Chapter 6

The next night, my fingers traced the bruises forming on my wrists as I watched Billy sleep peacefully in the hospital room. The night's chaos had settled into an uneasy quiet, broken only by the soft beeping of medical equipment and the occasional footsteps in the hallway.

I should have been relieved. My son was recovering, the immediate crisis had passed. Instead, I felt a creeping dread, knowing that the relative peace couldn't last. Not after what had happened with Henry in the stairwell. Not after I'd dared to mention divorce.

Suddenly, the door clicked open behind me. I immediately turned around, and it was Henry again.

"Come with me." His voice was low, commanding. "We need to finish what you started last night."

Before I could protest, his hand clamped around my arm, pulling me toward the door. I cast a desperate glance at Billy, but he slept on, oblivious to the nightmare unfolding around him.

The emergency stairwell was exactly as we'd left it last night, lit by the sickly green glow of exit signs. Henry pushed me against the wall, his body caging mine.

"The desire you provoked last night hasn't faded," he growled, his hands already moving possessively over my body.

I tried to push him away, anger burning through my fear. "What? What am I to you? Just a tool for your desires?"

His response was to grip my throat, not quite choking but threatening. "I told you last night. You're my wife. My property. Nothing more."

"Henry Harding, you bastard!" I spat the words, struggling against his hold. "This is rape! I'll report you for marital rape!"

Henry laughed, the sound echoing off the concrete walls. "Who would believe you? The courts? The police? You forget who I am."

"Go to hell!" I thrashed against him, my nails raking his perfect suit. "You sick, twisted psychopath!"

His grip tightened. "Keep fighting. It only makes this more interesting."

"I hope you can't get it up when you're with Isabella!" The words burst out of me, bitter and crude.

Something dark flashed in Henry's eyes, and then pain exploded across my face as his hand connected with my cheek. What followed was a blur of violence and violation, my screams echoing in the enclosed space until my voice gave out completely.

Later, minutes or half an hour, I couldn't tell. I slumped against the wall, my body aching, my lips swollen, my eyes burning.

"Henry," my voice was barely a whisper, "please... let's end this. If you hate this marriage so much, let's just end it. Billy and I will stay far away from you. Just... just give me custody of Billy. Please?"

The silence stretched between us, heavy with unspoken things. When Henry finally spoke, his voice was dangerously soft. "Is this about Thomas Sanders? Do you love him?"

"No," I choked out, tears streaming down my face. "I know you despise this marriage. I can't bear to see you so miserable anymore. For your own sake, please..."

His hand shot out, fingers wrapping around my throat again. "Get this through your head. Never mention divorce again."

I clawed at his hand, struggling to breathe. "Henry..."

"If I ever hear that word from you again," he leaned close, his breath hot against my ear, "you'll receive Thomas Sanders's corpse on your doorstep."

The threat hung in the air between us, crystal clear in its implications. Henry released me, straightening his tie with perfect composure. "And if you dare go to him..." He left the threat unfinished, but its meaning was unmistakable.

I slid to the floor as he left, sobs wracking my body until there were no tears left to cry.

Two days later, we were preparing to leave the hospital. Billy's recovery had been remarkable, though he kept asking to say goodbye to "Dr. Sanders." I made excuses, my throat tightening every time I remembered Henry's threats.

The autumn air hit us as we left Manhattan General, crisp and clean. The maple trees lining the streets were turning golden. Billy chattered happily in the taxi, while I stared out the window, wondering how my life had come to be the way it was.

The Harding Estate loomed before us, sprawling across Long Island's Gold Coast like a small kingdom. As our taxi pulled up to the gates, I could already feel the weight of the mansion's expectations settling on my shoulders.

The butler helped with our bags, and I managed a polite thank you, my society manners still intact even if I was crumbling inside. But the real test waited in the living room.

Catherine Harding, Henry's mother, sat like a queen holding court, with Isabella Scott and Grace Harding flanking her like ladies-in-waiting. Their laughter died as Billy and I entered, replaced by looks ranging from disdain to outright hostility.

"What kind of mother are you?" Catherine's voice cut through the air like a blade. "You don't work, you don't handle household duties, and you can't even keep your child healthy? He's sick every other week! Is this how you perform your maternal duties?"

Grace, Henry's sister, jumped in with practiced timing. "Mom's right, Sophia. How are you any different from useless garbage? If you can't raise him properly, maybe someone else should!"

I stood frozen, the familiar humiliation burning through me. But before I could respond, a small voice piped up.

"Grandma," Billy's voice was clear and firm, despite his recent illness, "it was a viral infection! Viruses are invisible, it's not Mommy's fault!"

My five-year-old son, defending me when no one else would. I watched Isabella's hand rest possessively on Catherine's arm, watched Grace's smirk of satisfaction, watched my son's small shoulders square with determination.

And I realized that Henry's threats weren't just about violence anymore. They were about power, about control, about keeping me trapped in this golden cage where even the air felt poisoned.

The autumn sun streamed through the mansion's windows, catching the crystal chandelier and throwing rainbow prisms across the room. However, my heart was full of sadness.

Billy's small hand slipped into mine, warm and trusting. In that moment, my sadness was dispelled quite a bit.

I stood in that elegant living room, forced a smile, and pretended not to notice when Isabella whispered something that made Catherine laugh. After all, that's what Harding wives do. "One day I'll leave this house," I thought.