My hands shook violently as I peeled the tape away. The cold plastic felt heavy in my palm. It was an off-the-shelf prepaid phone—the kind you buy at a gas station for thirty bucks in cash.
I pressed the power button. The screen illuminated, throwing a stark, blue glare across my face. No passcode. No wallpaper. Just a bare Android interface.
I opened the messaging app. There was only one contact saved in the address book.
It was labeled: THE FACILITY.
My thumb hovered over the screen, my heart hammering so loud I could hear it in my ears. I tapped the message thread.
There were dozens of sent messages from Julian, all short and clinical: “Wire sent 03/12. $8,500.” “Wire sent 04/12. $8,500.” “Wire sent 05/01. $8,500.”
Eight thousand five hundred dollars. Every single month.
Then I scrolled to the very bottom. The last text message had been received just twenty minutes ago—right around the time Officer Jackson had ambushed me outside L'Atelier.
“The wire is three days late. You need to handle this immediately. She’s waking up, Claire is starting to ask questions, and if the money isn't in our account by midnight, we release the medical records to the district attorney.”
I stared at the screen, the breath completely trapped in my chest.
She’s waking up.
Who was "she"? Why was my husband secretly paying over a hundred thousand dollars a year to a hidden facility? And why did this message name me?
Downstairs, the heavy oak front door clicked open.
“Claire? Honey, I’m home early!” Julian’s warm, charismatic voice echoed up the foyer stairs. “I brought those decaf almond lattes you’ve been craving!”
Heavy, confident footsteps started up the stairs toward the office.
I had less than five seconds to hide the evidence, or my life was over right then and there.
My mind went completely blank with panic. I shoved the cheap burner phone deep into the back pocket of my maternity jeans, kicked the shattered glass frame further under the desk, and grabbed a feather duster from the shelf just as Julian stepped into the room.
He looked striking. Six-foot-one, pitch-black hair neatly styled, wearing a custom navy suit that accentuated his broad shoulders. He carried a brown paper coffee bag in one hand, his handsome face lit by that million-dollar charm that had made me fall in love with him four years ago.
“There you are,” he smiled, walking over and pressing a warm kiss against my forehead. “You look exhausted, babe. Is the baby kicking?”
I forced my muscles to relax, leaning into his touch despite the icy terror freezing my blood. “A little bit,” I lied, my voice sounding small and raspy. “I… I was just cleaning up your desk.”
Julian’s eyes flicked downward. He was an architect—his spatial awareness was terrifyingly sharp. His gaze landed on the empty spot where our honeymoon picture frame usually sat.
“Where’s the Maui photo?” he asked quietly, his tone dropping its cheerful warmth.
“I… I accidentally knocked it over,” I stammered, pointing to the trash can where I’d thrown the broken wooden backing. “The glass shattered. I’m so sorry, Julian. I’ll order a new frame tomorrow.”
Julian didn't answer right away. He set the coffee bag on the desk and slowly walked around it. His eyes scanned the floor near the desk legs. He noticed a single tiny speck of glass near the baseboard.
He leaned down, picked up the glass shard between his fingers, and stood up, looking at me with an unreadable expression.
“Accidents happen,” he said softly, stepping closer to me. He reached out and gently rubbed my thumb. “You’re bleeding, Claire.”
I looked down. I hadn't even noticed the thin red slit on my right thumb where the glass had cut me.
“Let me fix that,” he murmured, grabbing a clean linen handkerchief from his pocket and carefully wrapping it around my hand. His touch was tender, but his grip was firm. “You shouldn't be stressing yourself with house chores, sweetheart. That’s what the cleaning staff is for. You need to protect our little girl.”
He rested his hand on my swollen belly, looking into my eyes with what seemed like pure, devoted love. But for the first time in four years, I looked past the handsome face and saw something chilling beneath the surface. His eyes were cold. Calculating.
“I bought your prenatal vitamins, by the way,” he added softly, pulling a small amber pill bottle from his jacket. “The special compounded ones the private clinic recommended. I’ll fetch you a glass of water.”
“Thank you,” I whispered.
As soon as he turned his back to walk into the adjoining master bathroom, I pulled out my personal phone and snapped a quick, clear photo of the burner phone’s screen before shoving both devices back into my pockets.
When Julian returned with a glass of ice water, he handed me a large yellow capsule. “Drink up, honey. Every last drop.”
I looked at the pill. Over the last month, every time I took these custom vitamins, I experienced severe, agonizing abdominal cramps. My OB-GYN had insisted my bloodwork looked normal, but the cramps only ever happened at night—after Julian gave me my medicine.
I placed the capsule on my tongue, took a large gulp of water, and swallowed dramatically, letting him watch my throat move.
“Good girl,” Julian smiled, patting my cheek. “Now go get some rest. I have a few emails to finish up before dinner.”