Chapter 2

• Anastasia POV.
• Anastasia first encountered Jayson when she was just sixteen, marrying him a year later. Their union wasn't born out of love but necessity. She felt indebted to him, and he held power over her.
• The initial years of their marriage were fraught with pain, but things improved when Anastasia learned to surrender, to play the docile role Jayson required. She adapted to kneel submissively at his feet without perceiving it as degrading and to stand exposed, yielding to his cruel whims while pretending to enjoy it.
• Four years into their marriage, Anastasia had ventured outside their home only four times. The house wasn't truly hers, although Jayson liked to give her the illusion of ownership by leaving her in solitude—sometimes for days, sometimes for weeks. She could walk out through the gates, unimpeded by guards.
• Yet, she remained. Why? Jayson was omnipresent, with hidden cameras monitoring her every move. If she attempted to flee, he would find her, as he had before. The longest she managed to escape was a single day, and she still bore scars from his harsh retribution.
• Despite everything, Anastasia felt a perverse kind of love for Jayson. It was the kind that develops between captor and captive, where she relied solely on him. He provided her with sustenance, care, and clothing. While she knew he could harm her, he was the only one who cared, for without him, she believed she would be lost.
• This was the nature of her attachment to Jayson, a far cry from the romantic love she read about in books—books she perused out of boredom, seeking an escape.
• These stories sometimes sparked hope and dreams, but she knew better than to cling to them. Jayson was not the type to cradle or comfort her at night. He wouldn't bring her breakfast, nor inquire about her well-being. She had to be ready for him whenever he desired.
• He never tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear tenderly or tended to the wounds he inflicted. He never professed love, nor noticed when she changed her hairstyle or lipstick. He never gazed into her eyes as if she were the last woman on earth.
• And that was acceptable, at least it used to be. Recently, something had shifted in Jayson. Their disputes had intensified over the last three months. He scarcely allowed her out of her room, a departure from his previous behavior. He had grown paranoid and perpetually angry during his visits, which were now longer and uninterrupted.
• This strained Anastasia's ability to maintain her facade. Her patience was fraying, while his had completely worn thin.
• Today marked yet another unfortunate incident, not the first time he struck her or called her a cheating whore. He accused her of betrayal, hitting her with such force that her vision filled with stars and pressed her face into the marble floor.
• He claimed his business had crumbled because of her, drunkenly insisting she was unfaithful with their neighbor, likening her actions to the horrors she endured at fourteen, when her stepmother forced her into unspeakable situations.
• In the tumultuous span of four years, Jayson had never before thrown Anastasia's harsh life back at her as if she had any say in it. In that moment, something in her gave way.
• When he had spun her around, tearing her dress, Anastasia reacted instinctively, smashing a wine bottle against his head. She hadn't anticipated him collapsing unconscious nor the profuse bleeding that followed.
• Overcome with panic, she fled into the street, only to find herself in the path of an oncoming car.
• "Ma'am?" The voice, rich with a deep accent, broke through her daze as strong, warm fingers encircled her arm. "Mrs. Harake?" The hint of panic was softened by a calmness in the voice that was disarmingly beautiful.
• Anastasia immediately distrusted it—she knew beautiful things could be deadly.
• As she focused, she found herself looking into eyes of deep, burnished brown, with amber flecks flickering at the edges, contrasting the coldness within. Thick lashes brushed against his tanned skin as his gaze fixed on the blood staining her flimsy nightdress. Compelled beyond reason, she whispered, "It isn't mine."
• Recognizing him as her neighbor from yesterday, he raised his brows while helping her to her feet. "Is he dead?"
• Startled, Anastasia shook her head. "No... I... I don't know. There was a lot of blood. Are you going to call the cops on me?"
• He shrugged off his black tuxedo jacket, not meeting her eyes as he replied, "Do you want me to call the cops, Mrs.?"
• "No," Anastasia replied hesitantly. "Jayson has... connections there. They'll..." Her voice faltered, and she recoiled when he stepped closer. Expecting a blow, she shielded her face instinctively but instead felt the warmth of his coat around her shoulders, lowering her blood-stained hands to see his grave expression.
• "Are you alright?"
• The simple question bewildered her. No one had ever asked her that before. "I might have just killed my husband and you're asking if I'm alright?" she retorted, unable to articulate her inner turmoil. She hadn't been alright for a long time.
• He let out a snort, turning back toward his car. Unsure of where to focus her gaze, Anastasia noticed the tattoo, a red and black dragon, that peeked from the end of his fade haircut and disappeared behind his collar.
• As he climbed into the driver's seat, the engine roared to life. He honked three times, prompting her to glance back at the imposing gates of her home.
• Her prison.
• The idea of returning made her sick. Not after what had happened, after what he had said, and what he had done. What if Jayson bled out?
• Although she shouldn't care, the thought of leaving him bleeding and distressed lingered. She knew how he would react to her absence—it would be an escalation of pain, should he find her again.
• Another honk echoed as Anastasia noticed her neighbor peering out from his sedan. "I have places to be, Mrs. Harake. If you'd kindly move out of the way—"
• "Take me with you," she whispered, startled by the smallness and desperation in her own voice. Rushing to the other side, she tugged at the handle of the car. When the tinted window slid down, her neighbor's frown was almost scornful. "No," he responded, and began to accelerate.
• "Please!" she implored. "Just take me with you. You can drop me off at... at..." Her voice faltered as the realization hit her—she had nowhere to go in this city. No one to turn to, no money for a motel. Hopelessness engulfed her.
• Tilting his head slightly, the man observed her. "You're fleeing from your husband, right into the car of a stranger. You're either fearless or foolish. Or both. I don't wish to become entangled in your marital troubles, and I ask you to respect that."