Chapter 6
The bodyguards' hands clamped down hard on my shoulder.
My right arm flopped limply as I was dragged along.
The pain from my dislocated shoulder surged in waves, and my vision kept going dark.
I clutched my limp arm, fixing my gaze on Charles.
"It was Isabelle. She tripped Lucas," I yelled. My throat burned from shouting. "She tried to make Lucas fall to his death."
Charles's face darkened with anger.
He snatched a file from his assistant and slammed it onto the coffee table.
"Severe depression, with paranoid delusions." He gave me a cold stare. "Dr. Larson just did this assessment today. How am I supposed to trust you?"
The bodyguards dragged me all the way up to the third floor.
Charles followed at a leisurely pace.
When we reached the guest room door, he raised his hand, signaling the bodyguards to let go.
"Go in and rest," he said.
He straightened his cuffs, his tone shifting to that grudging tolerance, as if he was doing me a favor.
"As long as you behave and stop making a scene," he said. "In the future, I might consider letting you see Lucas more often."
My stomach twisted with nausea.
I leaned against the doorframe, slowly raising my head.
"Charles," I said quietly. "In these three years, did you ever trust me, even once?"
The hallway sconce cast light across his profile.
He didn't look at me; his gaze shifted to a painting on the wall.
He said nothing.
I let out a bitter smile.
I turned and dragged myself into the guest room.
The door closed behind me.
The lock snapped shut with a sharp click.
Night fell.
Rain hammered against the window outside.
The lock gave a sharp click, and someone pushed the door open.
The hallway light spilled in, cutting across the room.
Isabelle stood there, bathed in the glow.
She was wearing the silk white dress I used to own.
She locked the door from the inside without a second thought.
Her heels clicked on the floor as she walked right up to me.
The hem of her white dress brushed against my leg.
She bent down, bringing her lips close to my ear. "You thought Charles would ever trust you?"
She chuckled softly, her laughter pressed close to my ear. "Do you know why Dr. Larson is so hell-bent on calling you crazy?
"Three years ago, right after you'd given birth to Lucas and they wheeled you into the hospital room. I slipped him 1.5 million dollars.
"Postpartum depression, losing your mind, seeing things... I watched him write up every single one of those medical records, right in front of me."
I was rooted to the spot, paralyzed by shock.
My chest clenched suddenly, and my breath stopped.
Isabelle straightened up, smoothed her dress, opened the door, and left.
The only thing left was the muffled sound of rain pattering against the glass.
The surveillance camera in the corner of the ceiling blinked with a red light.
I bit down on my lower lip, dragging my useless right arm as I crawled along the wall toward the blind spot behind the wardrobe.
Every time my right arm bumped into something, I couldn't stop trembling all over.
Cold sweat dripped onto the floor.
My clothes were soaked through, plastered to my back.
The pain was so intense, my fingertips went numb.
I crawled into the blind spot behind the wardrobe, out of the camera's view.
With my left hand, I searched for the loose section of the baseboard.
I pulled out an old diary from the hidden gap.
By the pale flash of lightning outside, I could see just enough to work.
I bit the cap off the ballpoint pen with my teeth.
My left hand gripped the pen, my wrist trembling violently.
I bit down on my lip until the metallic taste of blood filled my mouth.
With shaky, uneven strokes, I wrote down Dr. Larson and 1.5 million dollars.
I wrote down how Isabelle tripped Lucas with her foot.
I wrote down the report Charles slammed on the coffee table.
I pressed the pen so hard that the tip ripped right through the paper.
My left hand slipped, smacking into my injured right arm.
Pain surged up, and cold sweat mixed with streaks of blood from my fingertips dripped onto the page.
It blurred into a dark red blot.
I leaned against the icy wall.
I stared at the blood and the messy handwriting.
My chest ached with suffocating pain.
Three years of marriage was nothing but a complete joke.