Chapter 6
The photo was timestamped three hours before the charity gala. In it, Serena—still Sara Voss with her original face—posed with the acid like it was a trophy. And behind her, unmistakably, was Kieran in his tuxedo, adjusting his cufflinks in the mirror.
He wasn't just the man who hired her. He was there when she prepared the weapon that would destroy my eyes.
He watched her fill the vial, and then he took me to that gala knowing exactly what would happen.
He held my hand walking in. He smiled at me. He said, "You look stunning tonight, Ivy."
And then he positioned me exactly where Sara could reach me.
The room spun. I grabbed the edge of the nightstand and breathed—in through the nose, out through the mouth—counting to ten until the spots faded from my vision.
*Not now. You cannot break now.*
I put the tablet back exactly where I found it, wiped my fingerprints from the screen, and slipped back to bed beside the man who'd been killing me in slow motion for three years.
He shifted in his sleep, pulling me closer. "Mm. You're cold," he mumbled, pressing his face into my neck.
I lay there rigid, staring at the ceiling with eyes he didn't know could see, and I made myself a promise.
Saturday. Three more days.
And then I'd take everything from him.
-
Over the next two days, I prepared methodically.
I called my parents' estate lawyer—the one Kieran didn't know about—and had my will rewritten. Everything, down to the last cent, went to Mary and a women's shelter downtown. Kieran's name was struck from every document.
I copied all evidence onto three separate USB drives. One went to Mary. One went to the lawyer. One I kept taped to the inside of my cane.
I also called Detective Rosa Herrera—the officer who'd originally investigated my acid attack and hit nothing but dead ends. When I told her I had new evidence, her voice sharpened like a blade.
"What kind of evidence?"
"The kind that proves my husband orchestrated the attack. And that he's been poisoning me since."
Silence. Then: "Mrs. Harris, I'm going to need you to come in—"
"Saturday. After the dinner party. I'll bring everything."
"Ma'am, if you're in danger—"
"I've been in danger for three years, Detective. Three more days won't kill me." I paused. "But I need witnesses. I need him to reveal himself in a room full of people who can testify."
She didn't like it, but she agreed to have undercover officers at the dinner—posed as catering staff.
Everything was falling into place.
But on Thursday night, something happened that I hadn't planned for.
I was in the bathroom, pulling a protein bar from the ceiling tile, when Serena's voice came from directly outside the door.
"Ivy? Are you in there?"
I froze, the protein bar clutched in my hand, the ceiling tile still slightly askew.
"Just a minute!" I called out, scrambling to push the tile back.
Too slow. The door opened—she never respected locked doors—and Serena stood there, staring.
At me.
Standing on the toilet seat, arms raised above my head, reaching into the ceiling with open eyes that were looking directly at her.
Time stopped.
Her gaze flicked from my eyes—clearly focused, clearly seeing—to the ceiling tile, to the protein bar in my hand.
For one eternal second, we stared at each other.
Then I let my eyes go unfocused, widening them into the blank, searching gaze I'd perfected. "Serena? Is that you? I dropped something and I was trying to feel for it..."
The lie was absurd. Standing on the toilet, reaching into the ceiling, for something I "dropped."
She didn't buy it.
I could see the calculation behind her eyes—the rapid decision-making of a predator who'd been caught.
"Of course, sweetie," she said slowly. "Let me help you down."
Her hand closed around my wrist—hard. Too hard.
He wasn't just the man who hired her. He was there when she prepared the weapon that would destroy my eyes.
He watched her fill the vial, and then he took me to that gala knowing exactly what would happen.
He held my hand walking in. He smiled at me. He said, "You look stunning tonight, Ivy."
And then he positioned me exactly where Sara could reach me.
The room spun. I grabbed the edge of the nightstand and breathed—in through the nose, out through the mouth—counting to ten until the spots faded from my vision.
*Not now. You cannot break now.*
I put the tablet back exactly where I found it, wiped my fingerprints from the screen, and slipped back to bed beside the man who'd been killing me in slow motion for three years.
He shifted in his sleep, pulling me closer. "Mm. You're cold," he mumbled, pressing his face into my neck.
I lay there rigid, staring at the ceiling with eyes he didn't know could see, and I made myself a promise.
Saturday. Three more days.
And then I'd take everything from him.
-
Over the next two days, I prepared methodically.
I called my parents' estate lawyer—the one Kieran didn't know about—and had my will rewritten. Everything, down to the last cent, went to Mary and a women's shelter downtown. Kieran's name was struck from every document.
I copied all evidence onto three separate USB drives. One went to Mary. One went to the lawyer. One I kept taped to the inside of my cane.
I also called Detective Rosa Herrera—the officer who'd originally investigated my acid attack and hit nothing but dead ends. When I told her I had new evidence, her voice sharpened like a blade.
"What kind of evidence?"
"The kind that proves my husband orchestrated the attack. And that he's been poisoning me since."
Silence. Then: "Mrs. Harris, I'm going to need you to come in—"
"Saturday. After the dinner party. I'll bring everything."
"Ma'am, if you're in danger—"
"I've been in danger for three years, Detective. Three more days won't kill me." I paused. "But I need witnesses. I need him to reveal himself in a room full of people who can testify."
She didn't like it, but she agreed to have undercover officers at the dinner—posed as catering staff.
Everything was falling into place.
But on Thursday night, something happened that I hadn't planned for.
I was in the bathroom, pulling a protein bar from the ceiling tile, when Serena's voice came from directly outside the door.
"Ivy? Are you in there?"
I froze, the protein bar clutched in my hand, the ceiling tile still slightly askew.
"Just a minute!" I called out, scrambling to push the tile back.
Too slow. The door opened—she never respected locked doors—and Serena stood there, staring.
At me.
Standing on the toilet seat, arms raised above my head, reaching into the ceiling with open eyes that were looking directly at her.
Time stopped.
Her gaze flicked from my eyes—clearly focused, clearly seeing—to the ceiling tile, to the protein bar in my hand.
For one eternal second, we stared at each other.
Then I let my eyes go unfocused, widening them into the blank, searching gaze I'd perfected. "Serena? Is that you? I dropped something and I was trying to feel for it..."
The lie was absurd. Standing on the toilet, reaching into the ceiling, for something I "dropped."
She didn't buy it.
I could see the calculation behind her eyes—the rapid decision-making of a predator who'd been caught.
"Of course, sweetie," she said slowly. "Let me help you down."
Her hand closed around my wrist—hard. Too hard.