Part 2Forgotten Scapegoat Of The Cruel CEO

Silence thickened the room. Timothy’s hands curled into tight fists at his sides. Suddenly, he snapped.

"Enough! Stop this goddamn nonsense!" he roared.

I didn't flinch. I just smiled—a cold, empty smile—and raised my left hand, letting the hallway chandelier catch the blinding fire of my custom-cut diamond ring.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Caldwell. I truly don't know what kind of psychotic delusion you two are sharing, but I have never seen you before in my life."

I lowered my hand, my voice turning to steel. "And for the record, I am already married. My husband is waiting for me to come home. As for the kidnapping and the assault, my attorneys will be in touch."

The tube of antiseptic ointment slipped from Cece’s hand, hitting the hardwood floor with a soft thud.

She stood up, her eyes wide with manufactured horror.

"Margot... what did you just say? A husband?"

She turned to Timothy, her voice trembling. "No wonder she refused to come home. She’s been out there sleeping around on you!"

A dark, violent shadow fell over Timothy's face. He lunged, his hand clamping down on my wrist again, squeezing until the bones ground together.

"Margot. Who the hell is he?"

His breath was hot, erratic. "Is that it? Is that why you're putting on this amnesia act? For some bastard?"

He lost his mind. He dragged me by the arm, my shoes slipping on the hardwood, hauling me up the grand staircase. He threw me through a set of double doors and slammed me onto a massive king-sized bed.

"Let's see it then," he sneered, his hands going to his belt. "Let's see if that bastard left his marks all over you."

"Get off me!"

I fought like a wild animal. My palm connected with his cheek in a blistering slap.

"If you touch me, my husband will kill you..."

My words were smothered as he forced his mouth over mine. He pinned my wrists with one hand and tore at the neckline of my blouse with the other, his lips bruising my neck, his voice a ragged, ugly rasp.

"You've grown some teeth, Margot. If you won't let me touch you, who else is going to?"

I braced myself for the worst, kicking and thrashing, but suddenly, the dead weight on top of me went perfectly still.

His wandering hand had reached my collarbone, sliding down my shoulder. But instead of smooth, unblemished skin, his fingers traced the thick, jagged roadmap of raised silver scars that crisscrossed my flesh.

Timothy’s hand began to shake. He scrambled backward, reaching wildly for the bedside lamp to turn it on.

But before the room was flooded with light, frantic pounding rattled the bedroom door.

Cece’s hysterical sobs bled through the heavy wood.

"Timothy! Timothy, please! I had the nightmare again. I dreamt about your brother. He was hitting me again, he was dragging me down to hell!"

Timothy instantly abandoned me. He bolted for the door, tearing it open and gathering Cece into his arms, hushing her with frantic, tender whispers.

"Shh, my sweet Cece. It's okay. I've got you."

He stroked her hair. "It wasn't your fault. If he hadn't lost his mind and attacked you, you wouldn't have had to defend yourself. It was an accident. I'm right here."

His gentle, soothing murmurs drifted back into the cold room.

Trembling uncontrollably, I pulled the torn edges of my blouse together. When I reached up to push my messy hair out of my face, my fingers came away wet. I was crying. I hadn't even realized it.

I crawled to the door, slamming my palms against the wood. I screamed. I beat the door until my knuckles split and smeared blood on the white paint, but no one came.

Eventually, I slumped into the darkest corner of the room, pulling my knees to my chest. In the crushing silence of the house, I whispered his name over and over like a prayer.

Greg. Greg, please. How long until you find me?

I sat awake in that suffocating darkness all night.

It wasn't until mid-morning that a housekeeper finally unlocked the door.

I was marched downstairs. Timothy was sitting at the massive granite kitchen island, casually flipping through the Wall Street Journal.

He didn't look up when I entered. He just issued orders.

"Cece wants some of that chicken soup you used to make. Get started on it."

He turned a page. "And Beckett's milk needs to be room temperature. Once you're done, iron my suits. The maids here are useless with silk."

The words hit my brain like a sleeper agent's activation code. Deep within my muscle memory, a terrifying subservience flickered. My feet actually took a step toward the kitchen.

But the moment my hand brushed the fabric of an apron hanging on a chair, the spell broke.

A wave of absolute revulsion washed over me. I spun around, my entire body shaking with fury.

"You are holding me hostage! I'm calling the police!"

Timothy slowly lowered the newspaper, a cruel, mocking smile playing on his lips.

"Margot. Are we really doing this again today?"

I opened my mouth to scream back at him, but my eyes caught a glimpse of the front page of the newspaper resting on the marble counter.

There, looking impossibly sharp and commanding in a charcoal tuxedo, was a photograph of Greg from a charity gala last week.

A ragged gasp tore from my throat. I lunged forward, stabbing my finger at the photo.

"Him! That's him. He is my husband! If you don't believe me, call him right now!"