No Longer A Victim, Now I Rise

"I want to disappear," I said into the phone, my voice a dead monotone. "Completely. I want the world, and especially Jackson Parks, to believe I'm dead."

There was a pause on the other end of the line. Hamilton's voice, when it came, was low and serious. "Elena, what happened?"

"He lied," I said. "Everything was a lie."

I didn't need to say more. Hamilton knew what Jackson meant to me. He also knew what Jackson was capable of.

"Tell me what you need," he said, no judgment in his tone, only steel.

"A plane crash," I said, the words tasting like poison. "As soon as possible. Can you arrange that?"

"Consider it done," he said. "I'll handle everything. Where will you go?"

"I don't know yet," I admitted. "Just... away from here."

"I have a place in Provence," he offered. "It's quiet. No one will find you. I'll send the details. Just get yourself to the private airfield in Van Nuys tomorrow night. A jet will be waiting."

"Thank you, Hamilton."

"Always, Elena."

I hung up, a fresh wave of pain washing over me. Making that call made it real. The life I knew was over. The man I loved was a monster who had systematically destroyed me while pretending to cherish me.

He had cheated on me. He had lied to me. He had married another woman while I still wore his ring.

He deserved to be cheated. He deserved to be lied to.

He wanted me gone? Fine. I would vanish from his world so completely it would be as if I never existed.

A soft knock on my door made me jump.

"Mrs. Parks?" It was Maria, our housekeeper. "Mr. Parks is home. He's asking for you."

I took a deep breath, schooling my features into a mask of calm. I opened the door.

Jackson was standing in the hallway. When he saw me, a flicker of panic crossed his face before it was replaced by his usual, charming smile. It was a performance I now saw with horrifying clarity.

"Elena, darling," he said, striding toward me and wrapping his arms around my waist. He tried to kiss me, but I turned my head slightly, and his lips brushed my cheek. "I was worried. You were out for so long."

His concern felt like acid on my skin. I could smell Candida's perfume on his shirt.

"I just had some errands to run," I said, my voice carefully neutral. I pulled away from his embrace.

My eyes fell on the woman and child standing behind him. Candida and Joey.

"Who are they?" I asked, my voice flat, as if I didn't know.

Jackson visibly relaxed, a small sigh of relief escaping his lips. He thought I didn't know. He thought he could keep lying.

"Oh, this is a wonderful surprise," he said, his voice full of fake enthusiasm. "Elena, remember how we talked about wanting a child? How much we wanted to fill this big house with laughter?"

He gestured to the boy. "This is Joey. He's an orphan. I thought... I thought we could adopt him. Give him a home. A family."

He was using my infertility, the very wound he and his secret wife had caused, as a tool for his deception. The cruelty of it was breathtaking.

"And this," he said, indicating Candida, "is Miss Camacho. She's a caretaker from the orphanage who has grown very attached to Joey. I've hired her to be his nanny, to help him adjust."

He put his hand on Joey's head. "Joey, say hello to your new mommy."

My heart felt like a block of ice. New mommy. The irony was a bitter pill.

The boy, Joey, looked at me with wide, innocent eyes. But there was something cold in them, something that didn't match his cherubic face.

"Hello... Mommy," he said, his voice small and hesitant.

Jackson beamed, a proud father. "Isn't he wonderful, Elena?"

Candida stood silently, her eyes downcast, playing the part of a humble nanny perfectly. But I could see the faint smirk playing on her lips. She was enjoying this. She was enjoying my humiliation.

"He's a lovely boy," I said, my voice hollow. I looked at Jackson, my gaze steady. "I'm a little tired. I think I'll go lie down."

Jackson's smile tightened. He saw something in my eyes, a coldness that wasn't there before.

"Are you feeling alright, darling?" he asked, his brow furrowed with fake concern. "You look pale."

"Just a headache," I lied. I turned and walked toward our bedroom, my back straight.

"Let me get you some soup," Jackson called after me, his voice dripping with the false tenderness that now made my stomach turn. "Maria makes the best chicken soup. It will make you feel better."

I didn't answer. I closed the bedroom door behind me and leaned against it, the facade of calm crumbling. I was shaking again, a deep, violent tremor that started in my soul.

Later, Joey brought the soup to my room, pushed by a smiling Jackson.

"Be a good boy and take care of your mommy," Jackson cooed, patting his head.

The boy carried the tray carefully. He set it on the nightstand, his small face serious. "I'll help you, Mommy."

For a moment, I felt a pang of something other than hatred. He was just a child, a pawn in his mother's sick game. I reached out to take the bowl from him.

As my fingers closed around the warm ceramic, he let go. Deliberately.

The bowl tipped, and scalding hot soup spilled all over my hand and wrist. I cried out, pulling my hand back. The skin was already turning an angry red.

Joey's eyes widened. He let out a piercing wail, clutching his own hand.

"Ow! My hand! You burned me!" he screamed, tears streaming down his face. "You did it on purpose! You hate me!"