THE BLOOD OF MORETTI

Three days at the Miami Interior Design Summit had been a triumphant blur. Hundreds of industry leaders had stood up to applaud my recent architectural layouts, praising the balance of classic elegance and functional modernity I had brought to high-end residential spaces. One wealthy client had held my hand after the panel, her eyes bright with admiration. "Your husband must be the proudest man in New York," she had whispered.

I had blushed, smiling brightly, convincing myself that the distance growing between Brandon and me over the past six months was merely the byproduct of two ambitious careers. Ten years of marriage were bound to hit a plateau. I had flown home a day early specifically to surprise him, determined to reignite the spark that had once made us unstoppable.

The front door unlocked with a soft, familiar click. "Brandon?" I called softly into the silent foyer, stepping out of my heels so the hardwood floors wouldn't give me away.

No response. The sprawling lower level was completely dark, save for the faint glow spilling from the grand curved staircase leading to the master suite. I set the champagne bottle down on the marble console table, my heart doing a playful little flip as I took my first step up the stairs.

Then, my foot brushed against something soft.

I leaned down and picked it up. A sheer black lace stocking, dangling limply from my fingertips.

My breath caught in my throat. I didn't own black lace stockings. Brandon had always claimed he found them tacky.

Three steps higher, resting on the plush cream runner, lay a bright red silk bra.

A heavy, sickly sweet scent of vanilla and amber hung in the air—a commercial perfume I had never worn in my life. The air in my lungs suddenly felt thick, almost impossible to swallow. My hands began to tremble as I mounted the remaining steps, moving like a ghost toward the cracked door of our bedroom.

Through the crack, a woman’s high-pitched giggling drifted into the hallway.

"Relax," Brandon’s voice boomed softly, filled with a lazy, arrogant warmth I hadn't heard in months. "She’s still stuck in Miami until tomorrow evening. We have all night."

"What if she finishes early and comes home?" the woman teased, her voice muffled by the rustle of our silk sheets.

"She won't," Brandon answered without a second of hesitation. His voice turned dismissive, dripping with a cold contempt that chilled me to the bone. "And even if she did, what’s she going to do? Cry? She’s nothing without me. Everything she has, I built for her."

Nothing.

The word struck me like a physical force. My breath hitched, a silent sob catching in my throat. I pushed the heavy oak door open.

The scene burned itself into my retinas. Brandon was sitting up in our bed, shirtless, his chest glistening under the dim bedside lamp. And wrapped in the duvet beside him was Ashley.

Ashley—my college roommate. My maid of honor. The woman who had held my hair back when I was sick in school, who had stood beside me at the altar ten years ago and cried tears of joy while promising to always guard my happiness.

For five agonizing seconds, nobody moved. The silence was deafening.

Brandon sprang out of the bed, his face draining of color. "Emma—wait—it's not what—"

I didn't listen to him. I didn't even look at him. My eyes were locked entirely on Ashley. She didn't look ashamed. She pulled the sheet up to her collarbone, but a slow, victorious smirk curled the corner of her lips. She had been waiting for this moment. She wanted me to know.

A blinding surge of rage, pure and unadulterated, washed over my shock. I crossed the room in three strides. Before Brandon could grab me, I swung my hand back and brought it down across Ashley’s face with every ounce of weight in my body.

The crack of palm meeting skin echoed off the high ceiling. Ashley’s head snapped back, slamming hard against the tufted velvet headboard, and she let out a piercing shriek.

"You bitch!" Brandon roared.

I didn't even have time to turn. Brandon’s heavy leather boot swung out in a brutal, blind kick, striking me directly in the ribs with terrifying velocity.

Crack.

The sickening sound of snapping bone echoed inside my chest. Pain, hot and blinding, exploded through my torso like a grenade. The room spun wildly, and my legs collapsed beneath me. I hit the floor, clutching my left side, my lungs completely collapsing. I tried to inhale, but every attempt to pull in air felt like shattered glass slicing through my insides.

"Brandon... you hurt her..." Ashley whimpered from the bed, holding her bruised cheek.

"She deserved it!" Brandon snarled, his face contorted into something wild and demonic as he stood over me. "She laid a hand on you in my house!"

I lay on the rug, tears streaming silently down my temples, staring up at the man I had dedicated a decade of my life to. He didn't care that I couldn't breathe. He didn't care about the blood trickling from my lip. In that split second, my marriage didn't just end—it was erased.

Brandon leaned down, grabbed my coat collar, and hauled me upward. The sudden movement pulled at my fractured ribs, causing a muffled scream to tear from my throat.

"You need to learn your place, Emma," he growled into my ear, dragging me across the hardwood floor toward the hallway. "A day locked away from the world will remind you who actually runs this house."

"Brandon... please..." I managed to gasp, every word feeling like a dagger in my chest.

Our terrified housekeeper, Mrs. Gable, stood near the linen closet, her hands pressed over her mouth in horror. "Mr. Brandon, please, she’s bleeding!"

"Go to your room, Mrs. Gable!" Brandon shouted, his voice echoing off the walls.

He dragged me down the back service corridor toward the heavy reinforced door that led to the wine cellar and basement storage. He threw the door open, the dark, cavernous stairwell yawning beneath us.

With a final, violent shove, he pushed me forward.

I tumbled down six concrete steps, my body crashing violently against the cold, damp floor at the bottom. Pain tore through my ribs again, blinding and absolute, causing my vision to fade into black spots for several seconds.

Above me, Ashley stood wrapped in my plush silk robe, watching from the doorway. Brandon pointed a finger down into the gloom.

"No food. No phone. Twenty-four hours," he said coldly. "Think about what happens when you disrespect me."