My Husband Locked Me Away While His Mistress Wore My Ring

Three weeks. Three weeks of fluorescent lights and padded walls. Three weeks of sedatives and sleep deprivation. Three weeks of Stella's visits, each one more cruel than the last.

I lay on the thin mattress, counting the tiny holes in the ceiling tiles. Anything to maintain my sanity. Anything to keep from screaming.

The door to my cell clicked open at 2:17 AM. I knew the time because the night nurse had just made her rounds, her footsteps echoing down the corridor. The digital clock on the wall was the only thing that hadn't been padded—a small mercy, or perhaps a deliberate cruelty.

"Time for your medicine, Miss Adams."

The voice wasn't female. It was deep, male, unfamiliar.

I sat up slowly, my body aching from the restraints they'd used during my "episodes." The man standing in the doorway wasn't wearing the standard nursing scrubs. He was tall, broad-shouldered, with cold eyes that made my skin crawl.

"I'm not due for medication," I said, my voice hoarse from disuse.

He smiled—a terrible, predatory smile that reminded me of Stella.

"Special delivery," he said, stepping into the room and closing the door behind him.

I scrambled backward until my spine hit the wall. "Get out. I'll scream."

"You can scream all you want." He approached slowly, like a cat stalking a mouse. "No one will hear you. This wing is empty tonight."

My eyes darted to the small plastic cup on the floor beside my mattress. My last meal had come in it—some kind of tasteless gruel. I'd been saving it, not knowing why, just knowing I needed something of my own.

He moved suddenly, grabbing my ankle and yanking me toward him. I kicked out, connecting with his jaw. He cursed, his grip tightening.

"Feisty bitch," he snarled. "Stella said you might be trouble."

The mention of her name sent ice through my veins. "Stella sent you?"

"Five thousand dollars to make it look like a suicide attempt gone wrong." His hands moved to my throat. "Nothing personal."

I reached for the cup, my fingers closing around its flimsy plastic. With all my strength, I smashed it against the edge of the metal frame. The plastic cracked, leaving a jagged edge in my palm.

"You're going to kill me anyway," I whispered, feeling the shard bite into my skin. "So I might as well make it hurt."

His eyes widened as I lunged forward, the broken plastic aimed at his throat. He dodged, but not quickly enough. The shard sliced across his cheek, opening a deep gash.

"You crazy bitch!" He backhanded me across the face, sending me sprawling.

I tasted blood—mine and his—as I scrambled to my feet. He charged, and I slashed wildly, feeling the plastic connect with his arm, his shoulder, his face again.

"Stop!" he shouted, blood streaming from three deep cuts. "This wasn't supposed to—"

The explosion came without warning.

The floor beneath us bucked violently. The lights flickered once, twice, then went out. In the sudden darkness, I heard glass shatter and felt a wave of heat rush through the room.

"Gas leak," the man muttered, stumbling toward the door. "What the hell—"

Another explosion, closer this time. The ceiling above us groaned, and plaster rained down.

I knew then that Stella hadn't planned for me to survive this "accident."

---

The news anchor's voice was solemn as she delivered the report: "Blackwood Psychiatric Facility suffered a catastrophic gas leak explosion early this morning. The east wing, where the most disturbed patients were housed, was completely destroyed."

Watson sat in his study, watching the footage of flames engulfing the building. His face remained impassive as the reporter continued.

"Among the confirmed fatalities is Harper Adams Brooks, wife of prominent businessman Watson Brooks."

The glass in Watson's hand shattered suddenly, sending shards and amber liquid across his desk. He didn't notice the blood trickling from his palm.

Instead, he pressed his hand to his chest, where a sudden, crushing pain had appeared—a pain he couldn't explain.

---

I woke to sunlight streaming through unfamiliar windows. For a moment, I thought I was dead.

"Miss Harper?"

I turned my head slowly, wincing at the pain that shot through my neck. An elderly man sat beside the bed—Grandfather Brooks.

"How...?" My voice failed me.

"Read your letter," he said simply. "Got to you just in time."

I looked down at my body, wrapped in bandages and bruises. The last thing I remembered was the explosion, the heat, the darkness.

"The facility?" I whispered.

"Gone. At least, the wing where you were kept is." His eyes were kind but troubled. "They're calling it an accident."

"And me?"

"They think you're dead." He paused, studying my face. "Perhaps it's better that way."

I closed my eyes, processing this information. Stella had tried to kill me—twice. And now everyone believed I was gone.

"What happens now?" I asked.

Grandfather Brooks reached into his pocket and pulled out a checkbook. "That depends on you."

He wrote quickly, his hand steady despite his age. When he finished, he tore out the check and handed it to me.

"Ten million dollars," he said. "A new identity. A chance to rebuild yourself."

I stared at the figure on the check, then back at him.

"Why would you do this?"

"Because I made a promise to you seven years ago." His voice was firm. "And because my grandson has become something I no longer recognize."

I thought of Watson, of Stella, of my father and stepmother. Of the life I'd endured and the death I'd narrowly escaped.

"I want to come back," I said, my voice stronger now. "Not as Harper Adams. Not as Watson's wife. But as someone they can't control."

Grandfather Brooks nodded slowly. "Then that's exactly what you'll do."

As I took the check with trembling fingers, I made a silent vow: When I returned, it wouldn't be as a victim seeking revenge.

It would be as someone strong enough to stand alone.