---- Chapter 7 Emerson Keller POV: The simulated torture was a unique kind of hell. It wasn't just the physical pain of the electric jolts, which ranged from dull, persistent aches to sharp, stabbing cramps. It was the psychological torment. Barron was forcing me to experience a phantom echo of the one thing | had desperately wanted and repeatedly lost, twisting the miracle of life into a weapon of punishment. | lost track of time in that dark, cold basement. Days and nights blurred into a continuous cycle of pain and despair. Sometimes, Cydney would appear on the monitor, looking bored, and demand Barron turn up the intensity because she had a Braxton Hicks contraction. He always obliged. My body was a warzone. | was weak from blood loss, bruised from the restraints, and my mind was fraying at the edges. But through it all, one thought kept me sane: Keenan was coming. He would find me. And this would end. One evening, after a particularly brutal session, one of the nurses took pity on me. While unstrapping me to use the restroom, she whispered that Barron and Cydney had gone into the city for dinner. This was my chance. As soon as she left, | forced my trembling legs to move. ---- Freedom was just up a flight of stairs. But when | reached the top, | found the door locked from the outside. Panic seized me. | was still trapped. Then | heard a noise behind me. Cydney stood there, a malicious grin on her face. She held a can of lighter fluid and a book of matches. "Leaving so soon?" she taunted. "The party' s just getting started." "He' II kill you for this," | said, my voice shaking. "If anything happens to his precious heir..." She laughed, a high, unhinged sound. "Oh, he' II be angry. But he' Il forgive me. He always does. But you... you' re replaceable. In fact, your death would solve so many problems." Before | could react, she began dousing the old wooden furniture in the basement with the fluid. The acrid smell filled the air. "What are you doing?" | screamed, backing away. "An eye for an eye," she sang, striking a match. "You burned your wedding photos. I'm going to burn you." She tossed the match. The room erupted in a whoosh of flames. Fire raced across the floor, consuming everything in its path. Cydney was already running up the stairs, laughing maniacally, and | heard her slam the bolt shut on the outside of the door. ---- | was locked in a burning tomb. Smoke filled my lungs, hot and choking. The heat was unbearable, searing my skin. | scrambled for the door, pounding on the heavy wood with my fists, screaming for help until my throat was raw. But there was no one to hear me. Panic gave way to a primal survival instinct. | wrapped my thin hospital shirt around my face and crawled along the floor, searching for another way out. | found a small, high window, boarded up from the outside. | threw a wooden chair at it, again and again, until the glass shattered and the boards splintered. | dragged myself through the opening, cutting my arms and legs on the jagged glass, and fell onto the wet grass outside. | lay there, gasping for air, my body screaming in pain, and watched as the west wing of the estate was consumed by fire. And then | saw them. Barron' s car had just pulled up. He and Cydney got out. She ran to him, sobbing, pointing at the fire, no doubt spinning a tale of my insanity, of me starting the fire to kill her. Barron didn' t hesitate. He didn' t look for me. He didn' t call my name. He wrapped his arms around Cydney, pulling her into a protective embrace, shielding her from the sight of the flames. He led her away, his body a fortress around hers. He left me there to burn. ---- The betrayal was so absolute, so final, that it extinguished the last embers of the woman | used to be. | lay on the cold, damp earth, the heat of the fire on my back, and felt nothing but ice in my veins. The next thing | knew, | was waking up in a hospital. Not Barron' s private clinic, but a real one. The smell of smoke and burnt skin hung in the air. A nurse was gently dabbing cream on my face. "You' re very lucky," she said softly. "The burns are mostly on your back and arms. But your face... we' Il do our best, but there will be scarring." | didn' t care. My face was the least of what | had lost. | heard voices outside my door. Barron and Cydney. "..the fire investigators said it was faulty wiring," Barron was saying, his voice low. "But | know it was her. She' s completely unhinged." "She tried to kill us, Barron!" Cydney wailed. "What are you going to do about her?" "Don' t worry," he soothed. "I' Il handle Emerson. You just focus on staying calm for the baby. I' Il never let her hurt you again. | promise." | felt a wave of nausea. | pushed the call button for the nurse. When she entered, | spoke, my voice a hoarse whisper. ---- "Please... tell my husband | need to speak with him. Alone." A few moments later, Barron walked in. He stood at the foot of my bed, his arms crossed, his expression a mixture of anger and weariness. "What is it, Emerson?" "l know Cydney started the fire," | said, my voice flat. He didn't even have the decency to look surprised. He just sighed. "You have no proof. And even if you did, what does it matter? It' s your word against hers. And she is carrying my son. He walked over to my bed, his expression softening into that familiar, deceptive mask of concern. "Look at you," he murmured, gently touching a part of my cheek that wasn't burned. "This has gone too far. All of it." He leaned in, his voice a conspiratorial whisper. "I' Il make you a deal. We' Il leave this place. We' Il go to our villa in Lake Como, just the two of us. We can forget Cydney, forget all of this. We can start over. | still love you, Emerson. You are my wife. That has to mean something." The hypocrisy was breathtaking. He would cover up her attempted murder, just as he had covered up everything else, and then whisk me away on a romantic holiday as if nothing had happened. But in his offer, | saw an opportunity. An escape. ---- "Okay," | whispered, letting a single tear trace a path through the soot on my cheek. "Take me away from here, Barron. Please. Just take me away." He smiled, a genuine, relieved smile. He thought he had won. He thought his broken little bird was finally ready to come back to her cage. He leaned down and kissed my forehead. "I'll make the arrangements," he said. "We'll leave tomorrow." As he walked out of the room, he had no idea that he wasn't arranging a reconciliation. He was arranging my escape. And his own destruction. 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