Three months after I found Greyson in that basement, we stood before a small gathering in my parents' garden. The ceremony was nothing like the grand affair we'd originally planned—no cathedral, no five hundred guests, no orchestra. Just family, Marcus, Caspian, and a handful of close friends who'd stayed silent when we asked them to.

Greyson's hands trembled as he slipped the ring onto my finger. I felt the tremor travel through his fingertips, watched the way his jaw clenched as he forced out the words of his vows. When someone's phone buzzed during the exchange of rings, he flinched so violently that my mother gasped.

I squeezed his hand, anchoring him. "I'm here," I whispered, low enough that only he could hear. "You're safe."

His eyes met mine for just a moment—those eyes that used to hold such confidence now haunted by shadows I couldn't chase away. But he nodded and continued, his voice barely above a whisper.

The reception was brief. Greyson managed twenty minutes before the noise and the crowd became too much. I found him in the bathroom, back pressed against the wall, breathing in short, ragged gasps that I'd learned meant a panic attack was coming.

"Everyone out," I called through the door to the curious aunts hovering nearby. "Give us a moment."

I didn't touch him—not yet. Dr. Reeves had taught me that. Instead, I sat on the floor across from him and began counting aloud, slow and steady, until his breathing started to match my rhythm.

"I'm sorry," he choked out when he could finally speak. "I'm sorry, Briar. You deserve better than this. Better than me."

"Don't," I said firmly. "We're married now. For better or worse, remember?"

That night, in the hotel suite I'd decorated with soft lighting and his favorite music playing quietly, I tried to make our wedding night something beautiful. I wore the ivory silk nightgown I'd bought months ago, back when I'd imagined this moment so differently.

When I approached the bed where Greyson sat rigid, still in his dress shirt, he let me take his hand. I guided him to lie down, pressed a gentle kiss to his forehead.

"We don't have to do anything," I murmured. "I just want to hold you."

But the moment I slid beneath the covers and wrapped my arms around him, his entire body went rigid. His breathing accelerated, turned harsh and panicked. Then he was shoving me away, scrambling to the far corner of the bed, eyes wild and unseeing.

"Don't touch me!" The words ripped from his throat, raw and desperate. "Please, don't—I can't—"

He collapsed then, curling into himself, shoulders shaking with sobs that sounded like they were tearing him apart from the inside. I stayed frozen where I was, my own tears falling silently as I watched the man I loved break into pieces.

"I'm here," I said eventually, my voice steady despite everything crumbling inside me. "I'm right here, and I'm not going anywhere. However long it takes, Greyson. However long you need."

He cried until dawn, and I sat vigil through it all, close enough to reach if he wanted me, far enough away that he could breathe. This was our wedding night. This was what we'd become.

The pattern repeated itself in the weeks that followed. Greyson retreating into himself, me giving everything I had to pull him back. I attended his therapy sessions, learned the triggers, memorized the warning signs. I took over the business meetings he could no longer handle, sitting across from hard-faced executives who looked at me like I was playing dress-up in my husband's world.

But it wasn't enough. Justice—that's what would heal him. That's what I told myself as I sat in our study late one night, surrounded by files on Greyson's rival. If I could make the man who did this pay, if I could prove that monsters don't win, maybe Greyson could finally be free.

"You're playing with fire."

I looked up to find Marcus in the doorway, his expression grave.

"Someone has to," I said, turning back to my investigation notes. "The police aren't doing anything. That man is still out there, still running his business, still—"

"Still dangerous," Marcus interrupted. "Briar, I'm warning you as a friend. These people don't play by rules. They don't care that you're trying to help your husband."

I met his gaze steadily. "I don't care what they do to me. I care about Greyson."

Marcus sighed, running a hand through his hair. "That's exactly what I'm afraid of."

But I'd already made my choice. I hired the private investigators, followed the paper trails, learned to navigate the shadowy world of corporate warfare and criminal enterprise. Every piece of evidence I gathered felt like a small victory, a step closer to the justice that would set us both free.

I didn't know then that some prices are too high to pay. I didn't know that my crusade for justice would cost me everything—my body, my future, and eventually, the marriage I was fighting so hard to save.

Six months into our marriage, I stood in the shadow of an abandoned factory on the city's edge, my heart hammering against my ribs. The recording device felt heavy where it was taped to my stomach, hidden beneath my loose blouse. This was it—the moment that could finally free Greyson from his nightmares.

I'd tracked his rival, Victor Munoz, for months, piecing together his underground business network through bank records, whispered conversations, and carefully cultivated informants. Tonight, he was meeting with potential investors in this decrepit building, far from prying eyes.

"This is insane, Briar," Marcus had said when I told him my plan. "Let the authorities handle it."

"The authorities have done nothing for six months," I'd replied, remembering how Greyson had woken screaming again last night, his body drenched in sweat. "I'm just going to get evidence. In and out."

Now, as I slipped through a rusted side door, those words seemed naively optimistic. The interior was dimly lit, with voices echoing from somewhere below. I followed the sound down a narrow hallway, my steps careful and measured.

Through a crack in a partially open door, I could see them—five men in expensive suits, Victor at the head of the table, his silver hair gleaming under the single overhead light. I pressed the button on my recorder and leaned closer.

"King was just the beginning," Victor was saying, swirling amber liquid in a crystal glass. "A message to anyone who thinks they can—"

The floorboard beneath me creaked, loud as a gunshot in the tense silence.

Everything happened at once. The door flew open, hands grabbed me, and I was dragged into the room, thrown roughly onto the concrete floor. Victor stood over me, his face a mask of cold fury.

"Mrs. King," he said softly. "What an unexpected pleasure."

One of his men found the recording device, ripping it from beneath my blouse with a sneer. Victor studied it, then met my eyes with a smile that chilled me to my core.

"You're as foolish as your husband," he said. "Did you really think it would be this easy?"

"He deserves justice," I spat, struggling against the hands holding me. "You can't just—"

"I can do whatever I want," Victor cut me off. "As I'm about to demonstrate."

He nodded to his men. I fought wildly as they dragged me toward the stairwell, kicking and screaming until a sharp blow to my temple left me dazed. Through blurred vision, I saw the concrete steps rushing up to meet me as they threw me down.

Pain exploded through my body—white-hot, all-consuming. I heard something crack as I tumbled, my left leg twisting unnaturally beneath me. Each impact drove the breath from my lungs until I finally came to rest at the bottom, the world fading to black around me.

I awoke to the harsh glare of hospital lights and the steady beep of monitors. My entire body felt like it had been shattered and poorly reassembled. When I tried to move, agony shot through me, and a nurse appeared at my side.

"Don't try to move, Mrs. King," she said gently. "The doctor will be in soon."

"My leg," I whispered, my throat raw. Something felt wrong—terribly, irrevocably wrong. "What happened to my leg?"

Her eyes filled with sympathy, and I knew before the doctor arrived with his careful words and clinical explanations. The damage had been too severe—crushed bones, severed arteries, massive tissue death. They'd had no choice but to amputate below the knee.

But that wasn't all. As I lay there, trying to absorb the reality of my missing limb, the doctor continued speaking, his voice seeming to come from very far away.

"...internal injuries... reproductive system... significant scarring... unlikely you'll ever be able to carry a child..."

I turned my face to the wall, tears streaming silently down my cheeks. This was the price of my crusade for justice—my leg, my future children, perhaps even my marriage.

Greyson came to see me that evening, his face ashen, eyes haunted with fresh guilt. He stood in the doorway for a long moment before approaching the bed, his movements stiff and uncertain.

"Briar," he whispered, reaching for my hand but stopping short of touching me. "I'm so sorry. This is all my fault."

"No," I said firmly, though my voice trembled. "It's his fault. Only his."

Greyson looked at the empty space beneath the sheet where my left leg should have been, and something in his expression crumbled. He turned away, shoulders hunched.

"I can't do this," he said, so quietly I almost didn't hear. "I can't watch you suffer because of me."

And then he was gone, leaving me alone with the steady beep of the monitors and the crushing weight of everything I'd lost.