My Husband Imprisoned Me to Fund His Mistress’s Career

Day 1,826.

The charcoal crumbled between my thumb and forefinger as I added the vertical slash to the concrete wall behind the water heater. Dust coated my skin, a dry, gray powder that matched the rest of my existence. Five years. Sixty months of silence, broken only by the hum of the ventilation system and the heavy thud of the deadbolt sliding home.

My sanctuary. My prison.

The heavy steel door at the top of the stairs groaned. I shoved the charcoal shard into the crack between the floor and the wall, wiping my hands on my oversized gray sweatpants. I didn't need a mirror to know I looked like a ghost—pale, thin, eyes too large for a face that hadn't felt direct sunlight since the accident.

Wyatt descended the stairs. He wore a crisp navy suit, the kind that cost more than my parents’ house. He carried a plastic tray with the reverence of a priest offering communion. A bowl of soup, a roll, and a glass of water.

"Tessa," he said softly. His voice was warm, a terrifying contrast to the cold dampness of the basement. "You look tired, baby."

"It’s hard to sleep when the air recycler rattles," I said, keeping my eyes on his polished oxfords.

He set the tray on the small folding table. "I’ll have maintenance look at it. But you know we can't have anyone down here. Not with the investigation heating up again."

He stepped closer, his hand reaching out to tuck a strand of hair behind my ear. I didn't flinch. I had learned that flinching made him sad, and when Wyatt was sad, the lights stayed off for days.

"The police were asking about the car again," he lied. The lie was smooth, practiced. "They found new tire tracks near the ravine. I had to pay off another detective just to keep them away from the property."

I looked up then. His face was a mask of concern, brows knitted together. But as he leaned in to kiss my forehead, I smelled it. Not his usual sandalwood cologne, but something floral. Jasmine and vanilla. And there, on the stiff white collar of his shirt—a faint, coral smudge.

*Haley.*

My stepsister wore that shade. 'Coral Reef.' She used to say it made her teeth look whiter.

"I need you to focus, Tessa," Wyatt said, pulling back. He tapped the sketchbook lying on the cot. "The legal fees are draining us. I need that 'Midnight' collection finished by tomorrow. We need the capital to keep you safe."

"Safe," I echoed. The word tasted like ash.

"For us," he corrected. "Now eat. I have a conference call upstairs. I'll be back for the sketches in an hour."

He turned and walked up the stairs. The heavy door clicked shut, but the deadbolt didn't slide.

My heart hammered against my ribs, a trapped bird desperate for flight. He never forgot the lock. Never.

I waited ten seconds. Twenty. Then, I moved. My socks made no sound on the concrete as I crept up the stairs. I pressed my ear to the crack.

"...pathetic, honestly," Wyatt’s voice drifted through, lighter now, stripped of the heavy concern he wore for me. "She bought the story about the tire tracks. She’s terrified."

A woman’s laugh tinkled through the gap. Tinny. He had her on speakerphone.

"And the sketches?" Haley’s voice. Unmistakable.

"She’s working on them. You'll have your portfolio for Milan, babe. Just make sure the flight to the Maldives is booked under your maiden name. I can't have a paper trail while my 'grieving husband' act is still playing to the public."

"God, Wyatt, five years is a long time to play grieving. Just divorce her already."

"I can't divorce a dead woman, Haley. Besides, who else can draw like her? You certainly can't."

They laughed together. A synchronized, cruel sound that shredded the last five years of my reality. There were no police. There was no investigation. I wasn't hiding from a manslaughter charge. I was just... inventory.

A scream rose in my throat, hot and acidic. I bit down on the meat of my hand, hard, until I tasted copper. The pain grounded me. If I screamed, he would know. If he knew, the door would lock forever.

I backed down the stairs, one agonizing step at a time, and collapsed onto the cot just as the floorboards creaked above.

***

The next evening, the air in the basement was stale, heavy with the scent of impending violence.

Wyatt came down at six. He didn't bring food this time. He just held out his hand. "The sketchbook, Tessa."

I was sitting on the edge of the cot, the book in my lap. My hands weren't shaking. I had passed through terror into a cold, numb rage.

"No," I said.

Wyatt blinked, his hand still extended. "Excuse me?"

"There are no police, Wyatt." I stood up, clutching the sketchbook like a shield. "I heard you. You and Haley. The Maldives. The lies."

His face didn't crumble. He didn't panic. Instead, the warmth evaporated from his eyes, leaving behind two dark, empty tunnels. He lowered his hand slowly.

"You shouldn't eavesdrop, Tessa. It’s rude."

"You locked me in a hole for five years!" I shouted, throwing the sketchbook at him. It hit his chest and fell to the floor, spilling pages of intricate diamond chokers and emerald cuffs—the designs that had made Haley famous. "You stole my life!"

Wyatt stepped over the book. He pulled a sleek tablet from his jacket pocket and tapped the screen.

"I didn't steal your life, Tessa. I saved it. You were always too fragile for the real world."

He turned the screen toward me.

It was a live feed. A sterile white room. A bed surrounded by beeping machines. In the center, a pale, still figure with a tube down his throat.

"James," I whispered. My brother.

"He’s doing well," Wyatt said casually, as if discussing the weather. "Expensive facility. Private care. I pay the bills, Tessa. Every single month."

He tapped the screen again. A menu appeared. **Ventilator Control: Active.** His finger hovered over the 'Deactivate' button.

"Haley needs a new line for the spring gala," Wyatt said, his voice devoid of emotion. "She wants something vintage. Art Deco influences."

I stared at the screen, at the rhythmic rise and fall of James's chest. It was the only thing tethering me to sanity.

"You wouldn't," I choked out.

"Defy me again," Wyatt said, his finger inching closer to the glass, "and I'll turn this basement into a tomb for both of you."

He kicked the sketchbook back toward my feet.

"Pick it up, Tessa. You have work to do."