Escaping My Coldhearted Billionaire Husband

Inside the Panic Room, time ceased to exist. The absolute darkness pressed against Ada's eyeballs like a physical weight.

Her claustrophobia triggered a severe panic attack. Her lungs felt like they were filled with wet cement. She gasped for air, her fingernails frantically scratching at her own throat as if trying to tear it open to breathe.

The freezing temperature of the concrete floor seeped into her bones. Her body, already weakened by malnutrition, succumbed to a violent fever.

She curled into a fetal position in the corner. Her mind began to fracture, slipping into a delirious, semi-conscious state. The trauma of the prison's water torture and dark cells flooded her brain.

Her cracked, bleeding lips parted. She began to mutter a name, over and over, in a broken, desperate whisper.

"Kael... Kael, please... save me..."

Two floors above, in the master study, Desmond sat frozen in his leather chair.

He was staring at the security monitor. The infrared camera in the Panic Room showed Ada curled in a glowing white ball on the floor. He wore a headset, intending to listen to her beg for his mercy.

Instead, the audio feed pumped that loathed name directly into his ears.

Kael.

Desmond's jaw clenched so hard his teeth ground together. A sudden, violent surge of jealousy erupted in his chest, burning like acid.

Kael. The name was a brand on Desmond’s soul. Her lover from before prison. The father of the bastard child she had lost.

He aggressively typed the name into his computer terminal, searching for any new lead on the man's whereabouts. Still nothing. The man’s disappearance three years ago only fueled his rage.

On the screen, Ada's body suddenly convulsed violently. Then, she went completely limp. The slight rise and fall of her chest became dangerously shallow.

Desmond ripped the headset off, cursing loudly. He shoved his chair back, sprinted out of the study, and took the stairs down to the basement two at a time.

He punched the code into the keypad. The heavy metal door swung open, spilling harsh hallway light into the room.

Desmond stepped inside and kicked the sole of her shoe. "Get up. Stop faking."

Ada didn't move.

Desmond cursed again, bending down to grab her arm. The moment his skin touched hers, he recoiled. She was burning up. Her skin felt like a furnace.

Annoyed, he slid his arms under her knees and back, lifting her off the floor.

As he pulled her up, the cheap, oversized collar of her maid's uniform caught on his watch. The rough fabric tore, sliding down her arm and exposing her left shoulder and entire upper back to the bright hallway light.

Desmond froze. His breath caught in his throat.

His eyes locked onto her skin.

It was a landscape of horror. Thick, raised keloid scars crisscrossed over her shoulder blades. There were circular burn marks from cigarettes, jagged lines from shiv cuts, and the unmistakable, parallel welts of a leather whip.

The scars were brutal, ugly, and undeniably real.

Desmond's heart physically dropped in his chest. A sharp, unfamiliar ache pierced his ribs. He had assumed federal prison was just a loss of freedom. He had never imagined she was subjected to systematic, barbaric torture.

His hands, holding her burning body, suddenly felt unsteady. A dark, twisted sense of guilt clawed at his throat, though he immediately tried to suppress it.

He tightened his grip, pulling her closer to his chest, and carried her rapidly up the stairs to his own master bedroom.

Before he laid her down, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a sleek, titanium tracking anklet. He locked it securely around her thin ankle, the metal cold against her burning skin. He wasn't going to risk her disappearing into the shadows again.

He laid her gently on the massive king-sized bed and immediately hit the intercom to summon the private estate doctor.

When the doctor arrived and began administering an IV drip, he saw the scars. He opened his mouth to ask.

"Shut your mouth and do your job," Desmond snapped, his voice lethal.

Once the doctor left, Desmond sat on the edge of the bed. He stared at Ada's pale, sweat-slicked face.

An hour later, Ada's eyelashes fluttered. The fever reducer was working. She opened her eyes.

Seeing Desmond sitting there, her body reacted on pure instinct. She scrambled backward against the headboard, pulling the blanket up to her chin, her eyes wide with terror.

"Please," she rasped, her voice broken. "Just give me the divorce. I want nothing. I'll disappear."

The brief moment of pity in Desmond's eyes vanished, replaced by a cold, possessive fury. He leaned over her, his hands trapping her against the headboard.

"I told you," he whispered, his voice dangerously soft. "You are never leaving. You will die an Ortiz."