Chapter 3
"How did you find me?" I asked calmly, though my heart hammered against my ribs.
Liam pushed past me into the small hotel room. His tall frame made the space feel suffocating. He looked around—at the peeling wallpaper, the single bed, the cracked window—with open contempt.
"This is where you're staying? A rat hole?"
"It's clean, quiet, and mine. What do you want, Liam?"
He turned to face me. Under the harsh fluorescent light, I noticed something I'd missed in the penthouse—a flicker of confusion in his eyes. Like a man who'd kicked a dog every day for years and suddenly found it wouldn't come when called.
"Grandfather's will," he said flatly. "The inheritance requires five years of marriage. You know this."
So that was it. Not concern. Not regret. Money.
"That's no longer my problem."
"It is if I contest the divorce."
My blood ran cold, but I kept my face neutral. In my previous life, this was exactly what happened. He dangled the divorce in front of me when he wanted to torment me, then snatched it away when I actually wanted it. A game of control.
"You can't contest what you initiated," I said. "You filed. I signed. It's done."
"My lawyers can delay the process for months. Years, even."
I looked at him—this man I once worshipped. Square jaw, steel-gray eyes, tailored coat that cost more than most people's annual rent. He was objectively beautiful, and he knew it. He wielded his beauty like a weapon.
"Why would you do that?" I asked quietly. "You hate me. You've made that painfully clear. Vivian is pregnant with your child. You won. Why won't you let me go?"
Something shifted in his expression. A muscle twitched in his jaw.
"This isn't about you. It's about the inheritance."
"Then find another arrangement. Marry Vivian. Fake the documents. I don't care."
"The will specifically names you."
I froze. "What?"
"Grandfather's will states that my inheritance is contingent on five years of marriage to Penelope Grace Hudson. By name." His voice was tight. "I didn't write the damn thing."
This was new information. In my previous life, I never knew the will named me specifically. Liam had simply told me he "needed to stay married," and I was too beaten down to ask questions.
"Why me?" I whispered.
"I don't know." His tone was bitter. "Believe me, if I could change it, I would."
I straightened my spine. "Well, you can't. And I won't stay married to a man who treats me like garbage for money that isn't even mine."
"It could be yours. I'll give you a cut. Twenty million."
Twenty million dollars to remain his prisoner for two more years. In my previous life, I would have stayed for free. But now, no amount could buy back the years I lost, the identity I surrendered, the person I let die inside me.
"No."
Liam's composure cracked. "Penelope—"
"Leave. Or I'm calling the front desk."
He stared at me for a long moment. Then he stepped closer—so close I could smell his cologne, that familiar cedar-and-smoke scent that once made my knees weak.
"You've changed," he murmured.
"No. I just finally woke up."
He left without another word. But as the door clicked shut, I heard him say to someone on the phone: "She's not cooperating. Move to Plan B."
I sank onto the bed, my composure dissolving. Plan B. In my previous life, I never knew there was a Plan B because I never refused him.
Whatever it was, I needed to leave this city before he executed it.
I booked the earliest train—5:47 a.m.—and set three alarms.
At 5:30 a.m., I checked out and rushed to the station. My fingers trembled as I scanned my ticket at the gate. I kept glancing behind me, expecting to see his black sedan, his driver, his cold-eyed assistant.
The platform was nearly empty. I boarded the train and found my seat. Only when the doors closed and the train lurched forward did I let out a breath.
I watched the city skyline shrink in the window—the Blackwell Tower standing tallest among the buildings, like a monument to everything I was leaving behind.
My phone buzzed. An unknown number.
*You think running solves anything? —L*
I turned off my phone and closed my eyes.
Wrenfield City was four hours away. Four hours to a new life.
But when the train pulled into Wrenfield Station and I stepped onto the platform, I saw something that made my stomach drop.
A black car was parked outside the station. Leaning against it was Liam's assistant, Marcus Webb, holding a sign that read: MRS. BLACKWELL.
Liam pushed past me into the small hotel room. His tall frame made the space feel suffocating. He looked around—at the peeling wallpaper, the single bed, the cracked window—with open contempt.
"This is where you're staying? A rat hole?"
"It's clean, quiet, and mine. What do you want, Liam?"
He turned to face me. Under the harsh fluorescent light, I noticed something I'd missed in the penthouse—a flicker of confusion in his eyes. Like a man who'd kicked a dog every day for years and suddenly found it wouldn't come when called.
"Grandfather's will," he said flatly. "The inheritance requires five years of marriage. You know this."
So that was it. Not concern. Not regret. Money.
"That's no longer my problem."
"It is if I contest the divorce."
My blood ran cold, but I kept my face neutral. In my previous life, this was exactly what happened. He dangled the divorce in front of me when he wanted to torment me, then snatched it away when I actually wanted it. A game of control.
"You can't contest what you initiated," I said. "You filed. I signed. It's done."
"My lawyers can delay the process for months. Years, even."
I looked at him—this man I once worshipped. Square jaw, steel-gray eyes, tailored coat that cost more than most people's annual rent. He was objectively beautiful, and he knew it. He wielded his beauty like a weapon.
"Why would you do that?" I asked quietly. "You hate me. You've made that painfully clear. Vivian is pregnant with your child. You won. Why won't you let me go?"
Something shifted in his expression. A muscle twitched in his jaw.
"This isn't about you. It's about the inheritance."
"Then find another arrangement. Marry Vivian. Fake the documents. I don't care."
"The will specifically names you."
I froze. "What?"
"Grandfather's will states that my inheritance is contingent on five years of marriage to Penelope Grace Hudson. By name." His voice was tight. "I didn't write the damn thing."
This was new information. In my previous life, I never knew the will named me specifically. Liam had simply told me he "needed to stay married," and I was too beaten down to ask questions.
"Why me?" I whispered.
"I don't know." His tone was bitter. "Believe me, if I could change it, I would."
I straightened my spine. "Well, you can't. And I won't stay married to a man who treats me like garbage for money that isn't even mine."
"It could be yours. I'll give you a cut. Twenty million."
Twenty million dollars to remain his prisoner for two more years. In my previous life, I would have stayed for free. But now, no amount could buy back the years I lost, the identity I surrendered, the person I let die inside me.
"No."
Liam's composure cracked. "Penelope—"
"Leave. Or I'm calling the front desk."
He stared at me for a long moment. Then he stepped closer—so close I could smell his cologne, that familiar cedar-and-smoke scent that once made my knees weak.
"You've changed," he murmured.
"No. I just finally woke up."
He left without another word. But as the door clicked shut, I heard him say to someone on the phone: "She's not cooperating. Move to Plan B."
I sank onto the bed, my composure dissolving. Plan B. In my previous life, I never knew there was a Plan B because I never refused him.
Whatever it was, I needed to leave this city before he executed it.
I booked the earliest train—5:47 a.m.—and set three alarms.
At 5:30 a.m., I checked out and rushed to the station. My fingers trembled as I scanned my ticket at the gate. I kept glancing behind me, expecting to see his black sedan, his driver, his cold-eyed assistant.
The platform was nearly empty. I boarded the train and found my seat. Only when the doors closed and the train lurched forward did I let out a breath.
I watched the city skyline shrink in the window—the Blackwell Tower standing tallest among the buildings, like a monument to everything I was leaving behind.
My phone buzzed. An unknown number.
*You think running solves anything? —L*
I turned off my phone and closed my eyes.
Wrenfield City was four hours away. Four hours to a new life.
But when the train pulled into Wrenfield Station and I stepped onto the platform, I saw something that made my stomach drop.
A black car was parked outside the station. Leaning against it was Liam's assistant, Marcus Webb, holding a sign that read: MRS. BLACKWELL.