Chapter 2

About an hour later, Bella posted on Instagram: "Stormy night, so glad to have Alex by my side."

The photo showed two hands intertwined. On the slender white wrist of one hand was a tattoo — a lush, blooming rose.

My heart clenched. I turned and stared at my own wrist.

In the exact same spot, I had the same rose. Alex had forced me to get it.

No wonder he always pressed his lips to my wrist like he was starving for it. He was pretending it was Bella's.

Something inside me shattered like broken glass.

Any tattoo on my skin would eventually fade away on its own — my body rejected them, just like everything else.

So every few days, when the ink started to blur, Alex would redo it with that obsessive, almost unhinged intensity of his.

Day after day. Year after year. Hundreds of times. Maybe thousands.

Every single time, it hurt. I'd cry through it. He never cared.

My entire existence was just to feed his forbidden obsession.

I had tried to run before. But he always caught me.

The worst time, he locked me in the basement as punishment. For three whole months, he never once brought me water or food.

I'd gone in at 120 pounds. By the time he came back, I was barely 90.

I was practically a skeleton — nothing but skin and bone. And yet I couldn't die.

At first I screamed and cried day and night down there, begging him to let me go.

Eventually, I didn't even have the strength to cry anymore.

When he finally came to get me, one look at the state I was in and he wasn't happy. I didn't look like Bella anymore.

He forced me to eat — whatever would put weight back on the fastest. Fried chicken. Cream cake. Fatty cuts of meat.

Every time, I gagged and threw it back up.

He didn't care. He'd grab me by the hair and shove it into my mouth anyway.

The more he forced it, the more violently I vomited — until all that was left was stomach acid. Only then did he panic and rush me to the hospital.

I spent a full month on IV nutrition before I started to stabilize.

Near the end of my stay, he came into the room and, seeing me slowly recovering, let a rare look of relief cross his face.

I watched him dully, too exhausted to speak.

He took my chin in his hand. His voice was softer than usual. "I'm sorry. I went too far this time. I promise — I'll never lock you up again."

I pressed my lips together and said nothing.

He leaned toward me slowly, lips almost touching mine. I turned my head away. His kiss landed on my cheek.

His brow furrowed. His voice sharpened with impatience.

"Don't you dare push me away. It's been four months."

I had no strength left to fight him. I just let him take what he wanted.

The hallway outside was full of people coming and going. He hadn't even bothered to close the door. Anyone could walk in at any moment.

He didn't care how exposed I was.

He was fully dressed in his suit. I had nothing.

One wrong person walking through that door and I'd have nothing left.

I gripped the cold metal railing of the hospital bed with both hands, bit down on my lip until it bled, and fought to hold back every sound trying to escape me.

Tears slid down from the corners of my eyes. All at once, I felt a wave of humiliation so deep it nearly swallowed me whole.