After My Husband Tried to Kill Me for Her

The tea tastes wrong.

I notice it halfway through the cup—a bitter, chemical edge beneath the chamomile. But Angelique is watching me with those glittering eyes, her smile sharp as a scalpel, and I'm too tired to care. Too broken to fight.

"Drink up," she says, refilling my cup from the porcelain pot. "You look exhausted, poor thing. This will help you sleep."

We're in the east wing sitting room, the one no one uses. She summoned me here an hour ago with a text: *We need to discuss your mother's surgery. Come alone.* The room smells of dust and old roses. The windows overlook the garden two stories below.

My limbs feel heavy. The walls pulse and breathe.

"What did you put in this?" The words slur together.

Angelique's smile widens. "Just a little something to help you relax. You've been so tense lately." She stands, smoothing her silk dress. "I have a surprise for you. Someone who's very eager to see you."

She glides to the door. Opens it.

Richard steps inside.

The chauffeur's eyes rake over me, dark and hungry. He closes the door behind him. The lock clicks.

"What—" I try to stand. My legs buckle. The room spins like a carousel. "What is this?"

"Your engagement party." Angelique's voice comes from very far away. "Richard has been so patient. I thought we'd give you two some privacy."

She moves toward the door. I lunge for her, but my body won't obey. I crash to my knees on the Persian rug.

"Don't worry," she says, pausing in the doorway. "I'll make sure Isaac hears all about your enthusiastic acceptance. We'll have such lovely evidence."

She's holding her phone. The camera light blinks red.

Then she's gone. The lock turns from the outside.

Richard advances. His shadow falls across me like a shroud.

"I've wanted this for months," he says, his voice thick. "Watching you in those tight dresses, acting like you're too good for me."

His hands reach for me.

Something animal and primal ignites in my chest. I roll away, my vision blurring, and my fingers close around something solid—a brass lamp on the side table. I swing it with every ounce of strength I have left.

The base connects with his temple. He staggers back, cursing.

I don't think. There's no time to think.

I hurl the lamp at the window.

Glass explodes outward in a glittering cascade. Cold night air rushes in, sharp and clean, cutting through the drug-fog in my brain.

Richard lunges again. His fingers catch my sleeve.

I throw myself through the shattered window.

For one impossible moment, I'm flying. The stars wheel overhead. The wind screams in my ears.

Then I'm falling.

The rose bushes break my fall and tear me apart simultaneously. Thorns rip through fabric and skin. Something in my leg snaps with a sound like a branch breaking. Pain detonates up my spine, white-hot and absolute.

I can't breathe. Can't move. The world is thorns and blood and the copper taste of my own terror.

Footsteps thunder across the terrace. Voices shout.

"Ivy!" Isaac's face swims into view above me, his features twisted with something that might be concern or might be fury. I can't tell anymore. Can't tell anything.

"Help," I whisper. Blood fills my mouth. "He tried to—Angelique drugged—"

"What the hell were you thinking?" His voice cuts through the darkness like a whip. "Throwing yourself out a window? What kind of psychotic stunt is this?"

Angelique appears beside him, her face a perfect mask of shock and distress. "Oh my God, Isaac. I left her alone for five minutes. She must have been drinking—"

"I wasn't—she poisoned—" The words tangle in my throat.

"You're out of control, Ivy." Isaac stands, his shadow blocking out the stars. "This is exactly the kind of dramatic, attention-seeking behavior I've been dealing with for months. You can't stand that I'm happy, so you pull this?"

I'm lying in a bed of thorns, my leg shattered, blood pooling beneath me, and my husband is calling me dramatic.

Something inside me dies. Something essential. The last fragile thread connecting me to the girl who believed in love, who believed in him, who believed she deserved to be saved.

"I'm calling an ambulance," someone says. A servant, maybe. Their voice sounds far away.

"Make sure they know she's unstable," Angelique says softly. "This isn't the first time she's been erratic."

Isaac doesn't contradict her.

I close my eyes. The cold ground seeps into my bones. Above me, the stars blur and fade.

And I understand, finally, with perfect clarity: no one is coming to save me.

If I want to survive this, I'll have to save myself.