Chapter 3

The next morning, I was woken up by a vicious slap across the face.

"What the hell did you do behind my back, Mara?"

My head spun from the impact. I couldn't even process what he was asking, only instinctively shaking my head in denial.

Grant thought I was playing dumb. His fury spiked. He pinned me against the edge of the bed, his fingers digging brutally into my jaw.

"Still acting?"

"If you didn't say anything, why is Daphne asking about you?"

"She's digging into our marriage records."

I wanted to defend myself, but I had no answers.

How was I supposed to know what Daphne was thinking?

She was an enigma in my past life, too.

She was the one who held my skeletal corpse, sobbing like a madwoman, begging for forgiveness.

She was the one who pushed the investigation that eventually exposed the truth about that behavioral health center.

"It wasn't me... I didn't say anything..."

I gasped for air, struggling to get the words out through his crushing grip.

"You took my phone. You've kept me locked in this estate. How could I have possibly tipped her off?"

That seemed to register. Grant slowly loosened his grip.

When he pulled his hand away, distinct, bruised fingerprints were already forming on my jaw. Every time I swallowed, it felt like swallowing glass.

The moment I was free, I collapsed onto the mattress, dragging oxygen into my burning lungs.

"Then why is she looking into you?"

Grant adjusted his glasses, pacing as he thought it through.

"Did you cross her in the past?"

"Impossible. I've never even met her."

My chest ached as I coughed, but I still forced the explanation out.

Grant just sneered.

"To avoid any complications, you're staying locked in here today."

Panic seized me. I shook my head wildly, my fingers digging into the fabric of his shirt.

"Grant, no."

"I have severe claustrophobia. If you lock me in here all day, I'll die."

He didn't even flinch. He just looked at me like I was pulling another scam.

"Drop the act."

The deadbolt clicked into place.

Staring at the closed door, I squeezed my eyes shut in absolute despair.

He was right.

The current version of me didn't have claustrophobia.

Because that trauma was a parting gift from being locked inside the psychiatric facility in my past life.

I curled into the corner. My breathing grew shallow and erratic. The room started spinning.

"Let me out!"

I screamed until my lips cracked and bled.

I clawed at the door until all ten of my fingers left bloody streaks on the wood, but no one answered.

My cries for help couldn't penetrate the heavy door.

But the faint clinking of wine glasses from upstairs drifted down perfectly.

I could hear Grant's booming laughter, followed by Daphne's bright, ringing agreement.

No.

I got a second chance. I refuse to die quietly in the dark again.

I staked my entire life on one move. I dug into my pocket and pulled out the lighter I had once gifted Grant—the same one he had shoved back into my bag like garbage.

I flicked it open and set the edge of the bedsheet on fire.

The flames surged, violent and hungry. Thick, black smoke began billowing through the cracks in the door, spreading faster than I had anticipated.

Right before my consciousness slipped away, I saw a blur of bright colors as someone violently kicked the door open.

Chapter 3

The next morning, I was woken up by a vicious slap across the face.

"What the hell did you do behind my back, Mara?"

My head spun from the impact. I couldn't even process what he was asking, only instinctively shaking my head in denial.

Grant thought I was playing dumb. His fury spiked. He pinned me against the edge of the bed, his fingers digging brutally into my jaw.

"Still acting?"

"If you didn't say anything, why is Daphne asking about you?"

"She's digging into our marriage records."

I wanted to defend myself, but I had no answers.

How was I supposed to know what Daphne was thinking?

She was an enigma in my past life, too.

She was the one who held my skeletal corpse, sobbing like a madwoman, begging for forgiveness.

She was the one who pushed the investigation that eventually exposed the truth about that behavioral health center.

"It wasn't me... I didn't say anything..."

I gasped for air, struggling to get the words out through his crushing grip.

"You took my phone. You've kept me locked in this estate. How could I have possibly tipped her off?"

That seemed to register. Grant slowly loosened his grip.

When he pulled his hand away, distinct, bruised fingerprints were already forming on my jaw. Every time I swallowed, it felt like swallowing glass.

The moment I was free, I collapsed onto the mattress, dragging oxygen into my burning lungs.

"Then why is she looking into you?"

Grant adjusted his glasses, pacing as he thought it through.

"Did you cross her in the past?"

"Impossible. I've never even met her."

My chest ached as I coughed, but I still forced the explanation out.

Grant just sneered.

"To avoid any complications, you're staying locked in here today."

Panic seized me. I shook my head wildly, my fingers digging into the fabric of his shirt.

"Grant, no."

"I have severe claustrophobia. If you lock me in here all day, I'll die."

He didn't even flinch. He just looked at me like I was pulling another scam.

"Drop the act."

The deadbolt clicked into place.

Staring at the closed door, I squeezed my eyes shut in absolute despair.

He was right.

The current version of me didn't have claustrophobia.

Because that trauma was a parting gift from being locked inside the psychiatric facility in my past life.

I curled into the corner. My breathing grew shallow and erratic. The room started spinning.

"Let me out!"

I screamed until my lips cracked and bled.

I clawed at the door until all ten of my fingers left bloody streaks on the wood, but no one answered.

My cries for help couldn't penetrate the heavy door.

But the faint clinking of wine glasses from upstairs drifted down perfectly.

I could hear Grant's booming laughter, followed by Daphne's bright, ringing agreement.

No.

I got a second chance. I refuse to die quietly in the dark again.

I staked my entire life on one move. I dug into my pocket and pulled out the lighter I had once gifted Grant—the same one he had shoved back into my bag like garbage.

I flicked it open and set the edge of the bedsheet on fire.

The flames surged, violent and hungry. Thick, black smoke began billowing through the cracks in the door, spreading faster than I had anticipated.

Right before my consciousness slipped away, I saw a blur of bright colors as someone violently kicked the door open.