I don't remember how I made it home.

I stood there, a disaster of a woman with matted, bird’s-nest hair, bandages plastered across my face, and a gaping tear in my coat. The security guard didn't believe for a second that I was Bradley Lawrence’s wife. He hesitated, then pulled out his phone to call Bradley directly.

As soon as I heard Bradley’s voice on the line, a reflex kicked in. I snatched the phone from the guard’s hand and slammed it onto the floor. I turned and walked away, despite having absolutely nowhere to go.

I was broke. When I heard there was a chance Bradley might be in trouble abroad, I’d drained every cent of my savings to buy a last-minute flight—a premium, $200,000 ticket. I hadn't hesitated for a second. My motive was simple: I wanted him home. I wanted him safe.

Tears blurred my vision as my own phone rang. It was my mother.

"I just found out you flew overseas to find Bradley! You terrified me, Madeline. Are you two alright?"

My throat tightened, but I kept my voice steady. "I'm fine, Mom."

"Thank God! You, of all people—not even three months pregnant, heading into such a dangerous place! I’ve been out of my mind with worry. Thank goodness you’re both safe."

I hung up and rested a hand over my stomach. Bradley had no idea. I’d discovered I was pregnant shortly after he left for his "business trip." My desperate, reckless dash across the border hadn't been an act of heroism; I’d been ready to die to bring him back. I had wanted the three of us to be together, no matter the cost.

A sharp, jagged pain blossomed in my chest.

Then, a pair of arms wrapped around me. The familiar, cloying scent of tobacco filled my lungs. It was Bradley.

"Where did you go? What happened to you?"

Our eyes met. Bradley’s were filled with an intensity of concern that felt almost nauseating. It was as if the man who had looked at me with cold, hollow detachment in the office elevator just days ago didn't exist.

I curled my lips into a thin, bitter smile. "I tripped. And when I tried to get back up, I tripped again."

Just like this marriage. I believed in him once, and I was tripped by his lies all over again.

"Tickets back must have cost a fortune," he murmured.

He didn't wait for an answer, scooping me up into his arms. I caught a flicker of guilt in his eyes, but it was gone in a heartbeat. "It doesn't matter. My wife was waiting for me to come home."

He sounded so sincere, his eyes even glistening with unshed tears. He knelt before me, forcing me to let him apply ointment to my cuts. As he traced the raw skin on my cheek, his brow furrowed in a perfect display of anguish.

"I’m sorry, Madeline. I never should have left you alone."

He started to say more, but his phone buzzed. He turned away to answer, then shot me an apologetic look. "I have to head out for a moment. Wait for me."

I didn't say a word. I just watched him pull on his jacket. How many times had I sat in the entryway, waiting for the sound of his key in the door? How many times had I reheated the same dinner until the life was cooked out of it?

Something snapped. The tension that had held me together for weeks suddenly shattered. I lunged to my feet and shoved him away.

"Go. And don't bother coming back."

Bradley tried to lean in for a kiss, but I whipped my head to the side. He sighed, annoyed. "Don't be like that. I’ll make it up to you tonight."

He left, eager to get out the door.

Exhaustion pulled me down into a shallow, fitful sleep, but a nightmare jolted me awake. I dreamed of explosions, of fire, but I woke up staring at the giant, looming wedding portrait on the wall.

I remembered the first time I realized he was cheating. He and Lacey had left four damp, grime-stained handprints right across our wedding photo. I had gone mad, smashing everything in the house. Bradley had crawled on his knees, begging me to forgive him, swearing that a "second wedding" would be a fresh start—a monument to our broken-but-healed love.

The vows he whispered then still echoed in my ears. I still couldn't wrap my head around it. Why? Why would he choose to hurt me all over again?

I pulled out my phone and searched for Lacey Rose.

After Bradley had fired her, she’d become a pariah in the legal industry; no reputable firm would touch her. But she’d reinvented herself as a "relationship influencer" online. Her videos were mindless, yet they garnered thousands of likes. She never showed her face—only videos of her hand held in a man’s.

I started clicking through them.

The man’s fingers were long, his knuckles prominent. He’d rub her hand, stroke her palm, interlock his fingers with hers. Every video felt like a blade sliding into my gut.

Then I saw it. A shallow, jagged scar on the man’s pinky finger.

My blood turned to ice.

I remembered that scar from when we were eighteen. A local thug had cornered me, forcing his advances. Bradley had charged in, shielding me with his own body. A beer bottle had shattered against his head, spraying blood across my school uniform. He’d used his hand to protect his face, wincing in agony, but he’d still laughed it off, trying to soothe me.

"It’s fine," he’d said then. "Even if I'm scarred, you're stuck with me."

I found the business contact number listed on her profile and dialed.

The phone rang twice before Bradley’s voice, cold and distant, crackled through the speaker.

"Who is this?"