Chapter 2

A faint sound of crying drifted from the garden, and before I could think about what I was doing, my feet had already carried me toward it. I pushed aside the hanging wisteria and stopped dead.

Vincent.

My husband stood beneath the garden lights in an immaculate suit, looking as untouchable and dangerous as the man everyone else feared. A leather whip hung from his hand. Sabrina was tied to the antique chaise lounge I had spent weeks choosing for our villa, her body exposed beneath the soft glow of the lights.

Then Vincent dropped the whip.

He bent over her and kissed her.

There was nothing reluctant or forced about it. His hands moved over her with familiarity, his body close to hers, and the sight made my stomach twist violently.

The sound I had mistaken for sobbing hadn't been pain.

It had been Sabrina's moans.

The punishment I had imagined Vincent giving her wasn't punishment at all. The secluded villa wasn't a prison where he had hidden the woman who destroyed my life. It was their private sanctuary, their place to indulge in whatever kind of love they had been hiding from the world.

I staggered backward, my eyes falling on the chaise lounge.

I had chosen it for Vincent.

I remembered how carefully I had picked it, imagining us spending quiet evenings together. He had once held my hand and told me, “You deserve every beautiful thing in this world, Amara. This lounge belongs to you, just like my heart does.”

Now another woman occupied it.

My hands clenched until my nails cut into my palms.

Why?

Why would Vincent do this?

Then Sabrina's voice reached me.

“Darling, I still can’t believe I finally married you. I feel like I’m living in a dream. I’m so happy.”

Vincent calmly pulled on his shirt as though nothing unusual had happened.

“You deserve to be happy,” he said.

Then his expression turned cold.

“Four years ago, all I wanted was for Amara to stay here with me forever. But you took an axe to her hand and destroyed the future she had worked so hard for. Then you turned yourself in, thinking you were some kind of martyr, willing to sacrifice your freedom because you believed my happiness mattered more than yours.”

A terrible ache spread through my chest.

Vincent continued, “Sometimes I wonder if that makes me heartless, but I can’t ignore someone who was willing to sacrifice herself for me. Amara can have my love openly. You stay here, away from everyone. I give you the title of my wife. That’s a fair arrangement.”

Fair?

I almost laughed.

Years ago, a spoiled nobleman had called me a broken-winged angel. Vincent had punished him so viciously that the man never dared insult me again.

That was the Vincent I knew.

The man who couldn't tolerate anyone hurting me.

Yet here he was, standing beside the woman who had destroyed my hand, giving her affection, gifts, and now a title.

I wanted to scream. I wanted to cry. More than anything, I wanted to disappear.

“But what if she finds out?” Sabrina asked anxiously. “Miss Sinclair will never accept this.”

Vincent smiled with absolute confidence.

“My feelings for Amara haven't changed. I’ll protect her for the rest of her life. She doesn’t need to know about this, and you’ll never be allowed to hurt her again.”

Then he took out a small box and placed something in Sabrina's hand.

A pink diamond.

Sabrina stared at it, stunned.

“It was the final piece sold at the Paris auction a few days ago,” Vincent said. “It cost a hundred million.”

Her lips parted. “Something this expensive… am I really worthy of it?”

Vincent smiled and brushed his fingers against her cheek.

“You’re my woman. Of course you are.”

He kissed her gently before whispering, “Happy fourth anniversary, my wife.”

I stood there in silence, watching the man who had once promised I was his entire world give another woman the love I thought belonged to me.

I didn't leave the mountain until Vincent's black car disappeared down the road.

For a long time, I remained where I was, unable to move. If I stayed still, perhaps I could pretend none of this was real.

Then my phone vibrated.

I looked down and opened the message.

[Amara, I’m heading home. I can’t wait to celebrate our seventh anniversary with you, darling. I love you.]

I stared at it.

Then I laughed.

The sound was so broken that I had to bend over, tears streaming down my face as my shoulders shook.

Our seventh anniversary?

He had just celebrated four years of marriage with Sabrina, and now he was coming home to celebrate seven years with me.

What was I to him?

A joke?

A possession?

Or simply a fool who hadn't realized her marriage had ended four years ago?

There was no seventh anniversary.

Vincent and I had been divorced for four years.

And if this was his idea of love—destroying my future, keeping me inside a beautiful cage, and lying to my face—then I didn't want it anymore.

Not even a little.

He thought I would never discover the truth.

I wiped my tears and looked down at the application in my trembling hands.

“No,” I whispered. “You’re the one who’s going to lose me.”

Forever.

I turned away from the villa and did the only two things that mattered.

First, I submitted an application to erase my identity from every official record in the country.

Second, I filed my application again under a new name.

A new identity.

A new life.

Four years ago, Sabrina hadn't merely cut off my right hand. Afterward, she had thrown it to wild dogs as though I were worthless.

Vincent had gone insane when he found out. He spent a fortune finding specialists who could give me a prosthetic hand realistic enough to fool almost anyone.

It allowed me to live normally, but I could no longer operate the way I once had.

I was a surgeon. My entire career depended on precision, and no replacement could completely restore what I had lost.

My dream died that day.

I tried three times to escape the pain entirely.

Three times, I failed.

Eventually, after crying until I had nothing left, I forced myself to keep going. I entered rehabilitation and began training my transplanted hand.

It was brutal.

For more than a thousand days and nights, I endured pain, blood, torn skin, and fingers that split open only to heal and break again. But I kept going until, eventually, I could use my hand well enough to stand on my own again.

I never told Vincent.

I had wanted to surprise him. I wanted him to see that the woman he claimed to love had survived.

Now, I was grateful I had kept it secret.

Because if he had known I was recovering, would he have taken both my hands from me?

My phone vibrated once more.

I looked down.

[Your cancellation application has been submitted and will be processed within eight business days.]

Eight days.

That was all I needed.

After eight days, Amara Sinclair would disappear completely.

No name.

No records.

No trace.

And even a man as powerful as Vincent Ravelli couldn't find someone who no longer existed.