Page 1 of Freedom’s Inferno

Prologue

Lana leaned against the doorframe, eyes locked on her husband.

The grandfather clock chimed the hour—measured, inexorable—each stroke landing in her chest with the force of a heavy fist.

Richard didn’t look up. He lounged back in the cushioned armchair, tipping his head to drain the last of the amber liquid from his glass, unaware that each firm intonation played his death knell.

Lana studied him from where she stood: sandy hair tousled where his hand had dragged through it, cheeks flushed from his third scotch, blue eyes closed as he exhaled a satisfied hiss between his teeth. Her gaze lingered on the scars across Richard’s knuckles, pale and raised in the lamplight, each one a ruthless testimony carved into her skin as much as his. They glowed white in the warm light, obscene in their neatness, and her stomach turned.

Richard cracked open an eye, then the other, brows knitting together as he met her stare. “The hell are you looking at?” he swayed, pushing himself upright.

Lana smiled, slow and poisonous, her voice dripping with honey as she answered, “I’m admiring my husband.”

Richard’s gaze raked over her, analyzing each syllable for hidden intent, determining whether she offered reverence or rebellion in disguise. “You should admire me. The market bled today, and when the world panicked, I made a fortune.”

Lana’s smile wavered, the corner of her mouth twitching before she forced it back into place. She sauntered toward him, coming around the back of the chair and draping her slender arms around his neck. When she pressed her cheek to his, the bite of stubble scratched her skin.

“You work so hard,” she purred. “I love how you spoil me.” Lana wrapped her fingers around his empty glass, freeing it from his hand. “Let me pour you another drink.” She made to pull away, but stopped short.

Richard’s palm grasped the back of her neck, his fingers digging into her skin. Lana’s body went rigid, her breath hitching. His grip lingered, a cruel reminder of his strength disguised as intimacy. “You’re always hovering. It’s pathetic.”

Lana forced herself not to flinch, to resist the flicker of fear sparking beneath her skin. His breath fanned hot across her cheek, sour with scotch.

“I’m getting your drink.” She took a steadying breath, losing the battle to her thudding heartbeat.

Richard’s thumb pressed harder into the tender column of her neck, right against a bruise he’d left days ago; a slow, deliberate test of how much she would tolerate tonight. “Get the drink.”

His fingers uncurled from her skin, less mercy and more of a dismissal, and still, Lana didn’t have her freedom. Not yet.

She drew back, skin crawling, and strode into the kitchen with Richard’s glass in hand. She plucked the decanter of scotch from the credenza, amber liquid catching the light as she poured. Her other hand moved with precision, thumbnail splitting the capsule’s seam, slipping the powder into the glass. A gentle tilt and the sedative disappeared. She carried the drink back with a smile, placing it into her husband’s waiting hand.

Tonight, she thought. This ends tonight.

She lowered herself onto the velvet loveseat opposite him, the plush fabric pressing against her legs. Richard droned on about another day of his brilliance: how well he had performed, how indispensable he was. Lana leaned forward, eyes fixed in rapt attention, nodding with performative interest.

The glass emptied as time stretched, and the lines of his face softened, his posture sagging as the alcohol and sedative began to work in tandem.

“Let me draw you a bath. You’ve worked so hard. You deserve to relax.” Lana rose from the couch.

Richard’s smile turned sharp, his gaze sliding over her with the hungry look of a predator. “If you want me to relax, sweetheart, you’ll put that pretty mouth of yours to better use.”

Lana’s smile didn’t reach her eyes; inside, rage simmered beneath the surface. Her tongue darted over ruby red lips, eyes flashing for a fleeting moment before she answered, “I will. In the bath.”

Richard allowed her to coax him to his feet, alcohol softening sharp cruelty into sluggish indulgence.

Guiding him toward the stairs, her hand remained steady at his elbow as he swayed.

Maybe he’ll fall, she thought.

He clutched the banister, each step a staggered climb.

Maybe I’ll get lucky, and I won’t have to dirty my hands at all.

But he made it to the top, one unsteady foot after the other, until he stumbled into the bathroom. Richard slumped onto the closed toilet lid, eyes tracking her every movement.

Lana bent and turned the taps. She glanced into the basin as it filled, remembering the early days of their marriage—how this tub had once been her favorite feature of the house. A bath built for two, the kind that invited laughter and intimacy. Twelve years ago, it had felt like a promise. The red flags had been there, waving in the corners of her vision, but Lana had loved her husband then.

She glanced back at Richard, already nodding off where he sat, and her pace quickened. “Come here, darling.”