Chapter 7

That evening, Vincent took me to an expensive Italian restaurant high above the city, the kind of place designed to make every dinner feel unforgettable. The food was exquisite, the lights were soft, and the view stretched endlessly beneath us. Under different circumstances, it might have been romantic.

I felt nothing.

Vincent sat opposite me, outwardly relaxed, but I noticed how often his attention drifted toward his phone. He was waiting for something, and I knew exactly what it was.

He was waiting for his wife.

When the phone finally rang, he answered so quickly that he accidentally activated the speaker.

“Vincent…” Sabrina's frightened voice filled the table. “Someone took me. I don't know where they're bringing me, but maybe this is for the best. If I disappear, Miss Sinclair won't have any reason to be angry anymore. Ah—please! Somebody help me!”

The call abruptly ended.

Vincent immediately tried calling her back.

Once.

Twice.

Again.

There was no answer.

Then his eyes settled on me.

“Amara,” he said, trying to keep his voice controlled, “where did you send her?”

I frowned. “What are you talking about?”

“If you're angry with her, you should have come to me. I'll deal with it.” His expression hardened. “Why would you take matters into your own hands?”

I calmly set my fork down.

“I already told you. I had nothing to do with this.”

His hand suddenly closed around my wrist.

“Sabrina isn't in a condition to deal with something like this!” His voice rose. “She can't take much more. Amara, you need to stop. I know you've suffered since losing your hand, but Sabrina has suffered too. Just leave her alone. Is that really so difficult?”

My heart seemed to stop.

Sabrina has suffered too.

I nearly laughed.

She had attacked me with an axe and destroyed the future I'd spent years building. Vincent had made certain she never had to pay for it in prison. Instead, she married the man she had wanted all along, lived safely in hiding, and spent four years being loved and protected.

And now she was free.

Yet somehow, she was the one he was worried about.

I swallowed the tears burning behind my eyes.

“I told you I didn't do it,” I said quietly. “And whether this hand is transplanted or not, it still hurts when you squeeze it like that.”

Vincent immediately released me.

His eyes dropped to my wrist, where the skin had already reddened.

“Damn it, Amara. I'm sorry.” His expression shifted with guilt. “I thought you might have done something impulsive. I wasn't trying to hurt you.”

Then, as though something else had suddenly occurred to him, he asked, “Where are the rings I gave you? Why aren't you wearing them?”

I almost smiled.

“You gave me the men's ring. It was too loose, so I took it off.”

He looked momentarily confused before nodding.

“Fine. We'll exchange them when we get home.”

After that, he said nothing more about Sabrina.

It was as though she had simply vanished from his thoughts.

Three nights later, his phone rang well after midnight.

Vincent immediately got out of bed.

He was already reaching for the door when he stopped and glanced back at me.

I remained where I was, perfectly calm. I didn't ask where he was going or try to hold him back.

Something unsettled crossed his face.

Perhaps he had expected me to question him.

For a moment, he seemed as though he might stay.

Then the phone rang again.

“Something happened at the company,” he said hurriedly. “I need to handle it.”

And he left.

He never returned that night.

The only thing I received was a message.

[Amara, work came up. I’ll be staying late, so go to bed without me. Love you.]

I stared at those words for a long moment before locking my phone.

Once, they would have made my heart soften.

Now they were nothing more than empty sounds.

The following morning, one of the maids told me someone was waiting outside to see me.

I had barely stepped out when something struck the back of my head.

The world disappeared.

When I regained consciousness, I was bound tightly from head to toe. My wrists and ankles were restrained, and something covered my mouth so I couldn't speak.

I was in a private room inside a nightclub. Music throbbed faintly somewhere beyond the walls.

Someone had dressed me in a servant's uniform and placed a mask over my face.

Then I realized something else.

My hair was gone.

It had been cut brutally short, uneven strands barely reaching my ears.

Vincent had always loved my long hair. He used to tell me it made me look gentle and feminine.

Now there was nothing left of it.

The door suddenly burst open.

“Is that the woman who locked you up and tortured you for three days?”

Vincent's voice was frighteningly cold.

Sabrina immediately answered.

“Yes! That's her!”

She pointed at me, her voice trembling with convincing fear.

“She told me Miss Sinclair wanted me punished. She said she wanted me to suffer until I begged to die. She kept me locked away and brought men in to humiliate me. I thought I was never going to get out.”

Her voice broke.

“I barely survived.”

I struggled against the restraints, desperately trying to make a sound.

Nothing came out.

Vincent stared at me.

His expression hardened.

“Amara went too far this time. I won't lay a hand on her, but someone needs to pay for what happened to my wife.”

He turned toward his men.

“Bring me the whip. The one treated with salt.”

My entire body began to shake.

Sabrina hadn't simply accused me of kidnapping her.

She had transformed me into a monster in his eyes, someone he could punish without hesitation.

Vincent stepped closer, the whip hanging from his hand.

For one brief moment, he stopped.

His eyes narrowed.

Something about me seemed to bother him, although I couldn't tell whether it was recognition or merely instinct.

The room was dim, and my face was hidden behind the mask.

Then Sabrina approached him from behind and wrapped her arms around his waist.

“Darling,” she whispered, “thank you for protecting me. She hurt me so badly. I was terrified.”

I understood immediately why Vincent hadn't recognized me.

I had never worn a servant's uniform. I'd always kept my hair long because he loved it that way.

The woman standing before him now had short, uneven hair, cheap clothing, and a hidden face.

There was no way he could imagine that she was his Amara.

I watched the realization settle inside him.

Whatever doubt had existed disappeared.

The warmth vanished from his expression, replaced by something frighteningly cold.

“If you ever lay a hand on my wife again,” Vincent snarled, “I'll make you suffer for it a thousand times over. Do you understand me? I'll make you regret the day you were ever born.”

He raised the whip.

I couldn't move.

The weapon sliced through the air.

Crack!

The first strike tore across my back, the barbed ends biting into my skin.

My body jerked violently from the impact, and a cry died behind the gag.

I stared at the man standing before me.

The man who had once sworn he would protect me from everyone in the world was now the one hurting me.

And he still had no idea who I was.