From Ashes: The Unwanted Wife's Return

Ellie Gilbert POV:

I drifted back to consciousness in my own bed, the familiar prick of an IV in my arm. The anaphylaxis had been severe, leaving me weak and hollowed out. I lay there for days, a prisoner in my own body, the silence of the penthouse broken only by the distant sounds of Jace and Fallon's life continuing without me.

Each tick of the clock was a countdown. Ten days left. Then nine. Eight. The number was a mantra, a secret prayer that kept me from shattering completely.

On the morning of the tenth day, just five days before my escape, I was jolted awake by the sound of my bedroom door being thrown open. Fallon stood there, her face contorted with rage.

"You bitch!" she shrieked, her voice echoing in the quiet room. "Where is it?"

I stared at her, my mind foggy from the lingering effects of the medication. "Where is what?"

"Don't play dumb with me!" She stalked towards the bed, her eyes blazing. "My mother's sapphire bracelet! The one Jace gave me yesterday. It's gone!"

She jabbed a finger in my face. "You took it! I know you did! You're nothing but a common thief! It's in your blood, isn't it? Everyone in New York knows how you got your start. A cheap little grifter, seducing men for money."

I flinched as if struck. The words were poison, but what hurt more was the flicker of dark recognition in Jace's eyes as he appeared behind her. He remembered the bet. The ten-million-dollar price tag he had paid for me. To him, in this moment, I was nothing more than damaged goods he had overpaid for.

"Ellie, give it back," he said, his voice flat.

"I don't have it, Jace," I insisted, my voice trembling. "I haven't left this room."

"I don't believe you," Fallon snarled. "Search her room! Search everything!"

Jace hesitated for only a second before nodding to the two guards who had materialized behind him. "Do it."

I watched in horror as they began to tear my room apart. They were methodical, brutal. They ripped open drawers, throwing my clothes onto the floor. They upended my jewelry box, scattering the few precious items I owned. They tore pages from my books, sliced open the lining of my purses. It was a violation, a systematic destruction of the last private space I had.

The staff gathered at the door, their faces a mixture of pity and morbid curiosity. I was being publicly humiliated, stripped bare in my own home. My sanctuary had become a stage for my degradation.

Of course, they found nothing.

Fallon's face grew uglier with frustration. "She must have it on her! Strip her!"

The command hung in the air, thick and obscene.

Jace looked at me, a long, calculating look. I saw a flicker of something-shame? hesitation?-before it was extinguished by his desire to appease Fallon. "Do it," he said, his voice tight.

"No!" I screamed, scrambling to the far corner of the bed, pulling the sheets around me like a shield. "You can't!"

But they could. The guards, two large, impassive men, advanced on me. One ripped the sheets away while the other grabbed my arms, pinning me against the headboard. My nightgown was torn from my body, leaving me exposed, naked, under the cold, judging eyes of the staff, of Fallon, of the man who was still my husband.

They searched me, their hands clinical and rough, violating me with their touch as much as their eyes. It was a slow, deliberate assault on my dignity, my humanity. I closed my eyes, a single, hot tear tracing a path down my cheek. The world dissolved into a vortex of shame and powerlessness.

They found nothing.

Just as the guard was about to release me, Fallon's phone rang. Her voice was sharp with annoyance. "What? ... You found it where? ... In the pocket of my coat from yesterday? ... Don't be ridiculous, I checked there." She hung up, a faint blush staining her cheeks.

She didn't apologize. She simply turned and swept out of the room, her head held high, leaving me in the wreckage of my life.

The staff dispersed, their whispers following them down the hall.

Only Jace remained. He stood by the door, not looking at me, his face a mask of conflicted emotions. He finally cleared his throat.

"I'm sorry about that," he said, the words sounding hollow and inadequate. He pulled out his wallet and removed a stack of hundred-dollar bills, placing them on the ravaged dresser. "This should cover the damages."

He was trying to pay me. For my humiliation. For my pain. For my stolen dignity. He was putting a price on my soul, just as he had done five years ago.

The cold finality of it washed over me. I was nothing more than a transaction to him. An investment that had soured.