Chapter 2

My hands trembled as I sat in my car in the underground parking garage, the engine running but going nowhere.

I typed Colton's cloud password—our anniversary date, which now felt like a sick joke—and navigated to the folder labeled "Insurance."

The first file was a video.

It showed me at a company gala two years ago, stumbling, slurring my words, being guided into a private room by a man I didn't recognize. I had no memory of this night. Colton had told me I'd had too much champagne and he'd taken me home early.

But in this video, I wasn't with Colton.

The footage was edited—choppy cuts, strategic angles—designed to make it look like I'd willingly gone with this stranger. My stomach lurched. I remembered now: that was the night I'd woken up with a splitting headache and bruises I couldn't explain. Colton had been so tender the next morning, bringing me breakfast in bed, telling me I'd fallen.

He'd drugged me. Filmed it. Kept it.

The second file was a collection of documents—forged emails from my old email account, making it appear I'd been embezzling from Colton's company. Transfers I'd never authorized, with my digital signature perfectly replicated.

The third file made me stop breathing.

It was a psychological evaluation, signed by Dr. Eleanor Voss—Colton's personal physician—diagnosing me with "severe delusional disorder, paranoid ideation, and intermittent psychotic episodes."

I'd never seen this doctor for a psychological evaluation. I'd only been to her office once, for a routine physical.

The document was dated three months ago. Colton had been building a case to have me declared mentally incompetent—for three months.

My phone rang. Colton.

I didn't answer.

It rang again. And again.

Then a text: "Come home, Sienna. Let's talk about this calmly. I love you."

Followed immediately by another: "Don't make me come find you."

I drove. I didn't know where I was going—just away. My mind raced through every moment of our marriage, every red flag I'd painted green because I wanted so desperately to believe in us.

The way he'd isolated me from my friends. The way he'd convinced me to quit my career as a theater director. The way he'd slowly, methodically, made himself the center of my entire universe until I had no one else.

And Scarlett. My twin. My other half.

We'd been inseparable growing up—two girls against the world after our parents died. I'd introduced her to Colton at our engagement party. She'd been struggling then, working dead-end jobs, drowning in debt. I'd begged Colton to give her a position at his company.

He'd given her far more than a position.

I pulled into the parking lot of a 24-hour diner and sat in a booth near the back, ordering coffee I couldn't taste.

The anonymous text still glowed on my screen. Who sent it? Who else knew about Colton's "Insurance" folder?

I typed back: "Who are you?"

The reply came instantly: "Someone who knows what Colton Blackwell really is. Meet me tomorrow. 9 AM. Bluebird Café on 5th. Come alone."

Then: "And Sienna? Don't go home tonight."

I stared at the message, heart hammering. It could be a trap. Another one of Colton's games.

But what choice did I have? My husband had a secret family, a blackmail folder, and a plan to have me committed. My twin sister was wearing my ring and raising his child.

I had no money of my own—Colton had "consolidated" our accounts years ago. No career. No friends left who hadn't been filtered through Colton's approval.

All I had was a stranger's text message and a cup of cold coffee.

I opened my contacts and scrolled to the one name I hadn't called in two years—my old college roommate, Deena. Colton had never liked her. Said she was "a bad influence." Which probably meant she was the only person who'd ever seen through him.

The phone rang four times.

"Sienna?" Deena's voice was thick with sleep. "It's 2 AM. What—"

"I need a place to stay tonight. I can't explain yet. Please."

A pause. Then: "I'll unlock the door. Drive safe."

I hung up and pulled out of the parking lot, checking my rearview mirror every thirty seconds.

No one was following me. Yet.

As I merged onto the highway, my phone buzzed one last time. A photo from Scarlett—a selfie of her tucked into Colton's bed, the sheets rumpled, his arm visible around her shoulder.

The caption: "He says goodnight. 😘"

I turned off my phone and drove into the dark.