Julian had curated every single aspect of my existence with the precision of a sociopath. I almost forgot what the taste of freedom felt like. He chose the restaurants where I ate, the socialites I was allowed to speak to, the neutral, elegant designer clothes I wore, and how often I was permitted to call my family. He would monitor my phone bills, lightly suggesting that my brother was “a bad influence” or that my parents were “too demanding.” Slowly, methodically, he severed my ties to the outside world. In the end, I stopped calling my family altogether.
That was exactly what he wanted. I had become an island, and he was the only ship allowed to dock.
That night in November, the winter air whipping against the panoramic glass windows of the penthouse, all I did was tell him the truth. I was simply too exhausted to attend another
one of his endless client dinners. My lower back throbbed with a dull, relentless ache, my ankles were swollen to the point of pain, and our unborn daughter was pushing so fiercely against my ribs it felt as though she were begging me to run.
I stood by the kitchen island—a massive slab of imported Italian marble—wearing a silk robe, my hands resting on my heavy stomach.
“Julian, please,” I whispered, staring at my bare feet. “I can’t sit in a velvet chair for four hours tonight. I’m exhausted. The baby has been kicking all day.”
Julian stopped adjusting his custom Tom Ford tie in the hallway mirror. The silence that followed was heavy, suffocating. He walked slowly into the kitchen, his bespoke leather shoes clicking rhythmically against the hardwood.
He stared at me with that chilling, dead-eyed smile I had learned to fear more than anything else in the
