Chapter 2
The next day, my boyfriend was assigned overseas by his company for a whole year.
Later, I discovered a tracking app had been installed on my phone, and two "security guards" were always hanging around outside my apartment.
Every time I went out for groceries, I'd so coincidentally bump into Andrew's car.
When I confronted him, Andrew lowered his head and refused to answer.
I tried to quit my job, but Andrew tore up my resignation letter right in front of me.
I moved out, but Andrew tracked me down that same day.
The last time I tried to run, I boarded a train headed out of state. But before the train stopped, Andrew cornered me in the passageway between cars.
He seized my wrist, his grip so tight that it felt like he was about to break my bones.
His eyes were red, and his voice trembled. "Claire, what do you want me to do?"
I replied, "Let me go."
He didn't say a word. He took me back to that villa and locked me in the basement.
It was my first time in that basement.
It was huge and very dark, with a massive bed and a cabinet in the corner filled with medicine and bandages.
Andrew sat by the bed, watching me, his face full of conflicting emotions. There was anger, resentment, fear, and a near-mad determination.
"Be mine," Andrew said. "Whatever you want, I'll give it to you."
I shook my head. "I don't want that."
He stared at me, silent for a long time.
"Then what do you want?" Andrew asked. "What will it take for you to stay?"
I said, "I want freedom."
He didn't say anything.
That night, he didn't lay a finger on me. He sat by the bed, staying there the whole night.
When I woke up the next morning, he was still there, his eyes bloodshot. It was obvious he hadn't slept a wink.
"Claire," he said, "marry me."
I said, "Have you lost your mind?"
He said, "Yeah, I guess I have."
It wasn't until later that I realized he really had a mental problem.
The doctor told me he had something called attachment disorder, a psychological issue rooted in his childhood.
I never figured out the exact reason, but the symptoms were obvious: once he decided someone belonged to him, he'd stop at nothing to keep her close.
The first year Andrew pursued me, I thought he admired me.
The second year, I thought he liked me.
The third year, I thought he was obsessed.
By the fourth year, I finally realized he was sick.
But what did it matter? We were already married.
Our marriage lasted two years. During those two years, I tried to run away seven times, and every single time, Andrew tracked me down and brought me back.
Each time he caught me, he'd lock me in the basement. The next day, when he let me out, his eyes would be red. He'd apologize, cook for me, and rub the marks on my wrists.
After a while, he'd go crazy all over again.
The neighbors started giving me weird looks.
Some felt sorry for me, while others thought I was the crazy one. "Why doesn't she leave? Maybe she's in it for the money," they gossiped.
I was not in it for the money. There was no way for me to get away.
Andrew installed a tracking device, hired bodyguards, and hid my ID card.
I tried everything, including calling the police, hiring a lawyer, and reaching out to the Grant family, but it was like throwing stones into the sea. No one ever responded, and nothing ever changed.
Andrew's mom came to see me once, and her attitude was hard to read.
"Claire," she said, "Andrew never felt safe growing up. His dad passed away early, and I was always busy with the company, so I wasn't really there for him.
"Since he met you, he's changed a lot. I knew it. Can't you..."
I shook my head. "No."
She sighed and stayed silent.
Later, I found out that after she left that day, she arranged for Andrew to see a therapist.
It was three times a week, like clockwork.
After about half a year of therapy, things actually seemed to improve. Andrew lost his temper less, barely locked me in the basement anymore, and took down a few of the tracking devices himself.
I thought he'd finally come to his senses.
Then one night, he came home really late, smelling of booze, and pulled me out of bed.
"Claire," he said, his gaze shifting back to that look that always scared me, "are you planning to leave?"
I told him no.
He didn't believe me.
That was a night I'd rather not think about.
All I remember was waking up the next morning to find Andrew sitting by the bed, with tear stains on his face and blood on his wrists. He'd dug his nails into his own skin until it bled.
"I'm sorry," Andrew said. "I'm sorry, Claire. I lost control again."
I lay in bed, staring up at the ceiling, and whispered, "Andrew, I want a divorce."
He froze. Then he shook his head, like a stubborn kid. "No. I'm not divorcing. I won't."
I closed my eyes and stayed silent.
I never imagined that in the end, it would be a car accident that made us get divorced.
What really caught me off guard was that after the accident, Andrew forgot all about me.
Andrew's mom moved fast.
Before I made it back from that island, the divorce papers were already drawn up. The terms were generous: 300 million dollars, a house, and a confidentiality agreement.
"Sign this, and you're no longer part of the Grant family," Andrew's mom said over the phone, her voice cold as ice.
She added, "Andrew's doing fine now. The doctors say his memory will come back, but the parts about you? They'll probably stay a blur forever. So, don't count on him ever remembering you."