Three Years, One Cruel Lie

For three years, my fiancé Jaxon kept me in a top Swiss clinic, helping me recover from the PTSD that shattered my life. When I was finally accepted into Juilliard, I booked a one-way ticket to New York, ready to surprise him and start our future.

But as I was signing my discharge papers, the receptionist handed me an official certificate of recovery. It was dated a full year ago.

She explained that my "medication" for the last twelve months had been nothing but vitamin supplements. I had been perfectly healthy, a prisoner held captive by forged medical reports and lies.

I flew home and went straight to his private club, only to overhear him laughing with his friends. He was married. He had been for the entire three years I was locked away.

"I've been handling Alina," he said, his voice laced with amusement. "A few tweaked reports, the right 'medication' to keep her foggy. It bought me the time I needed to secure my marriage to Krystal."

The man who swore to protect me, the man I worshipped, had orchestrated my imprisonment. My love story was just a footnote in his.

Later that night, his mother slid a check across the table. "Take this and disappear," she ordered.

Three years ago, I had thrown a similar check in her face, declaring my love wasn't for sale. This time, I picked it up.

"Alright," I said, my voice hollow. "I'll leave. After my father's death anniversary, Jaxon Francis will never find me again."