"I want to disappear," I said into the phone, my voice a dead monotone. "Completely. I want the world, and especially Jackson Parks, to believe I'm dead."

There was a pause on the other end of the line. Hamilton's voice, when it came, was low and serious. "Elena, what happened?"

"He lied," I said. "Everything was a lie."

I didn't need to say more. Hamilton knew what Jackson meant to me. He also knew what Jackson was capable of.

"Tell me what you need," he said, no judgment in his tone, only steel.

"A plane crash," I said, the words tasting like poison. "As soon as possible. Can you arrange that?"

"Consider it done," he said. "I'll handle everything. Where will you go?"

"I don't know yet," I admitted. "Just... away from here."

"I have a place in Provence," he offered. "It's quiet. No one will find you. I'll send the details. Just get yourself to the private airfield in Van Nuys tomorrow night. A jet will be waiting."

"Thank you, Hamilton."

"Always, Elena."

I hung up, a fresh wave of pain washing over me. Making that call made it real. The life I knew was over. The man I loved was a monster who had systematically destroyed me while pretending to cherish me.

He had cheated on me. He had lied to me. He had married another woman while I still wore his ring.

He deserved to be cheated. He deserved to be lied to.

He wanted me gone? Fine. I would vanish from his world so completely it would be as if I never existed.

A soft knock on my door made me jump.

"Mrs. Parks?" It was Maria, our housekeeper. "Mr. Parks is home. He's asking for you."

I took a deep breath, schooling my features into a mask of calm. I opened the door.

Jackson was standing in the hallway. When he saw me, a flicker of panic crossed his face before it was replaced by his usual, charming smile. It was a performance I now saw with horrifying clarity.

"Elena, darling," he said, striding toward me and wrapping his arms around my waist. He tried to kiss me, but I turned my head slightly, and his lips brushed my cheek. "I was worried. You were out for so long."

His concern felt like acid on my skin. I could smell Candida's perfume on his shirt.

"I just had some errands to run," I said, my voice carefully neutral. I pulled away from his embrace.

My eyes fell on the woman and child standing behind him. Candida and Joey.

"Who are they?" I asked, my voice flat, as if I didn't know.

Jackson visibly relaxed, a small sigh of relief escaping his lips. He thought I didn't know. He thought he could keep lying.

"Oh, this is a wonderful surprise," he said, his voice full of fake enthusiasm. "Elena, remember how we talked about wanting a child? How much we wanted to fill this big house with laughter?"

He gestured to the boy. "This is Joey. He's an orphan. I thought... I thought we could adopt him. Give him a home. A family."

He was using my infertility, the very wound he and his secret wife had caused, as a tool for his deception. The cruelty of it was breathtaking.

"And this," he said, indicating Candida, "is Miss Camacho. She's a caretaker from the orphanage who has grown very attached to Joey. I've hired her to be his nanny, to help him adjust."

He put his hand on Joey's head. "Joey, say hello to your new mommy."

My heart felt like a block of ice. New mommy. The irony was a bitter pill.

The boy, Joey, looked at me with wide, innocent eyes. But there was something cold in them, something that didn't match his cherubic face.

"Hello... Mommy," he said, his voice small and hesitant.

Jackson beamed, a proud father. "Isn't he wonderful, Elena?"

Candida stood silently, her eyes downcast, playing the part of a humble nanny perfectly. But I could see the faint smirk playing on her lips. She was enjoying this. She was enjoying my humiliation.

"He's a lovely boy," I said, my voice hollow. I looked at Jackson, my gaze steady. "I'm a little tired. I think I'll go lie down."

Jackson's smile tightened. He saw something in my eyes, a coldness that wasn't there before.

"Are you feeling alright, darling?" he asked, his brow furrowed with fake concern. "You look pale."

"Just a headache," I lied. I turned and walked toward our bedroom, my back straight.

"Let me get you some soup," Jackson called after me, his voice dripping with the false tenderness that now made my stomach turn. "Maria makes the best chicken soup. It will make you feel better."

I didn't answer. I closed the bedroom door behind me and leaned against it, the facade of calm crumbling. I was shaking again, a deep, violent tremor that started in my soul.

Later, Joey brought the soup to my room, pushed by a smiling Jackson.

"Be a good boy and take care of your mommy," Jackson cooed, patting his head.

The boy carried the tray carefully. He set it on the nightstand, his small face serious. "I'll help you, Mommy."

For a moment, I felt a pang of something other than hatred. He was just a child, a pawn in his mother's sick game. I reached out to take the bowl from him.

As my fingers closed around the warm ceramic, he let go. Deliberately.

The bowl tipped, and scalding hot soup spilled all over my hand and wrist. I cried out, pulling my hand back. The skin was already turning an angry red.

Joey's eyes widened. He let out a piercing wail, clutching his own hand.

"Ow! My hand! You burned me!" he screamed, tears streaming down his face. "You did it on purpose! You hate me!"

Jackson and Candida burst into the room at the sound of the boy's screams. Their faces were masks of alarm.

Jackson immediately rushed to Joey's side, scooping him up into his arms. He didn't even glance at me.

"What's wrong, Joey? What happened?" he asked, his voice frantic.

"She burned me!" the boy sobbed, pointing a trembling, uninjured finger at me. "She did it on purpose! She hates me!"

Jackson's head snapped toward me. His eyes, moments ago filled with fake concern for me, were now blazing with cold fury.

"Elena, what is the meaning of this?" he demanded, his voice low and dangerous. "He's just a child. How could you?"

"I didn't-" I started, but he cut me off.

"He's our son now," Jackson snarled. "I brought him here for you, to give you a family, and this is how you treat him? Because you can't have one of your own, you're going to hurt an innocent boy?"

The words were a slap in the face. He was using my pain, the sacrifice I made for him, as a weapon against me.

He turned his back on me, his attention focused solely on the crying child. "It's okay, Joey. Daddy's here. I'll get the doctor. We'll take care of you."

He carried the boy out of the room, Candida following close behind. Before she left, she shot me a look over her shoulder. It was a look of pure, triumphant hatred.

I was left alone in the room, the smell of chicken soup thick in the air. The broken bowl lay on the floor, a symbol of my shattered life. My hand throbbed with a searing pain.

Jackson had never even looked at my burn.

I laughed, a bitter, broken sound that echoed in the empty room. What a fool I had been.

I went into the bathroom and ran cold water over my hand. The skin was blistering. I found the first-aid kit and clumsily wrapped the burn, the pain a sharp, physical reminder of the deeper, invisible wounds he had inflicted.

I remembered a time, years ago, when I had cut my finger while cooking. It was a tiny cut, barely bleeding. Jackson had rushed me to the emergency room, his face pale with worry. He had held my hand the entire time, whispering that he couldn't bear to see me in any pain.

That man was gone. Or maybe he had never existed at all.

Love, I realized with a chilling certainty, was not eternal. It could die. It could be killed.

The door opened, and Jackson walked in. He saw my bandaged hand and had the decency to look guilty.

"Elena, I..." he began. "I'm sorry for what I said. I was just worried about Joey."

He came closer, his voice softening. "He's just a little boy. He didn't mean to cause trouble. Can you find it in your heart to forgive him?"

I stared at him, my heart a frozen lump in my chest. He was asking me to forgive the child who had deliberately hurt me, while he had accused me of malice.

I said nothing.

He sighed, a sound of weary patience. "Look, Joey is very shaken. I'm going to sleep in his room tonight, to make sure he's okay."

It was another excuse to be with her. I knew it. But I no longer cared.

"Fine," I said, my voice flat.

He seemed surprised by my easy agreement. He had expected a fight, tears, accusations. He didn't know that the woman who would have done those things was already dead.

He leaned in and kissed my forehead, a brief, cool touch. "Get some rest."

Then he was gone.

I lay in our massive, empty bed, staring into the darkness. I was an outsider in my own home, a stranger in my own life.

Later, I heard it.

The sound came from the room next door, the one Jackson was supposedly sharing with the child. It was a soft sound at first, a muffled cry.

Then, a low moan. Jackson's voice, thick with a pleasure I knew so well.

And then another sound. A woman's gasp, a mix of pain and ecstasy. Candida.

"You animal," she whimpered. "I hate you."

"You love it," Jackson growled back, his voice a low thrum of passion. "Say my name, Candida. Say it."

"Never," she sobbed.

His response was a low laugh, followed by the rhythmic, unmistakable sounds of two bodies moving together.

I squeezed my eyes shut, my hands balling into fists. I pressed my face into the pillow to stifle the scream that rose in my throat.

He was in the next room, with the woman who had stabbed me, who had taken my future from me. He was making love to her, while I lay here, broken and alone.

My mind flashed back to a time when his parents had objected to our marriage because of my family's lower social standing. Jackson had stood up to them, his voice ringing with conviction. "I love Elena," he had declared. "I will marry her, with or without your blessing. She is the only one I will ever love."

He had been so fierce, so loyal. My rock. My protector.

That loyalty was now a joke. His love, a lie.

I lay there for hours, listening to the sounds of his betrayal, until the house finally fell silent. I didn't sleep. I just stared into the darkness, my heart completely and utterly dead.

The next morning, Jackson was in the kitchen, wearing an apron, a cheerful smile plastered on his face. He was humming as he flipped pancakes. It was a grotesque parody of a happy domestic scene.

"Good morning, darling," he said, his voice bright. "I made your favorite, blueberry pancakes."

He looked at me, his eyes full of a tenderness that was now obscene. I felt like I was looking at a complete stranger.

"I thought we could go out today," he continued. "Just the two of us. A lovely drive up the coast."

"No," I said, my voice cold and empty.

He froze, the spatula hovering over the pan. He stared at me, his smile faltering. "What?"

"I don't want to go anywhere with you," I said.

He put the spatula down and walked over to me, his face a mask of concern. He crouched down, taking my uninjured hand in his. His touch felt repulsive.

"Elena, I know you're upset about yesterday," he said, his voice a low, soothing murmur. "I am so sorry. I was out of line. Please, forgive me."

His eyes were soft, pleading. It was the same look he had given me in the hospital five years ago. This time, it made me feel nothing but disgust.

I pulled my hand away and started eating the breakfast Maria had left for me, ignoring the pancakes he had made.

He watched me for a moment, then seemed to decide I had forgiven him. His smile returned, relieved.

"Come on," he said, pulling me to my feet. "Let's go shopping. I'll buy you anything you want."

He practically dragged me to the car.

Candida and Joey were already sitting in the back seat.

My heart sank. Of course.

"Joey was feeling a little down," Jackson explained, not meeting my eyes. "And Miss Camacho needed to pick up a few things for him. I thought we could all go together. A family outing."

His gaze flickered to Candida in the rearview mirror for a split second, a look of longing and possession that he tried to hide.

I said nothing. I got into the car, a silent, unwilling passenger in the charade of my own life.

At the mall, Jackson was a whirlwind of activity, pulling me into the most expensive stores. He bought me dresses, shoes, a diamond watch. The sales clerks fawned over him.

"Mrs. Parks, you are so lucky," one of them gushed. "Your husband adores you."

I managed a tight, painful smile. Adored me. If only she knew.

My eyes drifted over to Candida. She was standing by a jewelry counter, her gaze fixed on a sapphire necklace, a look of raw longing on her face. She had come from a wealthy family, but Jackson had taken everything from them. Now she was a kept woman, dependent on the man she claimed to hate.

Jackson followed my gaze. He saw the look on her face.

A few minutes later, he came back with a small, velvet box. Not for me.

He walked over to Candida. "Here," he said, his tone clipped and impatient, as if he were annoyed. "Try this on. I need to see if it would suit a client's wife."

He put the sapphire necklace around her neck, his fingers brushing against her skin. It was a lie, a thin, pathetic excuse to give a gift to his mistress in front of his wife.

I felt a cold laugh bubble up inside me. It was all so ridiculous, so insulting.

I turned and walked out of the store. I couldn't breathe in there anymore.

I was standing on the curb, waiting for the valet to bring the car, when it happened.

A white sports car, its engine roaring, screeched around the corner. It was out of control, heading straight for the sidewalk.

Straight for Candida, who had just stepped out of the store.

Jackson's face went white with terror.

"CANDIDA!" he screamed.

In that split second, he did something that sealed my fate. He was standing next to me. He shoved me, hard. I stumbled backwards, falling against the wall of the building.

He didn't do it to save me. He did it to get me out of his way.

He lunged towards Candida, pushing her out of the car's path.

He wasn't fast enough.

The car hit him, the sound a sickening thud of metal against flesh. He flew through the air, landing in a crumpled heap on the pavement.

The world erupted into chaos. People were screaming. The sports car sped off.

I looked at Jackson, lying on the ground, his leg bent at an unnatural angle. His eyes were wide with pain and fear.

But he wasn't looking at me. He was looking past me, at Candida, who stood frozen in shock.

"Candida," he gasped, his voice a pained whisper. "Are you... are you okay?"

My blood turned to ice. My heart stopped beating. In that moment, watching him lie broken on the ground, caring only for her, I knew.

Any last, lingering ember of love I had for him died. It turned to cold, hard ash.

I didn't go to the hospital. I didn't call an ambulance.

I stood there for a moment, looking down at the man who had destroyed my life.

Then, I turned and walked away.

The phantoms of a past life echoed through my own. I looked at the dark mark on my hand, the new skin still tender.

But the real pain was in my chest, a deep, hollow ache that was far worse than any burn.