Chapter 7

Returning to the mansion felt like walking back into a mausoleum built for the living. The corridors were too wide, too quiet. Every surface gleamed with cold luxury, but it didn't feel like a home—it never had. 

And now, it was a cage. But a cage I chose.

I was wheeled into the grand foyer by a nurse, who looked unsure of where to go until one of the housekeepers directed her wordlessly to my old room. 

The staff barely met my eyes. To them, I was the same woman they remembered—only now, broken.

But I wasn't broken. I was watching.

Henry hadn't come to receive me. Not even a text. Not even a damn call. He had agreed to let me stay here until "arrangements could be made," citing my comfort and familiarity with the environment.

 But we both knew the truth: he didn't care. And that was exactly what I wanted.

The nurse set me in my room, fluffed the pillows unnecessarily, and asked if I needed anything. I only blinked. She gave me a nervous smile, her hands fidgeting as she said, "Well, I'll be back in a few hours to check in." Then she left, the door clicked behind her.

I waited five minutes. Then I reached for my iPad.

I had upgraded it. Now it wasn't just a communication device—it was a weapon. The camera worked perfectly, and with a discreet app installed, I could record without anyone knowing. Every breath. Every word. Every betrayal.

Henry thought he had silenced me. What he didn't know was that I was documenting everything. And the moment I had enough, I'd strike.

---

The first woman arrived that night.

I heard her heels before I saw her clicks echoing down the hallway like gunshots. My room, just off the main corridor, was dark, but I kept my eyes open. 

I had positioned the iPad to face the hallway, propped on a small table angled toward the door. It was recording before she even stepped into view.

She was tall, maybe in her late twenties, and wore a dress that barely covered anything. Her laughter—high-pitched and fake—floated into my room like poison. I didn't have to see Henry to know the smug look he wore, the same one he always had when he paraded women around like I didn't exist.

They passed my door. I didn't blink. I only tapped the screen, saving the clip.

This became the new routine.

Different women. Different nights. Some lasted a few hours. Others stayed till morning. Some even dared to walk into my room, mistaking it for a guest room, only to freeze when they saw me sitting motionless, eyes wide open, staring like a ghost.

One girl screamed. Henry laughed it off.

"She won't say anything," he said. "She doesn't even know what's happening."

I saved that recording too.

---

A week passed.

By now, the staff stopped trying to engage me. The nurse came and went. Henry avoided me entirely. He didn't ask about my condition. He didn't acknowledge my presence. 

The man I had once called my husband was now like a stranger, and perhaps he always had been.

He didn't know that I was carefully cataloging every indiscretion, every whisper, every lie.

At night, I stayed awake, silent and still, listening. I learned more about him in those late hours than I had in years of marriage. I learned his patterns. His secrets. The way he talked to the women—like they were disposable. Like they didn't matter.

It was strange, really. How someone could be so careless in front of the woman he had sworn to protect. But that's the thing about masks. 

People forget they're wearing them when they think no one's watching.

---

On the tenth night, he finally came into my room.

It was almost midnight. I had been pretending to sleep, the iPad still running silently. I heard the door opened and felt his presence before I saw him. He stepped in slowly, as if testing the water.

I didn't move.

He stood at the foot of my bed for a long time. I heard the rustle of his jacket as he shoved his hands into his pockets.

"You know," he said softly, "I didn't ask for this."

I didn't respond.

"I didn't sign up to become your nursemaid. You think it's easy, having you like this? Just laying there? Watching me like some…dead thing."

Still, I didn't move. I couldn't give him the satisfaction.

"I thought maybe—maybe you'd just die," he muttered. "That would've been simpler. I could've moved on. But no. You just had to survive, didn't you?"

I held my breath, though my body showed nothing. I was steel. Ice.

"I allowed you back here because it looked good," he continued. "But don't expect anything from me. Not anymore. We're done, Sophia. You're just here until we figure out what to do with you."

And then, after a pause, he added something that made my blood turn to fire.

"I have a life now. A real one. You're just…unfinished business."

When he left, I saved the recording and titled it: Confession 01.

---

The next morning, I sent another message to my lawyer.

"Attach this file to the divorce case. Use it when the time is right."

His reply came quickly.

"Understood. This will help. Anything else you want me to do?"

"Not yet. But soon."

I wasn't just collecting evidence for a divorce. I was building a case for something far greater—public humiliation, financial devastation, complete ruin. He would lose everything: money, reputation, and whatever dignity he thought he had left.

But more than that, I wanted him to feel the same helplessness I had felt. I wanted him to know what it was like to be discarded, ignored, invisible.

---

By the end of the second week, I had thirteen videos. Thirteen different women. Four separate recorded conversations where Henry disparaged me, mocked my condition, or made vague threats. He was careless. Arrogant. And I was patient.

That's what made me dangerous.

On the fourteenth day, I changed the game.

I asked one of the maids to deliver a note to Henry. It was simple. Short. Typed on the iPad and printed by the wireless printer I had installed in my room.

"Meet me in the lounge. Midnight."

He wouldn't expect it. He thought I was incapable of initiating anything. Which is why it worked.

Midnight came, and I was already in the lounge. The nurse had helped me there earlier in the evening, thinking it was just a change of scenery. I sat still, silent, eyes focused on nothing.

Henry walked in ten minutes late, surprised to see me already there.

"What the hell is this?" he asked. "You're not supposed to be out of your room."

I tapped at the iPad. Slowly. Deliberately.

"You said I was unfinished business. I want to settle it."

He froze. "What?"

Another message.

"I want you to agree to the divorce. No lawyers. No fight. Sign the papers and walk away."

He laughed. Actually laughed.

"You've got to be kidding me. You think you can negotiate with me? What makes you think I'd ever agree to that?"

I typed slower this time.

"Because if you don't, I'll release everything."

His face changed. The color drained from his skin. "Release…what?"

I tapped again.

"Videos. Audio. Everything you said. Everything you did. Every woman."

He took a step back. "You can't do that. You're—"

"Mute?" I interrupted.

He swallowed.

"Paralyzed?"

Silence.

"I may not walk. I may not speak. But I see everything. I remember everything. And now, I have proof."

He looked at me like he was seeing me for the first time. Not as his broken wife, but as something far more dangerous.

"You have until the end of the week. Sign the papers. Or I burn everything down."

I hit Send. The iPad pinged softly. And then I turned away from him, wheeling myself slowly out of the room without waiting for a reply.

Because I didn't need one.

I already knew what come next.