Chapter 2
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At nineteen, desperate to escape my father's iron grip, I changed my surname, crafted a new identity, and vanished from the city.
I wore plain clothes and kept my head down, terrified his men would spot me. I worked double shifts between classes, and everyone bought the story—just another scholarship kid from the wrong side of town.
I convinced myself that staying invisible meant freedom—studying in quiet library corners, punching timecards, cramming for exams. Sometimes I'd even let myself dream small: a normal job, a tiny apartment with plants in the window.
"Campus romance" was never part of the escape plan.
Then Loki Dalton crashed into my carefully constructed world.
He proposed in the campus auditorium with half the school watching.
I can still see him kneeling among scattered rose petals and flickering candles, looking up at me like he was offering the keys to his kingdom.
"Alice," he'd said, voice cracking with emotion, "I'll protect and love you forever. Just promise you won't leave me. I can't bear to lose you."
God help me, I believed every word.
For those pretty promises, I threw everything away—my education, my dreams, even my self-respect.
Junior year, I dropped out to become Mrs. Dalton. His wealthy family barely disguised their contempt. Our wedding was a rushed affair—no reception, no celebration.
I swallowed it all without complaint. It freed me from my father's shadow and gave me the man I thought I couldn't live without.
Barely a year in, the cheating started. Every mistress looked eerily like me—same hair color, similar features, like dolls from the same factory line.
Initially, I raised hell—once even storming his office to confront a mistress. But somehow, the outrage faded to acceptance, then to numb tolerance.
I loved him too damn much, while he couldn't seem to focus solely on me. Each betrayal pushed me another step back into myself.
His excuse never varied: "They remind me so much of you, baby. I couldn't help myself. You know you're the only one I truly love."
I actually believed that bullshit. What a joke. If he loved me, why couldn't he keep it in his pants?
I'd chalked it up to Loki's wandering eye—until Cynthia appeared.
During Cynthia's month in our home, Loki catered to her every whim like a devoted servant.
She mentioned loving books, so Loki transformed my piano room into a private library—custom bookshelves, plush carpets, a hand-selected antique desk. That room had been his first-anniversary gift to me. "I want to hear you play in this room for the rest of our lives," he'd said.
Now my piano sat shrouded in the basement, gathering dust.
She expressed interest in painting, so our son's nursery became her personal art studio overnight.
And during this entire month, Loki hadn't touched a single other woman—including his wife.
My phone buzzed with Loki's text: [Left cake on the counter. You home?]
I stared at the screen, fingers hovering but not typing.
Minutes later, another message appeared: [Don't make this into something it's not. You and Cynthia are different.]
Reading those words, I felt myself sinking—invisible hands dragging me back into that familiar darkness.
With shaking fingers, I typed: [I want a divorce.]
His response came instantly: [Don't be absurd. Cynthia isn't a homewrecker.]
I didn't bother responding. Just sat on a park bench, eyes closed, sunlight warming my skin while my insides remained frozen.
Then my phone buzzed again—an unlisted number: Alice Wells. How much longer do you plan to run?
I stared at those digits, a sequence burned into my memory years ago. So my father had found me after all.
It didn't matter anymore. I hit dial, and that familiar cold voice answered on the first ring.
"Father," my voice barely steady, "I was wrong. I'm coming home."
