Chapter 2

"I'm a little tired. I want to sleep for a while."

He didn't stop me.

I walked into the bedroom and closed the door.

I didn't lock it. There was no need.

He wouldn't come in tonight. He had to work late—or rather, he had to go keep Sophia company.

This had been the unspoken rule for eight years. Whenever Sophia was upset, he had to be there for her.

I lay on the bed, staring at the ceiling.

My hand rested on my lower abdomen, where there had once been a tiny life.

Yesterday afternoon, I went to the hospital alone.

As I lay on the operating table, I stared at the light overhead, my mind blank for a long time.

The nurse asked if I was sure. I said I was.

I just didn't want to wait anymore.

Wait for him to come around, wait for him to finish repaying his debt, wait for Sophia to accept things, wait for him to sort everything out.

I'd waited eight years and got a plan for him to fake his death for three years.

I'm twenty-six years old.

I got together with him when I was eighteen. I had guys lining up to date me, but I only had eyes for him.

He said he missed how bright and carefree I was at eighteen, but wasn't he the one who turned me into what I am now?

Mason is a really strange person.

Outside, he's the lofty Mr. Sullivan, Sophia's childhood friend who comes whenever she calls.

He could walk past me in the company hallway without a glance, could say coldly "Vivian, you're in the way" when Sophia made things difficult for me, could act indifferent to me in front of everyone.

But at night, behind closed doors, he became a different person.

He'd pin me against the door and kiss me hungrily, would take me fiercely in bed, would bite my ear at the most passionate moments and say, "Vivian, wait for me. Once Sophia comes around, I'll marry you."

He bought me the most expensive bags, gave me the finest jewelry, remembered all my little habits, personally made me hot milk during my period.

He was like every girl's dream boyfriend.

So when people called me a lapdog, said I was trying to climb the social ladder, I didn't care.

I thought that one day we'd get married, and I wouldn't have to hide anymore.

Eight years. I went from a bright, carefree girl to a woman who learned to endure.

I wasn't always like this.

I, Vivian Archer, never put up with mistreatment growing up. If anyone dared to give me attitude, I'd snap back on the spot.

But for Mason, for his debt of gratitude, I pulled out those thorns one by one.

Sophia liked to take my things, so I let her have them.

When she and her friends humiliated me in public, I endured it all.

Once in the bathroom, she cornered me and called me a shameless mistress, said I was seducing Mason.

I stood there with clenched fists and didn't talk back once.

Later, when Mason found out, he didn't say anything. He just took me more roughly that night.

Afterward, he held me. "Vivian, later on, I'll make it all up to you twice over."

Every time I was wronged, he would compensate me—with money, with gifts, with a whole night of passion, as if that could make up for what he owed me.

Later, when he found out I was pregnant, he picked me up and spun me around several times, excitedly saying he was going to be a father, telling me to wait just a little longer and he'd give the baby and me our rightful place.

I kept waiting, waiting until my belly was showing, until the gossip grew worse and worse.

People at the company said I was pregnant out of wedlock, said I didn't even know who the father was, but I still couldn't get an official announcement.

My phone buzzed.

I picked it up. It was a message from Mason: Something came up at work, I'll be back later. Go to sleep first.

I stared at those words for a long time.

In the past, whenever I saw messages like this, I'd write long paragraphs begging him to come home early.

Today I typed two words, then deleted them. In the end, I didn't reply at all.

I put my phone face-down on the nightstand, closed my eyes, and moved my hand away from my belly.

The baby was gone. The me who had waited eight years was gone too.

Mason didn't know. He still thought I was just having a tantrum, thought I was jealous of Sophia, thought he could smooth things over.

But he didn't know that last night, as I lay on the operating table, I thought about my eighteen-year-old self.