Amanda POV:

A bitter laugh escaped my lips. Back in Brody's house. My house. The very thought was a mockery. He hadn't brought me back out of kindness. He' d brought me here to keep me under his thumb, to ensure I couldn't heal, couldn't disappear, couldn't become a problem for his new perfect life. He wanted to control my suffering.

And in a twisted way, his attitude had softened slightly. He would occasionally ask the house staff if I had eaten, if I needed anything. He' d even, begrudgingly, allowed me a room, a small, unused guest room at the end of the hall. "You can stay here," he' d said, his voice cold, "as long as you understand your place. Don't interfere. Don't make trouble. And don't ever, ever think you're still my wife." His words were a cage, gilded but still a cage.

But then, Eben started to appear. After his initial terrified flight, he became a furtive shadow. I' d catch glimpses of him peeking around corners, his eyes wide and curious. At dinner, he' d subtly watch me from across the table, his small brow furrowed in thought. He remembered. The almond jello incident, the cut on my face, must have scarred him more than it had me.

His curiosity was a dangerous thing, a crack in the wall Carla had built around him. One afternoon, he approached me in the garden, his voice hesitant. "Mom... I mean, Amanda... can you make me those lemon poppy seed muffins? The ones with the crunchy sugar on top?" His eyes were filled with a raw, childish longing. The muffins I used to bake for him every Sunday.

My heart, still a cold, inert stone, did not melt. But my mind registered the request. My analytical side recognized this as a potential vulnerability, a chance to observe from within. I baked the muffins. Without emotion. My hands moved with practiced ease, mixing, stirring, pouring. He devoured them, his face smeared with sugar, a faint, almost forgotten joy in his eyes.

But joy is fleeting. And Carla was always watching.

A few days later, I saw her, her face contorted with cold fury, staring at Eben' s tablet. He' d been searching for "scar removal cream for forehead." Her eyes, when they met mine, were filled with a chilling, possessive rage. She couldn' t stand it. Any crack in her carefully constructed facade. Any hint that Eben might still remember me, might still care. She wouldn' t allow it. Her control was absolute.

The next morning, after Eben had once again eaten my muffins, the house was plunged into chaos. Screaming. Sirens. Eben, my son, was rushed to the emergency room, violently allergic, struggling for breath, his small body wracked with convulsions.

Brody came back from the hospital like a man possessed. His eyes were wild, his face a mask of primal fury. He grabbed my arm, his fingers digging into my flesh, pain flaring through my still-healing wounds. "You monster!" he roared, his voice thick with unadulterated hatred. "You poisonous bitch! How could you?! To your own son! You don't deserve to be a mother!"

I stood there, my face bandaged, my eyes calm, empty. I met his furious gaze without a flinch. His accusations were meaningless. His rage, a distant hum.

Carla emerged from behind him, her eyes red-rimmed, clinging to his arm. "Brody, darling, calm down," she sobbed, her voice trembling. "Maybe it was an accident? But Eben... he said she gave him the muffins. Oh, Amanda, how could you?" She looked at me, her eyes filled with a manufactured anguish that didn't quite hide the gleam of triumph.

"He said that?" Brody' s voice was chillingly quiet. "Eben said you did this?"

I slowly blinked, my gaze unflinching. "Call the police, Brody," I said, my voice flat, steady. "If you believe I poisoned our son, then do it. Let the law decide."

His face paled, then flushed crimson. He knew. He couldn' t call the police. He couldn' t expose Carla. He couldn't expose his own blindness. His fists clenched, trembling with impotent rage. "You bitch!" he snarled, his voice a raw growl.

Carla, ever the opportunist, stepped forward. "Brody, honey, she's clearly unstable. She needs help. Professional help. I know of a private facility. They specialize in... difficult cases. Neuro-rehabilitation. It will be for her own good. And for Eben's safety."

Brody hesitated, his eyes lingering on my bandaged face, on the cold emptiness in my eyes. Then, he nodded. "Do it, Carla. Get her out of here. I don't care where she goes, just make sure she never comes near Eben again."

I watched them, my analytical mind already working. Neuro-rehabilitation? Private facility? It sounded ominous. But it was also an opportunity. An escape.

Hours later, I was bundled into a black van, my hands and feet restrained. The drive was long, winding through deserted roads, further and further from the city lights. We stopped in front of a crumbling, abandoned factory in the middle of nowhere. The air was thick with the stench of chemicals and decay. Not a hospital. Not a clinic.

The door was kicked open. A figure emerged from the shadows. His face was a patchwork of grotesque scars, his eyes glinting with a familiar, chilling madness.

My breath hitched. The world tilted again. Cain Glass.

Amanda POV:

My body seized, an uncontrollable tremor shaking my frame. Fear. Pure, primal, bone-deep terror. I knew that face. Even disfigured, even twisted by a decade of evil and a recent explosion, I knew it. Cain Glass. He wasn' t dead. He was here.

He recognized me too, a slow, predatory smile stretching his scarred lips. His eyes, the same ones that had haunted my nightmares for years, burned with a triumphant glee. He had survived. And he was waiting for me.

The memories hit me like a tidal wave: the suffocating darkness of his cells, the piercing needles, the mind-bending drugs, the screams of my fellow agents, silenced forever. I had thought I escaped him, thought I buried him in my past, along with the terror and the trauma.

"No," I choked out, my voice raw with a sudden, desperate plea. My eyes locked onto Brody, who stood a few feet away, his face a mask of grim satisfaction. "Brody, please! You can't leave me here! This is him! Cain Glass! He' s the one who kidnapped me! He' ll kill me! He' ll finish what he started!"

Brody's brow furrowed, a flicker of impatience crossing his face. "Stop it, Amanda," he snapped, his voice tight. "You're delusional. This is a reputable facility. You're just trying to manipulate me, as always." He glanced at Glass, then back at me, his eyes filled with disgust. "You're a madwoman. Seeing ghosts. It's just more proof you need this... treatment." He didn't even recognize him. Or didn't care to. He just saw a scarred man running a facility. He just saw an ugly, inconvenient problem. Me.

Cain Glass chuckled, a dry, rattling sound. "Ah, the drama. Always a pleasure with you, my little Nightingale." He looked at Brody, his eyes glinting. "Perhaps the good husband would like to stay and observe our... unique methods of persuasion? It might help him understand the true nature of his... problematic wife."

Brody hesitated, then, to my horror, he nodded. "Fine," he said, his voice flat. "But I'm not staying long. I have a gala to attend."

I watched, frozen, as they led me into a sterile room. My body was roughly strapped to a gurney. Brody watched from behind a one-way mirror, his face impassive. Glass approached, a needle glinting in his hand.

The ice-cold needle pierced my skin. My body convulsed, a guttural cry tearing from my throat. The drug surged through my veins, hot and cold at once, a fire in my blood, an ice in my mind. My muscles spasmed, my back arching violently. Agonizing screams ripped from me, echoing off the bare walls. My clothes were soaked with cold sweat. The world blurred, then sharpened, then blurred again. Every nerve ending was on fire.

Glass injected me again. A fresh wave of agony, more intense than the last, shot through me. I screamed, a raw, animalistic sound, my body thrashing against the restraints. My bladder released. Humiliation burned.

Brody, behind the glass, flinched. His brow furrowed, a flicker of discomfort in his eyes.

Then, Carla. She appeared beside him, her hand sliding into his. "She's so dramatic, isn't she, darling?" she purred, her voice dripping with scorn. "Always so high-maintenance. And so disgusting. No wonder Eben got sick. He must have been terrified of her." She leaned into Brody, her voice dropping. "Remember how he choked, Brody? How his little face turned blue? All because of her."

Brody visibly stiffened. The brief flicker of unease in his eyes vanished, replaced by a cold, hard glare. My son. His son. He truly believed I had poisoned him.

The last trace of humanity in Brody's eyes evaporated, replaced by a chilling hatred. He looked at me, a broken, convulsing mess, and saw only the venomous woman who had tried to hurt his son. He saw the villain. And in that moment, I knew. There was no going back for him. No redemption.

He turned, his back to the glass, his face set. He walked away, not even a backward glance. He was gone.

My eyes, glazed with tears and drugs, fixed on his retreating back. My mind, despite the chemical haze, began to count. Seven seconds. That was how long it would take him to reach the end of the corridor. To disappear completely.

Glass leaned over me, his scarred face inches from mine. "What are you mumbling, little bird?"

I ignored him, my gaze piercing through the wall, through the building, following Brody' s receding figure. My lips, numb and swollen, began to move. "Seven… six… five… four… three… two… one…"

Brody's silhouette vanished around the corner.

A single tear, mixed with blood, tracked down my face. A faint, almost imperceptible smile touched my lips. It was done. The last seven seconds. The final farewell. The end of Amanda Park, his wife.