My Husband Imprisoned Me to Fund His Mistress’s Career

The world was a smear of gray and white, viewed through the haze of whatever cocktail Dr. Blackwood had pushed into my IV. My body felt hollowed out, a cavern where vital organs used to be. The pain in my lower abdomen was a dull, throbbing reminder of what had been stolen, but the sedative made it feel distant, like it was happening to someone else.

"She's struggling again," a voice grunted.

I wasn't struggling. I was just trying to breathe. The canvas of the straitjacket was tight across my chest, compressing my ribs.

"Give her another ten milligrams," Wyatt's voice drifted from somewhere above. "Saint Jude's won't take her if she's lucid. They need blank slates."

I felt the prick of a needle, followed by a cold rush up my arm. The basement ceiling dissolved into the interior of a van. Metal walls. No windows. Just the smell of diesel and antiseptic.

"This is for the best, Tessa," Wyatt murmured, his hand resting briefly on my forehead. It felt like a brand. "You have nothing left to lose now. You're... empty. Dangerous. The basement isn't enough anymore."

The doors slammed shut, sealing me in darkness. The engine roared to life, vibrating through the metal floor and into my bones. I closed my eyes, letting the darkness take me. If this was death, I welcomed it.

Time became fluid. The road was bumpy, the turns sharp. I drifted in and out of consciousness, haunted by images of a cradle I would never fill, a future I would never have.

Then, the world exploded.

A screech of tires, a sickening crunch of metal on metal, and the van spun violently. My body slammed against the wall, the impact knocking the wind out of me. The van tipped, groaning, before crashing onto its side. Glass shattered. The engine died, replaced by the hiss of steam and the shouting of men.

I lay there, suspended in the straps, staring at the dented roof. *This is it,* I thought. *Wyatt finally decided to finish the job.*

The rear doors were ripped open with a screech of tortured metal. Rain lashed in, cold and biting against my face. Figures in tactical gear swarmed the opening, their flashlights cutting through the gloom.

"Clear!" one shouted.

A man stepped into the van. He wasn't wearing tactical gear. He wore a long dark coat, soaked with rain. He moved with a predatory grace, stepping over the unconscious driver without a glance. He knelt beside me, his face illuminated by the harsh beam of a flashlight.

He had a scar running through his left eyebrow, giving him a dangerous, rugged look. But his eyes... they weren't cold like Wyatt's. They were a stormy gray, filled with an intensity that burned.

"Tessa," he breathed. It wasn't a question. It was a prayer.

He pulled a knife from his belt. I flinched, bracing for the blade, but he only sliced through the restraints holding me to the wall. He gathered me into his arms, lifting me as if I weighed nothing.

"I've got you," he whispered against my hair. His voice was deep, vibrating against my chest. "I've been looking for you for five years. You're safe now."

I wanted to ask who he was, to scream, to fight, but the darkness was pulling me under again. The last thing I felt was the rain on my face and the steady, powerful beat of his heart against my ear.

***

Light. Soft, golden light.

I blinked, expecting the harsh fluorescent glare of the basement or the sterile white of the hospital. Instead, I saw a high ceiling adorned with intricate plaster molding. Sunlight streamed through tall French windows, dancing on the dust motes in the air.

Panic surged. I sat up too fast, and the room spun. The ache in my abdomen flared, a sharp reminder of the surgery. I clutched the high-thread-count sheets to my chest, my heart hammering a frantic rhythm.

"Easy," a voice said from the shadows.

I scrambled back against the headboard, my breath coming in short gasps. The man from the van stood near the window, keeping his distance. He held a tray with a teapot and a porcelain cup.

"Who are you?" My voice was a rasp, unused and broken. "Where is Wyatt?"

"Wyatt is in New York," the man said calmly. He set the tray on a small table and took a step back, hands raised to show he was unarmed. "You are in Paris. My name is Magnus."

"Paris?" The word felt alien on my tongue. "That's impossible. I was... the van..."

"The van never made it to Saint Jude's," Magnus said. He moved closer, slowly, like approaching a frightened animal. "I intercepted it. You're safe here, Tessa. Wyatt has no jurisdiction in France. This estate is off the grid."

I stared at him, trying to process the information. Paris. Magnus. Safe. None of it made sense.

"Why?" I whispered. "Why would you help me?"

Magnus looked at me then, his gray eyes softening. "You don't remember me, do you? University. The scholarship fund that saved my education."

A memory flickered. A desperate student, about to drop out. An anonymous donation from my trust fund, back before Haley and Wyatt destroyed everything.

"That was you?"

He nodded. "I'm Wyatt's half-brother, Tessa. The one they don't talk about. The mistake." His jaw tightened. "I've spent the last five years building enough power, enough money, to take him down. To find you."

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, worn sketchbook. My breath hitched. It was the one I had lost years ago, the one filled with my earliest designs.

"You saved me once," Magnus said, placing the book gently on the bedspread. "Now it's my turn to save you."