Chapter 3
The rain didn't wash away the stench of the laundry truck; it only made the cold bite deeper into my bones. My bare feet bled on the asphalt of the long, winding driveway I once knew by heart. Every pebble, every curve was a memory of a life that felt like a fever dream. The wrought-iron gates of the Franklin estate loomed ahead, black lace against a bruised purple sky.
I collapsed against the cold metal bars, my chest heaving. My hospital gown was soaked, translucent against skin that hadn't seen the sun in five years. I was a spectre, a hollowed-out thing made of sharp angles and desperation.
"Greyson," I rasped, the name scraping my throat raw. "Please."
Headlights swept over me, blinding white. A sleek black sedan purred to a halt on the other side of the gate. The driver’s door opened, and then the passenger’s. I squinted against the glare, my heart hammering a frantic rhythm against my ribs.
He stepped out first. Greyson. He looked older, harder. The lines around his mouth were etched deeper, his shoulders broader in a tailored suit that cost more than my life was currently worth. For a second, just a heartbeat, I saw the man who used to brush my hair from my forehead when I had a nightmare.
Then I saw the look in his eyes.
It wasn't relief. It wasn't love. It was the same look one gives a roadkill carcass—a mixture of pity and profound disgust.
"Madelyn?" His voice was a whip crack in the silence.
"Greyson," I sobbed, reaching through the bars. My fingers were filthy, trembling. "It was her. It was all her. You have to listen—"
A hand settled on his arm. Manicured nails, painted blood-red. Giselle stepped into the light, wrapped in a cashmere coat that looked soft enough to melt. She looked at me, and her lips curved into a smile that didn't reach her dead, blue eyes.
"Oh, Greyson," she cooed, her voice dripping with faux sympathy. "She’s escaped again. Look at her. She's completely unhinged."
"I'm not crazy!" I screamed, the sound tearing from my lungs. "She lied to you! She put me in there!"
Greyson recoiled, pulling Giselle closer to his side. "Open the gate," he ordered the security guard, not looking at me. "Get her inside before the neighbors see."
The gates groaned open. I stumbled forward, falling to my knees at his feet. I reached for his pant leg, desperate for contact, for recognition. "Greyson, look at me. It's Maddie."
He kicked my hand away. The impact jarred my shoulder, but the emotional blow shattered me. "Don't touch me," he snarled. "You smell like garbage."
"We can't have the police involved, darling," Giselle whispered, stroking his lapel. "Think of the stock prices. If the press found out your wife was wandering the streets like a vagrant..."
Greyson pinched the bridge of his nose. "You're right. As always."
He looked down at me, his face a mask of cold fury. "You have any idea how much your 'treatment' has cost this family? Five years of the best doctors, and this is how you repay us? By running away like a criminal?"
"I wasn't treated," I whispered, the fight draining out of me as the reality set in. He didn't see me. He only saw the monster Giselle had painted. "I was tortured."
"Enough lies," Greyson snapped. "You'll stay here. Under supervision. And you'll work off every cent we wasted on you."
***
The uniform was gray, scratchy polyester. It hung loose on my emaciated frame, smelling of bleach and humiliation. They had stripped me, scrubbed me with rough sponges until my skin was raw, and tossed me into the servants' quarters in the basement. A windowless box, smaller than my cell at Tranquil Horizons.
"Upstairs," the housekeeper barked. "Master bedroom needs turning down."
My legs felt like lead as I climbed the service stairs. The master bedroom. *Our* bedroom. The place where we had whispered promises in the dark.
I pushed open the heavy oak doors. The room smelled of lavender and Giselle's cloying perfume. The bed—our king-sized haven—was unmade, the silk sheets tangled.
Giselle was lounging on the chaise by the window, swirling a glass of red wine. She watched me enter, her eyes gleaming like a predator's.
"Missed a spot," she said, tilting her glass. The dark liquid splashed onto the pristine cream carpet.
I froze. My hands clenched at my sides, nails digging into my palms.
"Clean it up, Maddie," she commanded, her voice low and dangerous. "Unless you want to go back to Dr. Hawthorne? I hear she has a new shock therapy machine she's dying to try."
A phantom jolt of electricity raced up my spine. My breath hitched. I dropped to my knees, scrubbing at the stain with a rag. My vision blurred.
"That's it," Giselle purred, walking over to stand above me. "On your knees. Just where you belong." She leaned down, her lips brushing my ear. "Greyson loves it when I'm on my knees, too. He says I make him forget you ever existed."
Bile rose in my throat. I scrubbed harder, until the friction burned my fingertips. I wouldn't give her the satisfaction of tears. Not yet.
***
The dining room was a theater of opulence. Crystal chandeliers, silver platters, and twelve of the city's most powerful people seated around the mahogany table. I moved silently among them, a ghost in gray, offering trays of canapés.
Greyson sat at the head, laughing at something a banker said. He looked relaxed, powerful. He didn't look at me once.
Giselle sat at his right hand, the perfect hostess. "The soup is a family recipe," she announced, her voice tinkling like bells. "Butternut squash with a hint of nutmeg."
I approached her with the tureen. My hands trembled—a tremor that had started after the third month of ice baths and never left. The ladle clicked against the china.
"Careful!" Giselle shrieked, recoiling as a single drop landed on the tablecloth. The room went silent.
"I... I'm sorry," I stammered.
"She's trying to poison us!" Giselle cried, clutching her pearls. "Look at her eyes! She's having an episode!"
Greyson was out of his chair in an instant. He crossed the distance between us and grabbed my wrist. His grip was iron-hard, crushing the delicate bones.
*Flashback.* Leather straps. Buckles tightening. *"Hold still, Madelyn."* The smell of ozone.
"No!" I gasped, jerking back, my eyes wide with terror. "Don't tie me down! Please, don't tie me down!"
The tray crashed to the floor. Silverware clattered. Soup splashed across Greyson's polished shoes.
"Look at you," Greyson hissed, his face inches from mine. "Pathetic."
He shoved me backward. I stumbled, catching myself on the sideboard. The guests stared—some with pity, most with discomfort. But one man, seated near the end of the table, didn't look away. He wore a pin on his lapel—a golden hawk. Daxton's corporate sigil.
His eyes narrowed, locking onto my trembling hands, then up to my face. He saw the terror. He saw the wrist Greyson had bruised. And for the first time in five years, someone looked at me and didn't see a monster.
He reached into his pocket, his fingers tapping a quick rhythm on his phone screen beneath the table. A message sent into the dark.
*Found her.*
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