Chapter 4
I pressed my face into the pillow, using every shred of willpower to keep my breathing steady. Beside me, Kieran locked his phone and rolled over, one arm draping across my waist like a chain.
"Goodnight, Ivy," he murmured.
I didn't respond. I couldn't. If I opened my mouth, I would scream.
*After the insurance pays out.*
That policy was worth eight million dollars—payable only upon my death.
He wasn't waiting for me to stay blind. He was waiting for me to die.
And Serena wasn't just keeping me blind to hide her identity. She was poisoning me slowly, methodically, building toward organ failure that would look natural—a blind woman's health deteriorating, tragic but unsurprising.
My eyes burned with tears I couldn't shed, because if my eyes were red in the morning, he'd wonder why.
So I lay there, motionless, until his breathing deepened into sleep.
Then I slipped out of bed and padded to the bathroom in the dark—navigating with the muscle memory of a blind woman, even though I could see every shadow, every corner, every inch of this house that had become my prison.
In the mirror, I looked at myself for the first time in three years.
Gaunt. Hollow-cheeked. My skin had a grayish tint—likely from whatever Serena was feeding me. My hair had thinned. My eyes, though—my eyes still looked like mine. Green, sharp, alive.
These eyes were my weapon. The only weapon I had left.
I had five days until the dinner party. Five days to gather enough evidence to destroy them both.
And I had to do it without my vision failing, without my body collapsing, and without either of them suspecting that the blind woman they were slowly killing could see every single thing they did.
The next morning, I played my role flawlessly. I reached for the wrong coffee cup. I thanked Serena for "helping" me get dressed. I let Kieran button my cardigan wrong and didn't correct it.
But when he left for work and Serena retreated to the guest room to make phone calls, I moved.
His study. Top drawer. Locked—but I'd heard the combination a hundred times, the soft clicks of the dial when he thought I couldn't see. 3-7-2-1.
Inside: documents. My life insurance policy, flagged and highlighted. Medical records from a doctor I'd never visited—fabricated reports showing "rapid cognitive decline" and "organ deterioration." Prescriptions for medications I'd never been given, all backdated and signed.
They were building a paper trail. Making it look like I'd been dying for months.
And buried at the bottom—a folder labeled "S.V. Settlement."
Inside was a contract between Kieran and Sara Voss. Dated four years ago—before the acid attack.
The contract stated that Sara Voss would receive three million dollars upon "completion of services rendered."
The acid was never random. The attack was never about Kieran's father's company.
My husband paid a woman to throw acid in my face.
He paid her to blind me.
And then he married me—the wounded, grateful, dependent blind woman who would never see the knife coming.
My knees buckled. I caught myself on the desk, my vision swimming—not from the healing reversing, but from pure, white-hot fury.
I photographed everything. Every page, every signature, every damning line.
Then I put it all back, exactly as it was, closed the drawer, and walked out of the study with my cane tapping ahead of me.
When Serena passed me in the hallway, she touched my shoulder. "Everything okay, Ivy? You look pale."
I smiled—the same vacant, helpless smile I'd perfected over three years. "Just a little dizzy. I'll sit down."
"Poor thing," she cooed. "Here, let me bring you some tea."
Poisoned tea. Of course.
"Thank you, Serena. You're so kind."
*Five more days. Just five more days.*
"Goodnight, Ivy," he murmured.
I didn't respond. I couldn't. If I opened my mouth, I would scream.
*After the insurance pays out.*
That policy was worth eight million dollars—payable only upon my death.
He wasn't waiting for me to stay blind. He was waiting for me to die.
And Serena wasn't just keeping me blind to hide her identity. She was poisoning me slowly, methodically, building toward organ failure that would look natural—a blind woman's health deteriorating, tragic but unsurprising.
My eyes burned with tears I couldn't shed, because if my eyes were red in the morning, he'd wonder why.
So I lay there, motionless, until his breathing deepened into sleep.
Then I slipped out of bed and padded to the bathroom in the dark—navigating with the muscle memory of a blind woman, even though I could see every shadow, every corner, every inch of this house that had become my prison.
In the mirror, I looked at myself for the first time in three years.
Gaunt. Hollow-cheeked. My skin had a grayish tint—likely from whatever Serena was feeding me. My hair had thinned. My eyes, though—my eyes still looked like mine. Green, sharp, alive.
These eyes were my weapon. The only weapon I had left.
I had five days until the dinner party. Five days to gather enough evidence to destroy them both.
And I had to do it without my vision failing, without my body collapsing, and without either of them suspecting that the blind woman they were slowly killing could see every single thing they did.
The next morning, I played my role flawlessly. I reached for the wrong coffee cup. I thanked Serena for "helping" me get dressed. I let Kieran button my cardigan wrong and didn't correct it.
But when he left for work and Serena retreated to the guest room to make phone calls, I moved.
His study. Top drawer. Locked—but I'd heard the combination a hundred times, the soft clicks of the dial when he thought I couldn't see. 3-7-2-1.
Inside: documents. My life insurance policy, flagged and highlighted. Medical records from a doctor I'd never visited—fabricated reports showing "rapid cognitive decline" and "organ deterioration." Prescriptions for medications I'd never been given, all backdated and signed.
They were building a paper trail. Making it look like I'd been dying for months.
And buried at the bottom—a folder labeled "S.V. Settlement."
Inside was a contract between Kieran and Sara Voss. Dated four years ago—before the acid attack.
The contract stated that Sara Voss would receive three million dollars upon "completion of services rendered."
The acid was never random. The attack was never about Kieran's father's company.
My husband paid a woman to throw acid in my face.
He paid her to blind me.
And then he married me—the wounded, grateful, dependent blind woman who would never see the knife coming.
My knees buckled. I caught myself on the desk, my vision swimming—not from the healing reversing, but from pure, white-hot fury.
I photographed everything. Every page, every signature, every damning line.
Then I put it all back, exactly as it was, closed the drawer, and walked out of the study with my cane tapping ahead of me.
When Serena passed me in the hallway, she touched my shoulder. "Everything okay, Ivy? You look pale."
I smiled—the same vacant, helpless smile I'd perfected over three years. "Just a little dizzy. I'll sit down."
"Poor thing," she cooed. "Here, let me bring you some tea."
Poisoned tea. Of course.
"Thank you, Serena. You're so kind."
*Five more days. Just five more days.*