Podczas mojej wystawnej gali urodzinowej, mój mąż zrobił dokładnie to, co kazała mu matka – wstał i publicznie mnie upokorzył na oczach wszystkich. Sala ucichła, czekając, aż się rozpłaczę albo ucieknę. Zamiast tego, wstałam, poprawiłam sukienkę i zaczęłam się śmiać. Zamarł w miejscu, a jego twarz odpłynęła.

He wore a Brooks Brothers suit, navy and crisp, the kind of suit Beacon Hill men wore like armor. The tie was already perfect—a Windsor knot.

But the man inside the suit was missing.

“Good morning, Mother,” James said.

His voice was flat.

Monotone.

It lacked the warmth that used to make me laugh until my ribs hurt.

“James, darling,” Victoria cooed.

Her demeanor shifted instantly—from ice queen to doting matriarch.

She stood and crossed to him, bypassing me like I wasn’t there.

The sting of invisibility was a familiar burn.

James stood still, mannequin-still, while his mother reached up and adjusted his tie.

It didn’t look like affection.

It looked like she was winding up a toy soldier.

“You look tired,” she whispered, fingers lingering on his collar. “Did you take your vitamins this morning?”

“Yes, Mother,” James replied.

He stared at the wall over her shoulder.

He did not look at me.

Not once.

I wrapped my fingers around my coffee cup until my knuckles turned white.

Look at me, James.

Just one glance.

Show me you’re still in there.

But the husband who had once defied Victoria Harrington to marry me was buried under layers of psychological conditioning and whatever chemical cocktail Dr. Thomas Whitley had prescribed this week.

He was a shell.

A weapon she kept polished and loaded.

Pointed directly at my heart.

“Sit, James,” Victoria commanded softly. “Heidi was just demonstrating how not to hold silverware. Perhaps you can teach her later.”

James sat.

He picked up his spoon.

He ate his grapefruit like it was an order.

He didn’t speak to me.

I checked my watch.

7:30.

Right on schedule.

“If you’ll excuse me,” I said, standing. “I need to prepare for the party tonight.”

Victoria didn’t look up.

“Wear something that covers your arms, Heidi,” she said. “We don’t want people thinking we beat you. And try to look less military. It’s a gala, not a deployment.”

“Yes, Mother.”

I walked out of the dining room with a straight spine.

My heels clicked on the marble floor.

Left.

Right.

Left.

Right.

A cadence.

A march.

I held my breath until I reached the second floor, navigated the labyrinth of hallways, and entered the master suite.

I didn’t stop in the bedroom.

I went straight to the walk-in closet.

It was larger than the apartment I grew up in—larger than my childhood living room and kitchen combined. Rows of designer dresses hung like corpses, sealed in plastic, waiting to be worn by a version of me Victoria approved.

I moved to the back, behind a rack of winter coats.

I pressed my finger against a hidden seam in the mahogany shelving.

A panel clicked open.

Nestled behind cashmere sweaters and shoes I never wore was my lifeline.

A ruggedized military laptop.

Victoria Harrington didn’t know it existed.

She believed she had stripped me of everything that made me dangerous.

She forgot the one thing soldiers keep even when everything else is taken.

Resourcefulness.

I opened the laptop.

The screen glowed harsh blue, a stark contrast to the warm suffocating yellow of the house lamps.

I typed in my password—numbers pulled from an old unit ID, the kind of code no Beacon Hill matriarch would think to guess.

An encrypted message appeared.

Intel report incoming.

My eyes scanned the email from my contact.

Subject: Trust fund disbursement.

Hour status.

Active timeline.

Funds unlock in 12 hours.

I let out a breath I didn’t know I’d been holding.

Twelve hours.

Five years of humiliation.

Five years of eating grapefruit and swallowing insults.

Five years of watching the man I loved fade into a chemical haze.

It all came down to this.

The Harrington Family Trust required James to be married and “stable” until his thirty-fifth birthday to access the principal assets.

Victoria had been draining those assets illegally for years, siphoning money through shell companies and “consulting fees.”

Tonight, the money would transfer to James.

And because I had secured a legal authorization—signed during a rare moment of clarity three years ago—tonight I could freeze it.

But freezing money wasn’t enough.

Money wasn’t James.

Money didn’t wake him.

Money didn’t stop Victoria.

I needed one more thing.

I needed the FBI inside the Harrington mansion without waiting for the slow grind of a warrant.

I needed exigent circumstances.

I needed violence.

I closed the laptop and slid it back into its hiding place.

I turned to the full-length mirror.

I stripped off my silk blouse.

The reflection staring back looked thinner than I liked. Too thin for a soldier.

But the muscle was still there, coiled, tense.

I rotated my arm and examined the inside of my wrist.

A bruise bloomed there, yellowing at the edges.

A parting gift from Victoria’s “gentle guidance” last week when she grabbed me too hard to stop me from speaking to a neighbor.

I traced the bruise with my finger.

It throbbed.

A dull ache.

Not just pain.

Fuel.

“Just one more day,” I whispered.

My eyes—usually warm blue—looked back at me with the cold precision of a sniper scope.

One more day.

Then I burn this whole house down.

Not with fire.

With consequences.

I reached for my makeup kit, then paused.

A memory flashed.

A ghost from before the silence.

Before the fear.

A memory of these hands not bruised, but held gently by someone who promised never to let go.

I shut my eyes.

The smell of mothballs and cedar vanished.

And suddenly I was back in the ballroom of the Fairmont Copley Plaza.

Five years ago.

Before the Harrington mansion became my cage.

It was the annual veterans’ fundraiser.