Chapter 4: Sarah was tortured at the training ground

[Sarah's Perspective]

The training mat slammed against my back for what felt like the hundredth time. Pain shot through my shoulders, but I refused to cry out. Instead, I took a deep breath and pushed myself back up, ignoring the burning in my muscles.

"Again," I said to the instructor, a former Marine named Thompson who'd been patiently teaching me basic self-defense moves for the past hour. My voice was steadier than I felt.

He nodded approvingly. "Good attitude, Mrs. Morrison. Remember: feet shoulder-width apart, center of gravity low."

Three days had passed since the kidnapping incident. Three days since Max had disappeared to "handle an urgent matter" with Isabella, leaving me alone with my nightmares. Three days of lying awake in the bed, replaying those terrifying moments in the warehouse. The sound of gunshots still echoed in my dreams, along with the sight of Max's emotionless face as he executed my captors. Never again, I'd promised myself in those sleepless nights. I wouldn't be helpless like that again.

"Thanks for helping me," I said, moving into the defensive stance Thompson had shown me. My muscles protested, but I forced them to cooperate. "Could you show me some more defensive moves?"

"Of course, Mrs. Morrison." Thompson demonstrated a simple wrist break. "Safety awareness is crucial in our line of work. Especially for someone in your position."

I caught the meaning behind his words. Someone in your position – the mysterious wife who appeared from nowhere, who couldn't remember her own past. The whispers followed me everywhere in the Morrison Group compound, like shadows I couldn't shake.

"Much better," Thompson encouraged as I successfully blocked his slow-motion strike. "Now let's try—"

"I'll take over the training."

Peter Hughes's voice cut through the room like a knife. Max's special assistant stood at the edge of the mat, his military bearing evident in every line of his body. Behind him, Isabella Blake watched with poorly concealed amusement, her designer workout clothes making my simple training gear look even more out of place.

Thompson hesitated. "Sir, we were just covering basic—"

"Close combat techniques. Standard protocol for all Morrison Group personnel." Hughes's tone left no room for argument. "Isn't that right, Miss Blake?"

Isabella's laugh tinkled like breaking glass. "Oh, absolutely. We wouldn't want dear Sarah to be... unprepared again, would we? Although," she added in a stage whisper that carried across the room, "I hear she has plenty of experience handling... difficult situations. Especially with wealthy men."

The room had grown quieter, other trainees pausing their workouts to watch. I saw Isabella moving among them like a poisonous butterfly, whispering things that made them look at me with mixture of scandal and disdain. My cheeks burned, but I held my head high.

Hughes stepped onto the mat, his smile never reaching his eyes. "Shall we begin?"

What followed was a brutal demonstration of just how outclassed I was. Hughes moved with practiced efficiency, each "training" move designed to put me down hard. The protective mat did little to cushion the impacts as he swept my legs, twisted my arms, and threw me repeatedly.

"This is how it works in the real world," he said, pinning me in a hold that made my shoulder scream. "No one's going to go easy on you just because you're the boss's wife. Or should I say, his temporary arrangement?"

From somewhere nearby, I heard Isabella's voice: "Can you believe she used to work at that kind of club? The background check was quite... illuminating. All those special services..."

Hughes's next throw sent me sprawling. Pain exploded through my hip as I landed awkwardly. Tears threatened, but I blinked them back. I wouldn't give them the satisfaction. Not when every person in the room was watching, waiting for me to break.

"Is this how you train my wife, Hughes?"

The temperature in the room seemed to drop ten degrees. Max stood in the doorway, his expression thunderous. Every person in the facility froze, including Hughes.

"Sir, I was following standard protocols—"

"Standard protocols for elite operators, not for civilians." Max's voice could have frozen hell itself. He moved onto the mat with lethal grace, helping me to my feet with one hand while never taking his eyes off Hughes. "Perhaps you need a refresher in appropriate training methods."

What happened next was both beautiful and terrifying. Max struck with the speed of a cobra, his first blow catching Hughes completely off guard. The special assistant tried to block, but Max was already inside his defense. A precise strike to Hughes's solar plexus, followed by a sweeping leg movement that sent him crashing to the mat.

"Up," Max commanded. "Again."

Hughes struggled to his feet, his face flushed with humiliation. This time, Max didn't even let him set his stance. A lightning-fast combination – elbow strike, knee lock, hip throw – and Hughes was down again, gasping for air.

"Your skills have gotten sloppy, Hughes," Max said, his voice carrying across the silent room. "Perhaps you've forgotten what real combat looks like." He demonstrated with another takedown, this one so fast I could barely follow the movements. Hughes hit the mat with a thud that made me wince.

"Max, darling." Isabella glided forward, her voice honey-sweet. "Peter was just being thorough. We all want Sarah to be safe, don't we?"

The change in Max was immediate and devastating. His whole demeanor softened as he turned to Isabella, his eyes warming in a way they never did for me. The contrast was like watching ice melt in the sun – the deadly fighter vanishing, replaced by a man in love.

"Of course," he said gently. Then, to Hughes: "Your continued employment depends on Mrs. Morrison's decision. What will it be, Sarah?"

I looked at Hughes, still wheezing on the mat. At Isabella, watching with calculated concern. At Max, whose momentary protection felt more like defending property than caring for a wife. In that moment, the truth hit me with more force than any of Hughes's throws.

I was nothing here. Less than nothing. A prop in someone else's story, a placeholder in a marriage that existed only on paper. The way Max looked at Isabella – that was real. That was love. What we had was... obligation. Duty. A favor to his grandmother that he couldn't gracefully refuse.

"He can stay," I said quietly. "It was just training, after all."

Max nodded curtly and turned away, already focused on Isabella. "The board meeting starts in ten minutes. Shall we?"

"Lead the way, darling." Isabella took his arm, shooting me a triumphant smile over her shoulder as they left. Her perfect manicure glinted as she possessively stroked Max's bicep, marking her territory.

I stood there, sweat cooling on my skin, watching my husband walk away with another woman. Again. The familiar ache in my chest had turned into something harder, colder. More final.

"Mrs. Morrison?" Thompson had returned. "Would you like to continue?"

I shook my head, already reaching for my phone. "No, thank you. I need to check something."

The flight schedules appeared on my screen – dozens of planes leaving Virginia for anywhere else. Anywhere but here. Each departure time represented a possibility, an escape route from this beautiful prison where I was nothing but an inconvenient ghost, haunting the edges of someone else's love story.

"Is everything alright, Mrs. Morrison?"

I nodded silently, eyes fixed on the distance. On freedom. My fingers trembled slightly as I scrolled through the flights, each one offering a different path away from here. Away from the whispers and stares.

I want to leave here.