Marianne is the worst. She was there on my wedding day, adjusting my veil, telling me how beautiful I looked. Smiling. Lying. Pretending she didn't know the marriage was a farce, that I was being sacrificed to preserve a reputation, a career, a legacy that was never mine.
She fucking knew!
She knew I loved Massimo. She knew he wasn't gone by choice. She knew I was pregnant and terrified and cornered. And she smiled anyway while she fed me lies. Something inside me goes cold and sharp. Carter screams my name, and it barely registers. He is nothing now. Less than nothing. A footnote in a story that never belonged to him in the first place.
When I step forward, it isn't hesitation that moves me. It's clarity. Massimo doesn't stop me. He doesn't reach for me. He lets me choose. That matters more than he'll ever know.
I look at Marianne. Really look at her. At the woman who stood beside me and watched me burn. And in that moment, I understand something with terrifying calm: this isn't just about what was taken from me. It's about what was taken fromhim. Fromus. From our son. Ten years of lies don't get forgiveness.
They get reckoning.
It's time they paid the piper.
"Jenna, please. Please. I swear, I didn't know. I didn't." Carter pleads as the gurney moves closer to the oven.
"Maybe you did, maybe you didn't. It doesn't matter. Don't call me." I nod at Enzo, and he pushes the button.
Call me. Call me. Echoes inside my head.Carter leads me down a corridor, our footsteps echo off the walls lined with glass shelves filled with sports trophies where they're not plastered with team photos, championships, smiling athletes, Coach Brent Cafferty with his arm around players, grinning like a man who owns the world.
We stop outside the heavy locker room door. Carter swallows hard. "Ready?"
"Sure," I say, even though something inside me whispers don't go in there.
He reaches for the door. It opens before he touches it, and Coach Cafferty greets us with a wide smile. "Hey, kids."
"Hey, Coach." Carter nearly squeaks, and I shoot him a funny look. Coach steps aside to let us in.
"Ladies first," his voice is smooth as snake oil.
Nervousness overcomes me. Something is off. Something isn't right. "Carter?"
He lifts his hands, not touching me, just raising them as if surrendering. "I'm sorry," he breathes. His eyes shine, like he might cry. "I'm so sorry. I love you. It'll be okay. I swear. Call me."
Those were his parting words as he left me with his coach. As payment for playtime on the field, the coach got to play with me. Carter knew exactly what was about to happen. He didn't stumble into ignorance or hide behind misunderstanding. He made achoice. The man I thought I loved. The man Itrusted. Hesold me out,not for money, not for survival, but for minutes on a field and the illusion of a future he wanted more than he wanted me.
To his coach.
For playtime.
The memory slams into me now with brutal clarity, and the old indignation snaps back into place so hard it steals my breath. Howdarehe? How dare he use me like an object he could barter away? How dare he strip me of my fear, my consent, my humanity, and call it a transaction? What kind of man does that?
I was a virgin. He knew it. We had talked about waiting, about wanting it to mean something, about choosing the moment together. Itrustedhim with that. Withmy body. Withmy first yes. And he was prepared to throw it away like loose change. Not because he didn't understand what it would cost me. But because he did and decided it was worth it. That realization is the cruelest part. Not that I was hurt. But that my pain wascalculated. Accepted. Written off as collateral damagefor his ambition. Standing here now, watching the truth crawl out of their mouths, I don't feel weak.
I feel burningly alive.
Because whatever they took from me that night, whatever they tried to reduce me to, they failed in one crucial way: I survived. And the man who thought he could trade me like property?
He's finally about to learn what that decision was worth.
Carter screams. The sound rips through the room, raw and animal, as he's moved forward. He thrashes, begging now, all the arrogance and entitlement stripped away in seconds. Whatever he thought he was—husband, protector, man—burns off fast.
Marianne breaks. Her sobs are loud and ugly, collapsing her in on herself. Sean fights the bindings, his chair rattles against the floor, and curses spill out of him in a frantic stream. The stench of fear fills the room as he loses control completely. The man who manhandled and drugged me countless times, who touched me whenever and however he thought he could, is reduced to fear so great he pisses himself. I should feel pity for him. For Marianne. I don't. They not only knew. They collaborated to have Massimo killed. My Massimo. And if they had succeeded, I would have never known. Amauri would still be a prisoner of the Venezuelans, a sacrificed pawn in my father's game. They deserve every ounce of pain coming to them.
"Her next," Massimo orders calmly. "Then him."
"No—no, no," Sean wails. "You said— you said if I talked, I wouldn't be?—"
"Next," Massimo corrects coldly. Sean freezes as understanding blooms.
