I needed to get out of this room.
I stood up, wincing as a sharp pain radiated from the bruise forming on my cheekbone where Ethan had struck me. I ignored it, moving to the back of the massive walk-in closet. Our master suite was enormous, and the closet connected to a secondary dressing room, which had a small, frosted glass window that opened out onto the second-story balcony overlooking the rear gardens.
Ethan had locked the main bedroom door, but he clearly hadn't considered the architecture of his own home. He was too arrogant, too confident in his victory.
I moved swiftly through the rows of designer clothes and shoes, reaching the frosted window. It was latched from the inside. I flipped the heavy brass lock and pushed.
The night air hit my face, cool and sharp, carrying the scent of rain and manicured pine. I hiked up the skirt of my ruined blue evening gown, tying the heavy fabric into a knot at my thigh so it wouldn't trip me.
I squeezed through the narrow window frame, my bare arms scraping against the track, and tumbled out onto the stone balcony. I crouched low, keeping beneath the wrought-iron railing, terrified that one of the security cameras mounted on the eaves would catch my movement.
But as I looked up at the camera positioned near the balcony doors, I noticed the small red recording light was completely dark.
Ethan must have disabled the exterior cameras to ensure there was no footage of the medical transport team dragging his perfectly sane wife out of her own home. His hubris was going to be his downfall.
I crept along the balcony, moving toward the edge that connected to the guest wing. There was a small, decorative trellis bolted to the stone wall, intended for ivy. I gripped the wooden slats, praying they would hold my weight, and swung my legs over the railing.
My arms burned, my muscles weak from the drugs that were still fighting to pull me under, but I forced myself to climb down. I dropped the last four feet into the soft dirt of the garden beds, landing hard on my hands and knees.
I was out. I could run.
The gate was fifty yards away. The street was just beyond it. I could find a neighbor, call the police, find a lawyer.
I took three steps toward the gate before I stopped, my bare feet sinking into the damp grass.
Leo.
I couldn't leave without my son. If I ran now, Ethan would simply tell the police that his mentally unstable wife had fled a medical intervention in a manic state. He had the doctor in his pocket. He had Sarah as a witness. He had the iron with my fingerprints on it. The police would issue a BOLO for a missing, dangerous mother, and Ethan would have total legal control over Leo and my grandfather’s fifty-million-dollar trust.
I couldn't just escape. I needed proof. I needed the leverage to destroy his narrative before he could use it.
I turned back toward the dark, looming silhouette of the mansion.
I moved to the side entrance near the kitchen, where I knew the security keypad had a loose wire Ethan had been meaning to fix for months. It occasionally caused the magnetic lock to fail if you pulled the handle hard enough while shifting the frame. I gripped the heavy metal handle, braced my feet, and jerked it upward and outward with all my strength.
With a soft click, the door gave way.
I slipped into the dark kitchen, the hum of the massive refrigerators the only sound in the silent house. I crept through the shadows, moving with the silent, desperate grace of a ghost haunting my own life.
I needed to get to Ethan’s private office on the ground floor. If he was finalizing the trust transfer and the psychiatric commitment tonight, the physical documents had to be there. Ethan was old-fashioned when it came to legal control; he never trusted purely digital files for things that mattered.
I navigated the main hallway, passing the grand living room where the iron still lay on the marble floor like a murder weapon waiting to be bagged as evidence.
I reached the heavy oak doors of Ethan’s office and carefully turned the brass knob. It was unlocked.
I slipped inside, closing the door behind me and plunging the room into absolute darkness. I felt my way along the wall, finding the small desk lamp, and clicked it on.
The desk was covered in neat stacks of paper.
I began frantically sifting through the documents, my eyes straining in the dim light. Most of it was standard corporate paperwork for his tech startup, Vance Dynamics. But as I moved a heavy leather binder aside, a bright red folder caught my eye.
I opened it.
The first page was a psychiatric evaluation, heavily detailed and completely fabricated. It bore Dr. Aris's signature. It described me as suffering from severe postpartum psychosis with violent, uncontrollable outbursts. It stated that I posed an imminent, lethal threat to my child.
The second page was an emergency custody order, already signed by a judge who golfed with Ethan every Sunday.
But it was the third document that made my blood run cold.
It was a bank statement for Vance Dynamics.
The account balance was zero.
Beneath it were notices of default, massive loan recalls, and threats of asset seizure from offshore creditors. Ethan wasn’t just struggling financially; he was entirely bankrupt. His startup had collapsed months ago, completely hidden from me. He owed millions to people who did not send polite collection letters.