Part 2I Traded My Body To Save My Mother

He was threatening to ruin Mrs. Lin and her daughter. This was his favorite move—to use the people I cared about to enforce his dominance. Just last month, because I hadn’t moved fast enough out of Phoebe’s path, he’d rammed his SUV into my car. My driver escaped only because of the airbag.

He only ever smiled when I compromised.

I could walk away now, but Mrs. Lin needed her career in the city. I couldn't be responsible for her ruin, too.

My jaw ached from clenching my teeth. I lowered myself, acknowledging the defeat. One by one, I picked up the lukewarm, doughy vegetables of cream stew scattered on the grimy hospital floor—a floor that had seen countless footsteps and carried God knows what strains of infection.

I ate them like an idiot, forcing them down. The salty taste of my tears mixed with the grime, but all I tasted was my mother’s final act of love. I couldn’t waste it.

Mrs. Lin turned away, unable to watch.

Reid’s face was recognizable from countless society pages. A few passersby paused, their phones coming up, eager to capture the drama.

He barked a single, cold command: “Get out.”

Then he hauled me up by the arm. “Lowering yourself for a housekeeper, Kendall? You’ve always loved to make a spectacle of me.” He caught sight of the tear tracks on my face and his hand instinctively moved to brush them away.

I flinched back. I asked him quietly, my voice utterly flat, “Are you satisfied now?”

Was it over? Could he let Mrs. Lin go now?

The calm of my voice made Reid’s breathing catch. He looked confused. I had begged him, many times, just to visit Mom. He opened his mouth, probably to accuse me of an elaborate act.

Then his phone rang. "Reid, I’m scared.” Phoebe’s soft whimper was enough to snatch his attention away.

He stared at me, and for the first time, he offered something that sounded like an explanation. “She isn’t feeling well. I’ll come back later…”

I cut him off. “Don’t. Don’t ever come back.” Let the dead rest in peace. Let the lovers have their time.

Reid frowned. “Phoebe is suffering from PTSD because she was trying to save you.” When I showed no reaction, he laughed, a cold, brittle sound. “Fine. But if you walk away now, don't come crawling back to me like a stray dog begging for a place to sleep!”

The fireworks outside continued their roar, and his words burned the flesh of my heart until it was raw and useless.

I remembered my eighteenth birthday. I’d wished for a firework display over the Manhattan skyline. Back then, Reid had just started at Blackwell Group and every move he made was scrutinized by the board. He promised he’d give me the fireworks the day we married.

But before the engagement, his mother and I went shopping for my wedding jewelry. We were both kidnapped. I was released physically unharmed; his mother was brutally assaulted, leading to a complete nervous breakdown. The news was suppressed, but a reporter got the exclusive and ran with it. Unable to cope, his mother swallowed a bottle of pills. His father packed up the remains and left the country, never to return.

From that day on, Reid was convinced that I had leaked the story. I’d explained, I’d pleaded, but he never believed me. “Who else could it be, Kendall?”

Then, my family’s Crestwood Group went under. Secrets leaked, rivals stole contracts, and my parents were in a fatal car accident while fleeing debt collectors. Mom survived, but was critically injured. When I was truly desperate, Reid was the only one who showed up. He offered marriage and to cover Mom’s medical expenses. No rings, no ceremony—I accepted, foolishly believing there was a shred of true feeling left.

Now, he was giving the fireworks he’d promised me to someone else.

Phoebe, I realized, was always meant to be my shield.

The trauma of his mother’s kidnapping was too great. He often said that by treating Phoebe well, he could somehow atone for the guilt he felt over me.

Last year, Phoebe was kidnapped. She was subjected to psychological torture and diagnosed with severe PTSD. Reid found her, holding her tightly as they were evacuated.

What he didn’t know was that I was also taken that day. I was kept in a locked storage closet, stashed away in a filthy petroleum drum. My wrists were tied so tightly my hand tendons were severely damaged. No one found me until the police did a second sweep of the site.

Since then, Reid had treated Phoebe with a soft, protective tenderness. But I wasn't blind. I could see the genuine, protective love in his eyes.

No major New York media outlet dared run a story on Reid, yet Phoebe, a minor columnist, always got the exclusive. The man who could calmly close a billion-dollar deal was running down the stairs—ignoring the elevator—because his mistress said, "I'm scared."

I slipped the electronic watch from my wrist. A rose tattoo hid the jagged, ugly scar from where the kidnappers had cut into my tendons. Reid never noticed I could no longer hold a surgical scalpel. I was just a doctor of theory now.