already had my lawyers draw everything up."

He gestured toward his SUV parked nearby. "Just need your signature on a few pages. Then you'll be free to go."

Every instinct screamed danger, but curiosity won out. What if there really was property? What if Kennedy had stolen more from me than I realized?

I followed him to the black SUV with heavily tinted windows. He opened the passenger door for me.

"The documents are in the back seat," he said.

As I bent to retrieve them, I noticed something odd about the vehicle—the windows were too dark, the interior too pristine. Before I could straighten up, Jack slammed the door behind me and hit a button on his key fob.

The locks engaged with a definitive click.

"Jack!" I spun around, but he was already moving to the driver's side.

"Please," he said, his voice breaking as he slid behind the wheel. "Just listen to me."

The doors were locked. The windows were sealed. The SUV's interior suddenly felt like a tomb.

"What are you doing?" I demanded, pulling frantically at the door handle.

"We need to talk," Jack said, his hands gripping the steering wheel so tightly his knuckles whitened. "Really talk. Without interruptions."

I reached for my phone, but Jack was faster. He lunged across the console and snatched it from my hand.

"No outside interference," he muttered, pocketing my device. "Not this time."

The engine roared to life, and I realized with growing horror that the ventilation system was already pumping in some kind of gas—not enough to suffocate me, but enough to make me dizzy.

"Jack, stop this," I pleaded, my voice sounding distant even to my own ears. "This isn't going to solve anything."

But the look in his eyes told me he was beyond reason now. Seven years of obsession had finally pushed him over the edge.

"You're not leaving again," he whispered, putting the SUV in drive. "Not until you understand what we had."