He was alone.
Thousands of miles away, my life looked very different.
In a private medical recovery suite overlooking the blue Mediterranean, I stood before a gilded mirror. The room smelled of sea salt and lavender, the complete opposite of blood and marble.
I let my white silk robe slip from my shoulders and studied my back.
The bruises had faded to yellow. The raised red marks remained.
I felt no shame.
The quiet woman who had begged for scraps of love on that marble floor was dead.
The woman staring back at me had been forged in iron.
The door opened softly.
My father stepped inside.
Edward Whitmore, the man whose signature could shake economies, stopped when he saw my scars. The billionaire vanished. Only a grieving father remained.
He walked to me and wrapped his arms around my shoulders.
“I should have destroyed him the first day you met him,” he whispered. “I should never have let you try to be normal. I failed to protect you.”
“No, Dad,” I said softly. “You gave me a choice. I had to see what the world does to quiet women who keep forgiving monsters.”
I turned to face him.
