My husband beat me with a heavy leather belt just to impress his arrogant mistress. Covered in bruises, I pulled out my phone to

The sharp, terrifyingly crisp sound of the heavy leather belt echoing off the vaulted, hand-painted ceilings of the grand hall was followed instantly by a searing, blinding heat across my shoulder blades.

I bit down so hard on my lower lip that I tasted the sudden, hot rush of copper in my mouth. I refused to scream. I refused to give him the acoustic validation of his cruelty.

The final strike tore through the thin fabric of my cotton dress. My muscles gave out entirely. I collapsed forward, my palms slapping hard against the cold, imported Italian marble floor. I stayed on my hands and knees, my breath coming in jagged, shallow rasps, the agonizing fire radiating from my spine making the edges of my vision vibrate with dark static. A drop of blood from my split lip hit the pristine white stone, looking like a macabre painting.

Above me, standing in the center of the palatial Beverly Hills living room he falsely believed he owned, was my husband, Julian Croft.

I heard the soft rustle of expensive fabric as he casually adjusted the cuffs of his bespoke, navy-blue suit. His breathing was completely steady. He had executed the violence with the cold, detached rhythm of a man hitting a golf ball. He looked down at me not with the fiery rage of a crime of passion, but with the chilling, arrogant disgust of a king looking at a peasant who had dared to track mud into his temple.

“Look at her,” a woman’s voice purred.

Chloe stepped into my peripheral vision. She was wearing a stunning, champagne-colored silk dress—a dress paid for by the very credit cards I had quietly subsidized. She crouched down near my face. The sharp, cloying scent of her expensive perfume aggressively mixed with the metallic smell of my split lip.

“Still pretending she’s innocent,” Chloe whispered, tilting her head. “Still playing the silent martyr.” She stood up and carefully placed a hand over her flat stomach. “Julian, darling, could you have the maid bring me some sparkling water? The baby simply cannot stand the smell of your scotch tonight. It’s making me terribly nauseous.”

Julian’s face softened instantly into a sickening display of devotion. “Of course, my love.” He turned his cold eyes back to me. “I’m done carrying dead weight, Victoria. I built this empire from nothing. I rescued you from obscurity, from whatever pathetic, impoverished life you were living in that small town, to be a quiet, grateful wife. And you are a liability.”

He reached into his tailored jacket and pulled out a thick, legal document and a heavy gold fountain pen. He threw them onto the marble floor. The paper slid and stopped inches from my trembling hands.

“Sign it,” Julian demanded. “It’s a post-nuptial amendment and a non-disclosure agreement. You forfeit any claim to my assets, and you keep your mouth shut about tonight. Sign it, or I swear I will have my good friend Chief Miller at the LAPD drag you out of here in handcuffs for trespassing.”

I looked at the document. My hands were shaking so violently that when I grabbed the paper, my bloodied thumb left a stark, crimson smear across the signature line. A bloody contract for a broken marriage.

My vision blurred from a sudden, terrifying, absolute clarity. The last lingering shred of my pathetic, hopeful delusion evaporated into ash. I reached into the pocket of my ruined dress and pulled out my phone. I dialed a private, heavily encrypted satellite number.

Julian scoffed, stepping forward and snatching the phone directly from my hand.