Ex - Wife's Revenge

The tablet felt like a live grenade in my hands as I stepped out of the management office. Evidence. Finally, I had proof of what Remi had done—the sabotaged dress, the calculated humiliation, the pregnancy that wasn't Lane's. My fingers tightened around the device, my pulse hammering in my ears.

The theater corridor stretched before me, dim and silent. The awards ceremony was still happening somewhere beyond these walls, but here, the emptiness felt absolute. My heels clicked against the polished floor, each step echoing like a countdown.

I should have run.

The first man appeared from the shadows near the stage entrance—broad-shouldered, wearing black tactical gear that had no business being here. My stomach dropped. Behind him, two more emerged, blocking my path back to the skybridge.

"Mrs. Tucker." The lead one's voice was flat, professional. "We need that tablet."

My throat closed. "Who sent you?"

Stupid question. I already knew.

I bolted toward the stage door, but they were faster. Hands grabbed my arms, wrenching the tablet from my grip so violently that pain shot through my wrist. I screamed, the sound swallowed by the theater's acoustic dampening, and tried to twist free.

"Remi says hello," one of them muttered, and drove his fist into my ribs.

The air left my lungs. I doubled over, gasping, and felt them drag me toward the stage. The grand theater loomed around us—rows of empty seats rising into darkness, the stage itself vast and exposed under work lights. Props from Lane's upcoming rehearsal cluttered the wings: microphone stands, speaker towers, and the rigging system's control panel blinking red.

"Make it look like an accident," the leader said, and my blood turned to ice.

They hauled me up the stage stairs. I kicked, clawed, tried to scream again, but one of them clamped a hand over my mouth. My vision blurred with tears and terror as they dragged me toward the rigging ropes—the system used to fly equipment and performers high above the stage.

"No," I choked out when the hand moved. "Please—"

They bound my wrists with the rope, the nylon biting into my skin. I fought harder, pure panic flooding my system, but there were three of them and my body was already screaming from the earlier blow.

The leader moved to the control panel.

"Wait!" My voice cracked. "You can't—"

The rigging system engaged with a mechanical whir. The rope went taut, yanking my arms above my head, and suddenly I was rising—pulled upward by the merciless machinery, my feet leaving the stage floor. Ten feet. Fifteen. Twenty.

Pain exploded through my shoulders as my full weight hung from my bound wrists. I screamed, the sound raw and desperate, echoing through the empty theater. Below me, the men looked like insects. The stage floor was a distant, deadly promise.

"She'll hang there till someone finds her," I heard one say, his voice carrying in the terrible acoustics. "Boss said make her suffer first."

They left. Just walked away, their footsteps fading, and I was alone—suspended thirty feet above the stage, my shoulders dislocating by degrees, my wrists bleeding where the rope cut through skin.

I couldn't breathe properly. Each gasp sent fire through my ribs where I'd been hit. My vision swam, dark spots blooming like ink in water. The work lights above me blurred into halos, and distantly, I thought: This is how I die. Hanging in Lane's theater like a piece of broken equipment.

The pain became everything—white-hot, all-consuming. I heard myself whimpering, sounds I couldn't control. My body went limp, too exhausted to fight the inevitable.

Darkness crept in from the edges.

The last thing I registered before I lost consciousness was the distant sound of doors opening, voices echoing through the theater. Lane's voice, achingly familiar: "What the hell is going on?"

And then nothing.