Chapter 2

The hospital room had become my prison, sterile white walls closing in with each passing hour. I stared at the ceiling tiles, counting the tiny holes in each square panel for the hundredth time, waiting for Colson's footsteps in the hallway. The doctors said my legs would heal, but the waiting—the endless, suffocating waiting—was driving me mad.

Mrs. Wilson appeared in my doorway like an angel of mercy, carrying a thermos of homemade soup and wearing that expression I'd learned to read over the years. Something was wrong.

"How are you feeling today, dear?" she asked, setting the soup on my bedside table with careful precision.

"Better," I lied, shifting uncomfortably against the pillows. The pain medication made everything fuzzy around the edges, but it couldn't touch the ache in my chest. "Colson should be here soon. He said he had some business to handle this morning."

Mrs. Wilson's face tightened almost imperceptibly. She busied herself arranging the flowers on my windowsill—wilted roses that had been there for three days.

"Mrs. Wilson?" I pressed, recognizing that look. "What is it?"

She turned slowly, her weathered hands clasped in front of her apron. "Miss Jade, I don't like to carry tales, but... Mr. Colson hasn't been handling business this morning."

The words hung between us like a blade waiting to fall.

"Where has he been?" My voice came out smaller than I intended.

"At the Ritz-Carlton. Suite 1205. With Miss Diana." Each word was delivered with surgical precision, cutting deeper than any knife the kidnappers had used. "Every day since you've been here. Sometimes he doesn't leave until after midnight."

The thermos slipped from my numb fingers, clattering to the floor and sending soup splashing across the linoleum. The smell of chicken broth filled the room, making my stomach turn.

"That's not possible." But even as I said it, fragments of memory surfaced—the phone calls that ended abruptly when I woke up, the way his clothes always smelled like expensive perfume, the distant look in his eyes when he thought I wasn't watching.

"I'm sorry, dear. I thought you should know."

After she left, I sat in the growing darkness of my hospital room, watching shadows creep across the walls. When Colson finally arrived at eight o'clock—three hours late—I was ready.

"You look tired," I said, studying his face in the harsh fluorescent light. There were lipstick traces on his collar, faint but unmistakable.

"It's been a long day." He kissed my forehead perfunctorily, already reaching for his phone. "How are you feeling?"

"Where were you, Colson?"

His fingers stilled on the screen. "What do you mean?"

"I mean where were you today. And yesterday. And every day since I've been in this bed."

The silence stretched between us like a chasm. When he finally looked up, his eyes were cold, calculating. The warmth I'd fallen in love with had been replaced by something I didn't recognize.

"Diana is going through a difficult time," he said finally, his voice flat and matter-of-fact. "The investigation, the media attention—it's overwhelming for her."

"Overwhelming for her?" The words came out as a strangled laugh. "Colson, she hired people to torture me. I have pins in both my legs because of her."

"She made a mistake—"

"A mistake?" I struggled to sit up straighter, ignoring the shooting pain in my legs. "Look at me. Look at what she did to me."

But he wouldn't. Just like in that warehouse, he turned his face away, unable or unwilling to confront the reality of my pain.

"She needs emotional support right now," he continued, his voice taking on that patronizing tone I was beginning to hate. "I can't abandon her when she's vulnerable."

"But you can abandon me."

"That's different. You're strong. You'll get through this."

The casual dismissal hit me like a physical blow. I reached for my phone with shaking hands, scrolling through my contacts until I found the number for the city clerk's office.

"What are you doing?" Colson asked, finally paying attention.

"Canceling our wedding registration."

The words seemed to shock him out of his detached demeanor. He lunged forward, trying to grab the phone from my hands.

"Jade, don't be dramatic. You're upset—"

"Yes, Mr. Harris? This is Jade Miller. I need to cancel my wedding registration scheduled for next month." I kept my voice steady, professional, even as Colson's face flushed red with anger.

"Are you out of your mind?" he hissed after I hung up. "You're using your injuries to manipulate me. This is emotional blackmail."

I stared at him, this man I thought I knew, and felt something cold and final settle in my chest. "Get out."

"Jade—"

"Get out of my room. Get out of my sight."

He stood there for a moment, his mouth opening and closing like a fish gasping for air. Then he straightened his tie, smoothed down his hair, and walked toward the door.

"You'll regret this," he said without turning around. "When you're thinking clearly again, you'll realize you've made a terrible mistake."

The door closed behind him with a soft click, leaving me alone with the antiseptic smell and the steady beep of my heart monitor. But for the first time since the warehouse, I felt something other than pain.

I felt free.