Chapter 2 - “I don’t know.”
She waited.
“Three years,” I whispered.
Her expression didn’t change.
But her hand rested beside mine for a moment.
“Has he ever strangled you?”
The question startled me.
I looked up.
“Once.”
Alexander, standing near the window, turned.
I wished he hadn’t heard.
Dr.
Price asked a few more questions, each one careful and precise.
Then she said something I hadn’t expected.
“Emily, I want you to understand that these injuries matter, even if you’ve learned to minimize them.”
I began to cry again.
She handed me a tissue.
“Would you like me to document what I found?”
I looked toward Alexander.
He shook his head slightly.
Not no.
Not yes.
Simply reminding me that the decision was mine.
“Yes,” I said.
Dr.
Price nodded.
She photographed my wrist with my permission, recorded the injuries, and gave me a written report.
When she finished, she placed a card in my hand.
“There’s a domestic violence advocate named Sarah Collins.
She helps women make safety plans and find independent housing.”
I stared at the card.
Independent housing.
The phrase sounded like a country I’d never visited.
“Will Derek know?”
“Not from me.”
After she left, Alexander brought me a pair of soft slippers.
They were too large.
I almost smiled.
“Do you keep women’s slippers in your office?”
“No.”
“Then where did these come from?”
“Marco found a boutique still open.”
I looked down at the cream-colored slippers.
They were probably worth more than my entire wardrobe.
“Thank you.”
Alexander nodded.
“There’s a guest suite upstairs.
You can stay tonight, if you want.”
I looked toward the door.
“Where’s Derek?”
“He’s left the building.”
“Did you hurt him?”
Alexander paused.
“No.”
The relief was immediate.
Then came shame.
Because part of me had wanted someone to hurt him.
Not badly.
Just enough to make him understand what fear felt like.
Alexander seemed to read my face.
“Wanting him stopped doesn’t make you cruel.”
I looked away.
“Why are you doing this?”
He didn’t answer immediately.
Then he said, “Because someone once did it for me.”
The guest suite was on the top floor of the building.
Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked Chicago, its streets glittering beneath the darkness like a thousand broken necklaces.
The room smelled of cedarwood and fresh linen.
There was a king-sized bed, a small sitting area, and a bathroom larger than my childhood bedroom.
Alexander stood near the doorway.
“There’s a lock on the inside.”
I glanced at him.
“No one has a key?”
“Security has emergency access, but no one will enter without your permission unless there’s an immediate danger.”
He paused.
“Would you prefer someone stationed outside?”
I hesitated.
“Yes.”
“Then someone will be there.”
He started to leave.
“Alexander?”
He turned.
I hadn’t meant to use his first name.
But he didn’t seem offended.
“Why did my father save you?”
His expression softened.
“That’s a longer story.”
“I have time.”
He looked at the clock.
It was nearly midnight.
Then he stepped back inside.
“Your father was an accountant.”
“I know.”
“He worked for my father.”
My stomach tightened.
“Your father?”
“Vittorio Moretti.”
I recognized the name.
Everyone in Chicago knew it.
A man who had built an empire out of shipping companies, construction contracts, and violence.
Alexander watched my reaction.
“Daniel wasn’t involved in the criminal side of the business when he was hired.
He thought he was auditing a legitimate transportation company.”
“What happened?”
“He found records he wasn’t supposed to find.”
I felt cold.
“Money laundering?”
“Among other things.”
Alexander sat across from me.
“When I was fifteen, I overheard my father ordering a man killed.
I told Daniel because he was the only adult who ever treated me like a child instead of an heir.”
I stared at him.
“Why would you trust my father?”
A faint smile touched his mouth.
“Because he used to bring me sandwiches.”
I blinked.
“Sandwiches?”
“My father believed hunger built discipline.
Daniel believed hungry children should eat.”
My throat tightened.
That sounded like my father.
He used to make extra sandwiches for the school janitor, a widower who worked two jobs.
“He found me crying in a storage room one afternoon,” Alexander continued.
“I was fourteen.
My father had broken my nose because I’d refused to participate in something.”
Alexander touched the faint scar near his eyebrow.
“Daniel sat beside me and handed me half his lunch.”
I pictured my father doing exactly that.
Not asking questions.
Not demanding gratitude.
Just making room for someone else’s pain.
“What happened next?”
“Daniel helped me escape my father’s house.”
My breath caught.
“He arranged for me to stay with a family friend in Wisconsin.
He gave me money, clothes, and a letter.”
“What letter?”
Alexander looked toward the window.
“He told me that being born into a cruel family didn’t mean I had to become cruel.”
The words settled between us.
“Did your father find you?”
“Eventually.”
Alexander’s expression darkened.
“But Daniel intervened.
He had enough evidence to threaten him with exposure.”
“Did he go to the police?”
“He tried.”
I leaned forward.
“What happened?”
Alexander looked at me.
“Daniel died before he could testify.”
My fingers tightened around the blanket.
The city outside seemed suddenly very far away.
“No.”
“Emily—”
“No.
My father died in a car accident.”
Alexander said nothing.
I stood so quickly the blanket fell to the floor.
“He was driving home from work.
It was raining.
A truck hit him.”
“I know what you were told.”
“Stop.”
Alexander remained seated.
“I won’t say anything else tonight.”
But I couldn’t stop hearing Derek’s words.
Don’t forget what happened to your father.
I backed toward the window.
“Did Derek know?”
Alexander looked up.
“I don’t know how much he knew.”
“Did he marry me because of my father?”
“I don’t know.”
I pressed my hands against my temples.
For three years, Derek had controlled my life.
But suddenly those three years seemed to be connected to something older.
Something buried beneath my childhood.
I remembered Derek asking about my father’s belongings when we were first dating.
I remembered him insisting we clean out my mother’s house after her funeral.
I remembered him taking the shoebox of old letters to the basement.
He’d said the papers were damp.
He’d promised to keep them safe.
I had never seen them again.
“He was looking for something.”
Alexander stood.
“What?”
“Derek.
My husband.
He kept asking about my father’s things.”
Alexander’s expression sharpened.
“What things?”
“Letters.
Old photographs.
A watch.”
“What kind of watch?”
I closed my eyes.
“A silver wristwatch.
Brown leather strap.
The back had my initials engraved.”
Alexander went perfectly still.
“What initials?”
“E.W.”
He took a slow breath.
“Emily Whitcomb.”
I nodded.
“Why?”
Alexander crossed to the window.
For a moment, he looked like a man watching a storm approach from very far away.
Then he turned.
“Do you still have it?”
“No.
Derek took it.”
“When?”
“After our wedding.”
Alexander closed his eyes.
I had never seen anyone look so frightened without moving.
“Emily,” he said carefully, “that watch may be the reason your husband married you.”
I didn’t sleep.
Every time I closed my eyes, I heard Derek calling my name.
At three in the morning, I stood in the bathroom and stared at myself beneath the soft white lights.
The woman in the mirror looked unfamiliar.
Her hair was tangled.
Her mascara had dried beneath her eyes.
There was a purple mark on her wrist.
I touched it gently.
Then I whispered something I hadn’t dared say aloud in years.
“I’m not going back.”
The words sounded strange.
Small.
Almost childish.
But I said them again.
“I’m not going back.”
At seven, someone knocked.
I froze.
“Emily?
It’s Sarah Collins.”
The voice belonged to a woman.
I opened the door cautiously.
Sarah was in her forties, wearing dark trousers, a blue cardigan, and comfortable shoes.
She carried no expensive handbag.
No dramatic expression.
Just a folder and a paper cup of coffee.
“Alexander asked whether you’d be willing to speak with me,” she said.
“You can say no.”
I stepped aside.
We sat by the window.
Sarah didn’t ask me why I’d stayed.
She didn’t tell me I was brave.
She asked practical questions.
Did Derek have access to my phone?
Yes.
My bank account?
Yes.
My car?
It was registered in his name.
Did he know my passwords?
All of them.
Did he have photographs of my identification documents?
Probably.
Sarah wrote everything down.
Then she said, “We can help you replace documents, establish a private phone number, and find somewhere safe that isn’t connected to Alexander.”
I looked up.
“Why wouldn’t I stay here?”
She smiled gently.
“Because you deserve a life where safety doesn’t depend on another powerful man.”
The sentence struck deeper than I expected.
I looked toward the hallway.
“He’s helping me.”
“I know.”
“He’s been kind.”
“I believe you.”
Sarah leaned forward.
“But Emily, your future belongs to you.
Not Derek.
Not Alexander.
Not anyone who believes they can make your choices for you.”
I looked at the city.
For the first time, I understood that freedom wasn’t simply being rescued.
Freedom meant being allowed to leave the rescuer, too.
Three days later, I met with a lawyer.
Her name was Rebecca Shaw.
She had a sharp voice, tired eyes, and a habit of tapping her pen whenever she was thinking.
She explained protective orders, financial documentation, divorce proceedings, and the importance of preserving evidence.
I listened.
I asked questions.
I signed the forms myself.
Alexander offered to pay the legal fees.
I refused at first.
Then Sarah suggested a written agreement through an independent assistance fund, with no conditions and no control over my decisions.
I accepted.
That afternoon, I bought my first phone in three years without asking anyone’s permission.
It was an inexpensive black phone.
I held it like something fragile.
Then I called the one person I’d been too ashamed to contact.
My childhood friend, Lucy.
She answered on the fourth ring.
“Hello?”
I opened my mouth.
Nothing came.
“Hello?”
“Lucy?”
Silence.
Then a sharp intake of breath.
“Emily?”
I started crying.
“Oh my God,” she whispered.
“Emily, where have you been?”
I sank onto the edge of the bed.
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t you dare.”
Her voice broke.
“I thought you hated me.”
I remembered Derek telling me Lucy had called me selfish.
That she’d said I was a burden.
That she’d stopped wanting me around.
“He told me you didn’t want to see me.”
Lucy made a small, wounded sound.
“Emily, I came to your house six times.”
My chest tightened.
“What?”
“He told me you were sleeping.
Then he said you’d moved.
Then he said you wanted nothing to do with me.”
I covered my mouth.
“I wrote letters,” she whispered.
I remembered the empty mailbox.
The missing birthday cards.
The way Derek always checked the mail before I got home.
“I never got them.”
“I know that now.”
We cried together.
Then Lucy asked where I was.
I told her I was safe.
She didn’t demand an explanation.
She simply said, “Tell me when you’re ready.
I’ll come.”
For the first time in years, I believed someone would.
The first real discovery came five days after my escape.
Rebecca called me into her office.
Alexander was there, standing near the window.
So was a man I hadn’t met before.
He wore a navy suit and carried a battered briefcase.
“This is Thomas Hale,” Rebecca said.
“A forensic accountant.”
My stomach tightened.
“Did Derek send him?”
“No,” Thomas answered.
“I’ve been investigating Derek Carter’s business accounts.”
He placed a folder on the table.
Inside were copies of bank transfers.
My name appeared on every page.
Emily Carter.
Emily Carter.
Emily Carter.
Millions of dollars had passed through accounts supposedly belonging to me.
I stared at the numbers.
“I’ve never seen this money.”
Thomas nodded.
“We believe your husband used your identity to move funds through shell companies.”
I looked at Alexander.
“Whose money?”
He didn’t answer immediately.
Then Thomas turned another page.
At the top was a company name.
MORETTI MARITIME HOLDINGS.
May you like
My blood ran cold.
“Derek stole from you?”
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