25. Mia
MIA
The water hits like a thousand frozen needles.
I gasp, jerking upright on the concrete slab Derek calls a bed. My clothes are soaked through instantly, hair plastered to my skull, every nerve ending screaming from the shock of cold.
"Good morning, sweetheart." Derek's voice cuts through the ringing in my ears. "Sleep well?"
I can't see him. The blindfold stayed on through whatever passed for sleep, darkness absolute except for the thin line of light bleeding in at the bottom edge. My wrists are still bound, rope digging into skin rubbed raw from testing the knots all night.
The slab beneath me is rough concrete, maybe part of a loading dock or storage platform. My muscles scream from hours in one position, back aching where it pressed against unforgiving stone.
"Not talking?" Derek says. "That's fine. I'm happy to carry the conversation for both of us."
Footsteps circle me, slow and deliberate. I track the sound, trying to map the space. Small, maybe ten feet across. The echo suggests hard surfaces, no carpet or fabric to absorb sound. A basement or warehouse, somewhere isolated enough that my screaming last night brought no help.
The blindfold shifts slightly when I turn my head. Through the gap at the bottom I catch a sliver of Derek's shoes. Expensive leather, polished to a mirror shine even in this filthy place.
"You know what your problem is, Mia?" His voice comes from behind me now. "You never learned gratitude. I gave you everything. Supported your dreams, helped finance your restaurant ambitions, introduced you to people who could advance your career. And how did you repay me?"
I stay silent. Speaking will only give him what he wants.
"You left." The word cracks like a whip. "Embarrassed me in front of everyone we knew. Made me look weak, like I couldn't control my own girlfriend."
His hand closes around my upper arm, grip bruising. He jerks me upright, off the slab, until I'm standing on legs that threaten to buckle.
"Look at me when I'm talking to you."
"I can't see you, Derek. You blindfolded me."
The slap comes fast, palm connecting with my cheek hard enough to snap my head sideways. Pain blooms across my face, metallic taste flooding my mouth where my teeth cut the inside of my cheek.
"Don't be smart. You know what I mean."
The blindfold is strategic. Without visual reference, every sound becomes amplified, every touch unpredictable. He's using sensory deprivation to destabilize me, keep me off-balance and compliant.
It's working. I hate that it's working.
"We're going to play a game," Derek continues. "I'm going to ask questions, and you're going to answer them honestly. Lie to me, and there are consequences. Understand?"
"Yes."
"Good girl. First question: did you ever love me?"
The question lands wrong, too vulnerable for someone holding me hostage. I consider lying, telling him what he wants to hear, but the trap is obvious. He already knows the answer he's looking for.
"I thought I did," I say carefully. "At first."
"At first. Before what?"
"Before I realized love doesn't look like control."
Another slap, harder this time. My vision whites out behind the blindfold, ears ringing.
"Wrong answer. Try again. Did you ever love me?"
Blood drips from my split lip, warm against my chin. I swallow it back, force my voice steady.
"No."
Derek goes very still. The kind of stillness that precedes violence, breath quickening while he decides how to respond.
"You're lying," he says finally.
"I'm not. You asked for honesty. That's what you're getting."
"Everything we had together, all those months, and you felt nothing?"
"I felt trapped, like I was suffocating under the weight of your obsession."
His breathing gets heavier. I brace for another hit, but it doesn't come. Instead his hands find my shoulders, grip tightening until I feel bone grinding against bone.
"And the lawyer? Ethan Evans? Do you love him?"
The question I've been avoiding for weeks, maybe months. The answer I gave myself in Ethan's bed, in his kitchen, every time he showed up exactly when I needed him most.
"Yes."
Derek's grip tightens further. "Really? You love the arrogant bastard who thinks he can protect you from me?"
"Yes. And when he finds me, which he will, he's going to kick your ass so hard you'll taste shoe leather for weeks."
The shove comes without warning. Derek's hands on my shoulders, pushing hard enough that I stumble backward. My bound hands can't catch me. I hit the concrete hard, shoulder taking the impact, head cracking against the floor with a sound that makes my vision swim even behind the blindfold.
Pain explodes through my skull, sharp and immediate. I curl onto my side, gasping, trying to breathe through the nausea rolling in waves.
"You think he loves you?" Derek's voice is directly above me now, breath hot against my face. "You think any of it was real? He married you to fix his public image, Mia. The moment you're no longer useful, he'll discard you. Just like everyone else in your life."
I spit blood onto the concrete beside my face. "You're wrong."
"Am I? Your father left you, you know. Everyone you've ever loved has abandoned you. What makes you think Ethan Evans is any different?"
"Because he shows up for me whenever I call him. He held me while I cried over my destroyed apartment. And he's a better man than you'll ever be."
The words come out thick with blood and fury, every syllable costing more than the last.
Derek crouches beside me. I hear fabric rustling, smell his cologne, feel the heat of him too close.
"Those are just actions, sweetheart. They don't mean anything. I used to do all those things for you too, remember? I was there for you when your grandmother died. I helped you through culinary school before you dropped out. I supported every dream you had."
"You controlled every dream I had."
His hand finds my hair, yanks my head back hard enough to make my neck scream. The blindfold shifts again, that sliver of light widening slightly.
"I'm done being patient with you," he whispers against my ear. "You're going to admit that your marriage is fake. You're going to tell me you never loved him. And you're going to apologize for every humiliation you've put me through since you left."
"Go to hell."
Metal scrapes against concrete. The unmistakable sound of a knife being drawn, blade sliding free of its sheath.
Every muscle in my body locks. The cold air shifts, and then there's pressure against my throat. Not breaking skin yet, just a promise of how easily Derek could.
"Last chance," he says. "Admit it was fake. Tell me you don't love him."
My heart hammers so hard I feel it in my teeth. The knife presses tighter, sharp edge dimpling my skin. One wrong move, one flinch, and arterial blood will be the last thing I feel.
But giving Derek what he wants means betraying the only real thing I've had in years. It means diminishing what Ethan and I built together, pretending the way he looks at me doesn't matter, that I didn't fall in love with him somewhere between legal strategy and late-night phone calls.
"No," I whisper. "I love him. I'm in love with Ethan Evans. And you're going to have to kill me before I say otherwise."
Derek's breath stutters. The knife presses harder, and I feel skin break, warm blood trickling down my throat.
Then the world explodes in sound.
"Police! Drop the weapon! Drop on the ground now!"
Voices, multiple, echoing off hard surfaces. Footsteps thundering, the distinctive metal-on-metal sound of guns being drawn and safeties clicked off.
The knife leaves my throat. Derek's hand releases my hair.
"Get the fuck down! Hands where we can see them!"
More shouting. Someone's hands are on me, gentle, pulling me away from where Derek must be. The blindfold comes off in one swift motion and suddenly I'm blinking against the lights, vision adjusting to shapes moving in tactical formation.
Police. At least six officers in tactical gear, weapons drawn, surrounding Derek where he stands frozen five feet away. The knife hangs loose in his hand, blade catching the light, my blood still wet on the edge.
"Drop it!" An officer moves closer, weapon trained on Derek's chest. "Drop the knife now or we will shoot!"
For a moment Derek just stands there. His face is twisted with rage and something else, maybe disbelief that his perfect plan is falling apart.
Then his hand opens. The knife clatters to the concrete.
"Hands behind your head! On your knees!"
Derek complies slowly, movements jerky. Two officers move in immediately, forcing him face-down, wrenching his arms behind his back. Cuffs snap closed with a sound that makes my chest loosen for the first time in hours.
"Ma'am, are you hurt?" The officer beside me is young, maybe thirty, with kind eyes behind tactical goggles. "Can you tell me your name?"
"Mia," I manage. "Mia Holland."
"Okay, Mia. We're going to get you out of here. Can you walk?"
I try to stand. My legs shake violently, refusing to support my weight. The officer catches me before I fall, one arm wrapping around my waist.
"I've got you. Just lean on me."
Through the chaos of officers securing Derek, reading him his rights in flat procedural tones, I see the doorway.
And standing in it, chest heaving like he ran the entire way here, is Ethan.
Our eyes meet across the warehouse. His face is stark white, jaw working, hands clenched at his sides like he's physically restraining himself from crossing the space between us.
Then he's moving. Fast, pushing past officers who try to stop him, ignoring someone shouting that this is an active scene.
He reaches me in seconds, and I collapse into his arms while everything I've been holding back for the past twelve hours finally breaks free.