Stealing Back My Life

The party glittered with malice. Crystal chandeliers cast dancing shadows across faces I'd once called colleagues, their laughter sharp as broken glass. I stood in the corner of what used to be my living room, watching Gabriella hold court in a white dress that made her look virginal, untouchable. My funeral dress still clung to my skin, damp from the rain and my mother's grave.

I'd come because I had nowhere else to go. Because the unsigned papers burned in my purse, and I needed to make Jericho understand that some things couldn't be stolen.

When I tried to slip toward the door, his hand closed around my wrist.

"Leaving so soon?" Jericho's breath was warm against my ear, his grip bruising. He'd positioned himself between me and the exit, his body blocking any escape. "We haven't even made our announcement yet."

"Let me go," I whispered, but my voice had no strength left.

He pulled me toward the center of the room, and conversations died like snuffed candles. Gabriella turned, her eyes widening with practiced concern.

"Everyone," Jericho announced, his voice carrying effortlessly across the sudden silence. "My wife has something she'd like to say."

I tried to wrench free, but his fingers dug deeper. "Please," I breathed. "Don't do this."

"Apologize to Gabriella," he said quietly, his smile never wavering. "Admit what you did. Tell everyone how you stole her work, how you tried to destroy her career." He leaned closer, his words meant only for me. "Or I make one phone call, and your mother's body goes to the research facility tonight. They're very interested in studying cardiac failure in elderly patients."

The room spun. I looked at Gabriella, at her perfect mask of sorrowful forgiveness, and something inside me fractured completely.

"No," I said.

Jericho's expression darkened. "No?"

"You can't have her." My voice grew stronger, fueled by a rage I didn't know I still possessed. "You've taken everything else, but you can't have her."

I ran. Through the crowd, past their shocked faces, out into the rain. I had one chance—one desperate, impossible chance.

The morgue was quiet at midnight, sterile and cold as a tomb. I'd used my old hospital credentials, praying they hadn't been revoked yet. The security guard barely glanced at my badge before waving me through.

I found her in drawer 23, her face peaceful in a way it hadn't been for months. "I'm getting you out," I whispered, my hands shaking as I prepared to move her. "I'm taking you somewhere safe."

"I'm afraid that's not possible."

The lights blazed on. Jericho stood in the doorway with two security guards, a doctor I didn't recognize, and a stack of legal documents.

"You signed over custody," he said, holding up papers with a signature that looked almost like mine. "As her legal representative, I've authorized the donation."

"That's forged," I gasped, backing against the drawer. "I never signed—"

"Restrain her," Jericho ordered.

The guards moved fast. I fought, my nails scraping against metal as I tried to shield my mother's body with my own. One guard grabbed my arms while the other pulled me away, and I felt something sharp tear across my forearm as I collided with a surgical tray.

"Stop," I screamed, but they were dragging me toward the door. Blood ran hot down my arm, dripping onto the pristine floor. "You can't do this—she's my mother—"

Jericho watched with clinical detachment as they forced me into the hallway. "Dr. Morrison has reviewed your recent behavior," he said, nodding to the unfamiliar doctor. "The break-in at your own home, this violent episode tonight—we believe you're experiencing a psychotic break."

"I'm not crazy," I sobbed, still struggling. "You're stealing her—"

"Involuntary psychiatric hold," Dr. Morrison said, signing a form. "Seventy-two hours minimum."

The ambulance ride blurred into screaming and restraints. The psychiatric ward smelled of industrial cleaner and despair. They put me in a room with padded walls and a camera in the corner, took my clothes and gave me paper scrubs that rustled with every breath.

Jericho visited on the second day. I was strapped to the bed, sedated but conscious enough to understand when he sat beside me and took my limp hand.

"You need help, Cecilia," he said softly. "A new heart. Something strong and reliable." He brushed hair from my forehead with terrible tenderness. "The artificial heart program has an opening. I've already signed the consent forms."

"No," I slurred through the medication fog.

"It's happening tomorrow," he continued, as if I hadn't spoken. "And when you wake up, you'll understand. You can't live without the technology I control. You'll finally be a proper Mrs. Ford—dependent, grateful, and mine."

He pressed a kiss to my forehead and stood. "They're prepping the OR now."

The door closed. The lock clicked. And I understood, with perfect, terrible clarity, that Jericho hadn't just stolen my work or my mother.

He was stealing my very ability to survive without him.