Chapter 1

The expensive crystal glass shattered on the polished marble floor.

Red wine spread like a pooling wound.

"Clean it up."

Vivian Thorne' s voice was as cold and hard as the floor itself. She didn' t even look at me. Her eyes were fixed on Damien, who was sitting next to her on the plush sofa, his arm draped casually around her shoulders.

He smirked at me, a flicker of triumph in his eyes. He had "accidentally" knocked the glass from my tray.

This was my life. For six years, I had been Alex Miller in name only. In reality, I was a live-in servant, a punching bag, and the silent, invisible husband to the formidable heiress, Vivian Thorne.

I knelt, carefully picking up the larger shards of glass. My hands were calloused and scarred from years of this kind of work. I used to be an artist, my hands once capable of creating beautiful things on canvas. Now, they were only good for cleaning up messes.

"Not with your hands, you idiot," Vivian snapped. "Use your shirt. I don' t want you scratching the floor."

Her command hung in the air, thick with contempt. Damien chuckled softly, a low, cruel sound that vibrated through the room.

I paused for a second, my jaw tightening. The humiliation was a familiar weight, a cloak I was forced to wear every day. But this time, it felt heavier.

I didn' t argue. I had learned long ago that arguing only made things worse.

I pulled the hem of my thin, worn-out t-shirt and began to soak up the wine, the cold liquid seeping through the fabric against my skin. The sweet, cloying smell of it filled my nostrils.

It was the same vintage they had used to toast their anniversary a week ago. Not their wedding anniversary, of course. The anniversary of the day Damien had moved into our home.

"Look at him, Vivi," Damien said, his voice a purr of fake sympathy. "Like a pathetic little dog. Does he even remember what it' s like to be a man?"

Vivian' s lips curled into a sneer. "He was never a man to me."

Their words were meant to cut, and they did. But after six years, the wounds they inflicted had become a part of me, a landscape of scars on my soul. I just had to endure it.

Our marriage was a sham, a business deal brokered by our families to save the Thorne empire from a hostile takeover. My family got a pittance to stay afloat, and the Thornes got a shield. I got a life sentence.

Vivian had hated me from the first moment. She saw me as the living symbol of her loss of freedom, a cage she was forced into. And she made sure I felt every ounce of her resentment. Damien, her true love, was her co-conspirator in my daily torment.

He was the one who came up with the most creative cruelties. He was the one who whispered poison in her ear, stoking the fires of her hatred for me. And she let him. She enjoyed it.

I finished cleaning the floor, the red stain now transferred to my shirt. I stood up, my back aching.

I even had to act as a nanny to their child, a boy who had Damien' s eyes and Vivian' s cold demeanor. He was taught to look at me with the same disdain as his parents.

Just as I was about to retreat to the kitchen, the phone on the wall rang. It was an old landline, one the servants used. My cell phone had been taken away years ago.

A maid answered it. "Thorne residence."

She listened for a moment, her eyes widening slightly before darting in my direction.

"Yes, he' s here. One moment."

She held the receiver out to me, her expression a mixture of pity and fear. She knew what happened whenever I received a call.

I walked over and took the phone, my heart starting to beat a little faster. No one ever called for me. My family had been warned to keep their distance.

"Hello?" I said, my voice hoarse from disuse.

"Is this Alex Miller?" a kind, unfamiliar voice asked on the other end.

"Yes."

"This is Dr. Evans from City General Hospital. I' m calling about your father, Robert Miller."

My blood ran cold.

"Your father' s condition has worsened. He' s… he' s asking for you, Alex. He says he has one last wish. He wants to see you free."

The words hit me with the force of a physical blow. Free.

My father was dying.

And his last wish was for me to escape this hell.

For the first time in six years, a spark ignited in the barren wasteland of my heart. It wasn't hope, not yet. It was something sharper.

It was rebellion.