Chapter 2

Since waking up with amnesia, I hadn't stepped past the front gates once.

I had tried stealing a maid’s phone to call 911, but Vincent easily waved the police away with a few smooth explanations.

I overheard words like "psychiatric episode", "violent assault", and "severe memory loss".

The officers concluded I was a fragile victim recovering from trauma. On paper, Vincent was an angel of a husband.

The police couldn't help me.

So I stopped fighting. I played the part of the broken woman slowly healed by her devoted family. I cooked for him, slept with him, and clung to him like a lost child.

Gradually, his guard dropped.

"You want to go shopping?"

He frowned, clearly weighing the risks.

A few months ago, he would have shut me down instantly. But now, after a moment's hesitation, his expression softened. "Alright. It’s your first birthday since the incident. We should celebrate."

"I'll have Lucas take the day off tomorrow so we can all go together."

He leaned down and kissed my forehead.

I buried my face in his chest, pretending to be touched, while ice flooded my veins.

Even now, I couldn't figure out his end game.

He had the money and power to lock me in an asylum forever. Why stage this elaborate, sickening charade of a happy family? What did he need from me?

I didn't know.

But at least now, I had a lifeline.

That phone number was branded into my memory.

The next morning, Lucas cooked a lavish breakfast himself.

When I reached for a glass of milk, he gently took it away with an affectionate scolding.

"Mom, did you forget again? You're lactose intolerant. You had terrible cramps the last time you drank regular milk."

I pouted playfully. "It's my birthday, Lucas! Just one sip. Please?"

The maids standing nearby smiled warmly, clearly envious of our sweet mother-son bond.

Relenting, Lucas brought the glass to my lips and let me take a tiny sip.

When we left, Lucas drove us in his SUV, claiming a private family outing didn't need a chauffeur.

Yet I noticed a black sedan tailing us the entire way.

When we arrived at the luxury shopping mall, four people—two men and two women—stepped out of that sedan.

Vincent’s watchdogs. They trailed us at a discreet distance, their eyes never leaving my back.

I acted like a caged bird finally tasting the sky, darting from boutique to boutique, trying on clothes, laughing, and buying whatever caught my eye.

I purposefully steered them toward the busiest wing of the mall, using the dense crowd to temporarily lose the shadows behind us.

Suddenly, I doubled over, my face contorting in pain. "Vincent… I shouldn't have tasted that milk. My stomach is killing me. I need the restroom. Now."

The pain wasn't entirely fake. My gut was genuinely twisting.

Without waiting for his answer, I bolted toward the women's restroom.

They couldn't follow me in there.

"Excuse me, please… can I borrow your phone?"

This was my only window of absolute freedom.