"At night we'd lock him in a water cage and let him soak. During the day, we'd leave him out in the sun. That's why his skin ended up swollen and cracked at the same time."

"Yeah, and we only fed him slop and dishwater. When he put up too much of a fight, we'd shove his head in the toilet."

"Sometimes late at night, when we got bored, we'd drag him out of the cage and take turns... heh, you know what I mean..."

Under the doctors' efforts, my consciousness slowly returned.

I could still vaguely recall that day three years ago, when I went to pick Linda up from work and saw it with my own eyes: her and Kerry, locked in a deep kiss.

My blood boiled. I didn't hesitate. I marched up, called them out, and slapped Kerry hard across the face. Twice.

The absurd part was that Linda, the one in the wrong, didn't apologize. Instead, she threw herself in front of Kerry, jabbed her finger at my nose, and told me she'd remember those two slaps. That she'd pay me back a hundredfold.

I never imagined those words, spoken in a flash of rage, were anything more than an empty threat.

I brought up divorce. Linda refused. She swallowed her pride, admitted her mistake, promised she'd never do anything like it again.

When I thought about what we'd had, a love that started in high school and carried us all the way to the altar, and when I thought about both our families and the hopes they'd placed in us, I softened.

The very next day after we reconciled, I received a message from an unknown number. It was a video of Linda, bound and gagged. The message said they knew I was the head of the Lambert Group.

The kidnappers demanded I bring everything I was worth. Alone. Or they'd kill her.

I loved her. Truly. Setting everything else aside, I loved that woman. I emptied my savings, drained every dollar from the company accounts, and went to the meeting point by myself.

At first, the exchange went smoothly. Money for the hostage. Simple.

But just as I was about to leave with Linda, Alfred changed his mind. He had the money now. He wanted us dead. No witnesses.

I grabbed Linda and ran. Ran like a man possessed. But she couldn't keep up. Her legs gave out and she collapsed.

I turned back alone to hold off five men. They beat me to the ground.

Blood ran into my eyes. My vision blurred. But I could still see her, and I screamed: "Run! Don't worry about me!"

Even after three years, I could still picture her face that day, tears streaming down her cheeks like rain.

"I'm not leaving! I want to stay with you!"

"Linda, run! Or I swear I'll die right here in front of you!"

That threat worked. She looked terrified that I might actually do it. She turned and stumbled away.

Before she disappeared, she choked out through her sobs: "Darrell, you have to stay alive. I'll come back for you. As long as we're both breathing, we'll see each other again!"

That single sentence became the pillar that held me up through three years in the dark.

How real it had all seemed. How natural.

This was the grand production my wife Linda had staged to avenge her precious protege. Every scene, every tear, every desperate word.

The whole script had been written to destroy me.

After the twelfth round of defibrillation, I shot upright in the hospital bed.

My vision still swam. Everything I looked at split into doubles.

But even so, a laugh clawed its way out of my throat. Wild. Unhinged. No. This show shouldn't wrap up so soon. The curtain wasn't coming down yet.

A month later, Linda wheeled me home.

She'd never been one for the kitchen, not once in all our years together. Yet there she was, insisting on cooking a full spread to celebrate my safe return.

When the dishes hit the table, whatever warmth I had left went cold.

Vinegar-braised cabbage. Numbing pepper chicken. Sweet-and-sour eggs. Spicy shredded potatoes.

Every single dish was Kerry's favorite.

Every dish on the table was sour—Kerry's favorites.

She seemed to have forgotten that sour food was the one thing I couldn't stand.

Just as the ache in my chest deepened, Kerry pushed the door open and walked in.

I had never seen Linda so warm. The woman who carried herself like ice in public actually went to the shoe cabinet and fetched Kerry's slippers for him.

"You're back! Go wash your hands, dinner's ready. I made all your favorites."

Kerry moved through the house like he owned it, slipping his watch off and tossing it onto the coffee table without a second thought.

He washed his hands, disappeared into the bedroom, and came back out wearing a set of pajamas.

Only then did I notice the drying rack on the balcony. His freshly laundered clothes hung there—shirts, pants, even his underwear.

Kerry tossed a pair of boxers into the laundry hamper. "Hey, Linda, when you get a chance, could you wash these for me?"

My stomach dropped. Had they really gotten this comfortable with each other?

Linda and I had been together for years. Forget underwear—she had never once washed so much as a dress shirt for me.

Because she'd told me, in no uncertain terms, that her hands were made for making money, not for waiting on me.

Yet here she was, doting on Kerry hand and foot. How was I supposed to explain that?

Kerry turned to me with an easy smile.

"Darrell, after the kidnapping, Linda was left with some serious psychological trauma. While you were gone, I kept her company. That's all."

"Don't overthink it. We sleep in separate rooms."

"Mm." I gave a quiet murmur, but the weight pressing down on me only grew heavier.

Nothing that came out of either of their mouths had a shred of credibility left.

Linda produced an expensive bottle of red wine, uncorked it, and poured two glasses—one for herself, one for Kerry. Then she glanced at me.

"Darrell, the doctor said your heart can't handle alcohol. You'd better sit this one out."

A table full of Kerry's favorite dishes. The two of them clinking glasses right in front of me, calling it a celebration of my safe return. The whole thing made my skin crawl.

I didn't care for sour food. But three years without a decent meal had left my gut hollow, and the sight of those dishes set my mouth watering against my will.

Even so, I didn't touch a single bite.

Because I knew none of it had been made for me.

Linda and Kerry put on a show, picking up food with their chopsticks and placing it in my bowl. When I still didn't eat, Linda's expression soured.

"Darrell, it's not that I won't let you drink. The doctor won't let you drink."

"You can't even stand on your own two feet anymore. Are you really going to throw a fit over something this small?"

I let out a hollow laugh, then picked up my chopsticks and started pushing the food around my bowl.

"It's nothing. Just spaced out for a second."

After lunch, Linda wheeled me out into the yard to sit in the sun.

"The doctor said you need more sunlight. The midday sun is strongest right now, so just soak it in for a while. I'm going to go wash the dishes."

She left before I could respond.

She seemed to have forgotten that she was the one who'd arranged for me to be baked under the sun for three straight years.

The blinding, scorching heat—I'd had more than enough of it.

I rose slowly from the wheelchair.

That's right. I could move just fine. I'd paid the doctor to tell them I couldn't stand.

I crept back inside the villa and saw what they'd done to the place. The entire interior had been remodeled.

Kerry liked brown tones. Kerry liked vintage decor. And the house had been redesigned to match his taste down to the last detail. Every trace of my life here had been erased.

I checked the kitchen. Linda had told me she was going to wash the dishes, but there wasn't a sign of her anywhere.

I made my way up to the second floor, out onto the balcony, and the scene that greeted me sent rage tearing through every nerve in my body.

Linda was in the pool, wearing a bikini that barely covered anything, nestled in Kerry's arms. He wore nothing but his underwear.

"You know, now that he's back, we won't be able to do whatever we want like before..."

"Relax. He's finished. He can't even stand up. There's nothing he can do about us."

"Besides, doing it right under his nose... doesn't that make it even more exciting?"

They pulled each other close and kissed, deep and hungry, just like the time I'd caught them three years ago.

No. This time was worse.

Kerry lifted Linda out of the water, carrying her by the waist, and set her down on the lounge chair beside the pool.

The chair began to rock in a steady rhythm. My teeth ground together so hard they creaked. I whispered under my breath:

"Enjoy it. It's the last time you'll ever touch each other."

Forty minutes later, they fell asleep in each other's arms.

I went downstairs and dialed a number. "Move in."

Maybe the dose had been too strong. Linda didn't wake up until dusk, groggy and unsteady on her feet.

The evening breeze had turned cool. She was still wearing that barely-there swimsuit.

And Kerry, who had been wrapped around her, was gone.

She threw on a bathrobe and grabbed her phone, dialing Kerry's number.

The call connected immediately, but the voice on the other end wasn't his.

"Ms. Fox of the Fox Group, is it? I've got your husband and your little boyfriend. If you want them alive, bring everything you've got to the abandoned factory on the south side. Every last cent."

"Come alone. Otherwise, they're dead."

The line went dead. Seconds later, Linda received a video: me and Kerry, bound and gagged.