1. utive Control #2
I pressed my fingernails into my bare palms, using the sharp bite of pain to keep myself awake.
I had isolated myself completely. Over the last six months, I had pushed away my colleagues, retreated from the agency, and let Simon cut me off from the outside world while my health declined.
Now, as I stared at the empty message thread, the scale of my isolation became undeniably clear.
If Owen didn’t answer, I had absolutely no one else to call.
I told you he was dangerous. Where are you right now?
The absolute certainty in his quick response nearly made me sob. He believed me. He wasn’t gloating or demanding apologies. My thumbs hovered over the illuminated glass.
Mercy Hospital, Room 412. Meet me in the solarium garden tomorrow at 6 AM before they process my discharge. Don’t let anyone see you.
I waited. The silence stretched, broken only by the chirp of the heart monitor. Finally, the phone buzzed a sharp, mechanical rhythm against my palms. The bright text bubble illuminated the shadows: I’m on my way. Don’t eat or drink anything he gives you.
The long night finally passed. Bright morning sunlight sliced through the plastic window blinds, striping the hospital bed in harsh yellow lines.
The squeak of rubber soles in the hallway snapped me out of a restless doze.
Recognizing the measured, deliberate cadence of my husband’s stride, I shoved my smartphone under my pillow.
I let my head loll back against the mattress, instantly adopting the limp, heavy posture of a deeply sedated woman.
The door swung open. Simon walked in holding a cardboard drink carrier and a brown paper bag.
The rich aroma of roasted coffee and buttery croissants instantly swallowed the sterile scent of rubbing alcohol.
Drifting just beneath the aroma of the pastry was the familiar, cloying scent of his vanilla cologne.
He set the breakfast on the rolling plastic tray, freeing his hands. His footsteps squeaked against the linoleum as he stepped to the edge of the mattress. I let my eyes slowly blink open, acting as if the noise had just woken me.
Simon leaned over the bedrails. He reached out, brushing a tangled lock of hair from my forehead.
The warmth of his palm resting against my skin sent a sickening shiver down my spine.
I desperately wanted to jerk my head away, to scream at him and throw the hot coffee directly into his face.
Instead, I bit the inside of my cheek, letting the sharp sting override the violent urge to flinch.
I curved my lips into a convincing smile, fighting every natural instinct to pull away. I leaned into his touch.
“Morning, sweetheart,” Simon murmured. His slate-grey eyes searched my face with a look of deep, calculated concern. “How are the legs feeling today? The doctors said the infection is clearing up, but I was worried about your numbness.”
His sickly, practiced concern churned my stomach. If he realized I knew about the inhibitors or his midnight rendezvous with Nina, he would never let me leave this room. I had to play the part of the ‘grateful victim’.
“A little weaker than yesterday, I think,” I replied, pitching my voice into a raspy, exhausted whisper. “Thank you for staying with me, Simon. I’d be completely lost without you managing everything.”
A smug, satisfied sigh escaped him, and his shoulders relaxed.
He pulled his hand back, picking up one of the paper cups from the tray.
He pressed the hot cardboard directly into my palms, wrapping his soft, manicured fingers over mine to ensure I had a firm grip.
The liquid heat radiated through the cup, burning my skin just enough to keep my trembling hands steady.
I kept my gaze lowered, staring at the pristine, sharply pressed cuff of his designer shirt.
Not a single thread was out of place. He had played this exact role for months—the impeccably groomed, ‘tragic husband’ tending to his failing wife.
He needed me to look helpless to maintain his perfect image for our friends and my agency’s clients.
I took a slow, deliberate breath, inhaling the steam rising from the dark roast. I let the sharp, burning heat of the cardboard cup anchor my focus, using the physical discomfort to push down the violent urge to lash out. I had to let him enjoy his performance.
“You never have to worry about a thing, Audrey,” Simon said, his tone dripping with quiet reassurance. “I’ll always take care of you.”
His ability to seamlessly lie straight to my face nearly took my breath away. Blissfully oblivious to the absolute hatred in my stare, he was looking at me like a cherished pet. I gripped the warm paper, looking up at the man who was actively plotting to lock me in a care facility by Monday.
“I know you will,” I whispered, forcing myself to look him dead in the eye. “What time are they letting us go home?”
Simon’s phone buzzed sharply inside his tailored trouser pocket.
He pulled the device out, his jaw tightening into a hard line the moment the screen illuminated his face.
His doting, patient expression vanished for a fraction of a second, replaced by sheer annoyance at whatever work email had interrupted his schedule.
He let out an irritated sigh, shoving the phone back into his slacks.
“I’m going to track down the attending physician on rounds and force this paperwork through,” Simon said, his tone clipped. “I refuse to sit here all morning. Don’t try to move. I’ll be back to get you into the chair.”
I maintained a placid, exhausted smile. “I’ll just wait right here for you. Take your time, darling.”
He didn’t bother leaning in for another kiss. He spun on his heel and strode out of the room. The solid wood door clicked shut behind him, the latch engaging with a final, echoing snap.
The second his shadow vanished from the frosted hallway glass, I dropped the helpless act.
I leaned forward, slamming the hot paper coffee cup onto the rolling plastic tray hard enough that the dark roast sloshed over the rim.
Reaching down, I clamped my fingers into the hospital blankets and wrenched them completely off my body.
A rush of cold air hit my bare calves, sending a shiver over my skin beneath the thin cotton gown.
Just give me ten minutes. I just need ten minutes.
I swallowed hard against the rising panic, forcing myself to focus entirely on the grim timeline.
It would occupy him for at least half an hour to hunt down a senior doctor on morning rounds in a sprawling, multi-level medical wing.
I desperately needed every single second of that head start to reach the ground floor.
I grabbed the back of my right thigh with both hands.
It felt like dragging a sack of wet cement.
My arms strained, a sharp, burning ache tearing through my muscles as I hauled my deadened legs over the edge of the mattress.
My bare feet slapped limply against the linoleum.
Sweating, I reached out and locked my fingers around the rigid metal bedrail.
I threw my upper body weight forward, heaving my torso off the sheets and collapsing into the seat of the adjacent wheelchair.
The metallic snap of the wheel brakes releasing sent a jarring vibration up my wrists. Gasping for breath, I stretched clumsily back over the mattress, snatched my leather purse, and dropped it squarely into my lap.
I grabbed the rubber rims and pushed.
The tires let out a harsh squeak against the floor.
My arms shook uncontrollably under the sheer exertion of moving my own dead weight.
Every rotation required agonizing, tearing effort, the stiff wheels fighting me as I inched past the foot of the bed.
If he caught me in the hallway right now, the entire timeline was ruined.
I nudged the heavy door open with my metal footplate. Peering around the wooden jamb, I scanned the brightly lit corridor. The journey to the elevators stretched ahead of me, daunting and impossible. I braced my shaking shoulders.
“Come on. Move.”