Chapter 2

The black town car that arrived was silent and immaculate, the driver a stoic man who didn't speak, only nodding once as he took my single, hastily packed bag. The drive was long, leaving the glittering city behind for winding country roads I didn't recognize. We eventually turned onto a private, unpaved lane and pulled up to a large, modern house built of dark wood and glass, nestled deep within a forest.

My uncle Robert stood on the porch. He looked older than I remembered, his hair completely gray, but his eyes were the same-sharp and intelligent. He simply looked at me, taking in my disheveled state, and gestured for me to come inside.

The interior was sparse but organized, filled with books and blueprints. He led me to a small, clean guest room.

"You're safe here, Sarah," he said, his tone leaving no room for argument.

Over the next few days, I barely spoke. I ate what he put in front of me and slept for long, dreamless hours. The shock was a heavy blanket I couldn't throw off. On the third day, he came into the living room where I was staring out the window and placed a tablet on the table in front of me.

"You need to understand what you're up against," he said.

The screen showed a live feed of a press conference. David and Victoria sat at a table, looking confident and powerful. The headline read: "Elysian Fields Secures Record-Breaking International Investment."

They were already moving on, building an empire on my stolen dreams.

"He was so convincing," I whispered, the words tasting like ash. "He used to tell me every night that we were building a legacy together. He promised me a partnership, a marriage, a family."

I remembered one night, a year ago, sitting on the floor of our apartment, surrounded by my sketches. David had knelt behind me, wrapping his arms around my shoulders.

"This, Sarah," he had said, his chin resting on my head. "This is our future. Greenhaven will make us. And once it's launched, I'll put the perfect ring on your finger. We'll get married in the central atrium you designed."

It was a lie. All of it. A carefully constructed performance to keep me working, to keep me producing the ideas he needed. He never intended to marry me. He was using me, bleeding me dry of my creativity until he had enough to build his new life with someone else.

My uncle switched the feed. It was a celebrity gossip show. The host was gushing about the industry's new power couple.

"And sources say David Thompson is sparing no expense for his bride-to-be, the brilliant Victoria Hayes. He just bought her a penthouse overlooking the park, the very one she's always wanted."

My stomach dropped. That was the penthouse I had always wanted. I had shown it to David months ago, a daydream of where we would live after we were married. He had dismissed it as too expensive, a foolish fantasy. But it wasn't too expensive for Victoria.

I finally understood. I hadn't just been replaced. In his mind, I had never even been a contender. I was a tool, a stepping stone. My dreams, my desires, my entire identity had been nothing more than a resource for him to exploit. He didn't just steal my work; he stole my vision for my own life and handed it to another woman. The pain was sharp and deep, a hollowness that echoed with every gushing word from the television. I had been so blind, so trusting, and he had made an absolute fool of me.