My husband kept forcing me to see a shrink. He said I had delusional disorder, that I was obsessed with the fantasy that I was a corporate heiress. He would grab me by the throat and scream that my parents had died in a car crash years ago. To cure my "illness," to smooth the constant worry from his brow, I took my medication on time and tried my best to forget those "fantasies." Today, I was handing out flyers on a street corner when a Rolls-Royce glided to a stop in front of me. The driver opened the door with a deferential bow, and my father—the one who was only supposed to exist in my "fantasies"—stepped out, his face etched with pain. "The million dollars I wire to your account each month is for you to experience life," he said, his voice aching. "What are you doing suffering out here?" A million dollars? A roar filled my head. My husband, the man who claimed to have spent his life savings to cure me—what had he been hiding from me? 1 I was curled up on the sofa, my face buried in my knees. My father’s words echoed in my mind like a broken record. A million dollars. Every month. It turned out I wasn't delusional. I was a fool, kept in a cage. The lock clicked softly. Peter was home. He shrugged off his coat with a quiet elegance, his brow furrowing in that familiar way when he saw me. "Clara, why are the lights off again? The doctor said you need more sunlight." He walked over, pressing his palm to my forehead. His voice was so gentle it felt like a caress. "Are you feeling unwell today? Did you take your medicine on time?" I looked up, meeting his concerned gaze. I had loved this face for five years. Three years ago, right after we were married, he told me my mental state was deteriorating and took me to a psychiatrist. I was diagnosed with severe delusional disorder. From that day on, my world shrank to this small apartment and the white pills he brought home for me. He said my parents had died in a car accident when I was in college. He said my fantasy of being a wealthy heiress was a sickness that needed to be cured. He said he had sold his house, his car, and spent every last penny of his savings to pay for my treatment. And I believed him. My heart ached for his sacrifices. I took the pills obediently, cooperated with the therapy, desperate to get better so I would no longer be a burden to him. Thinking back on it now, it was all a monumental joke. I looked at him, my throat dry. "Peter… are we… out of money?" A flicker of alarm crossed his eyes, so quick I almost missed it, but it was instantly replaced by a look of pity. He sighed, pulling me into his arms. "You silly girl, thinking too much again. Don't you worry about money. You have me." His embrace, once my safe harbor, now felt like a freezing abyss. I gently pushed him away. "I handed out flyers today. I made fifty dollars." I held out the sweat-dampened bill to him. Peter froze. His expression turned ugly in an instant. He grabbed my wrist, his grip shockingly tight. "Who told you to go out? Clara, you were just starting to get better. Do you want to have a relapse?" His voice rose to a shout, the gentle mask cracking. I flinched. It was the harshest he had ever been with me in three years. "I… I just wanted to help," I whispered, my eyes cast down. Peter’s chest heaved. He stared at me for a long, tense moment before finally releasing his grip, slumping as if exhausted. He pulled me back into his arms. "I'm sorry, Clara. I didn't mean to yell. I was just so worried about you." He took the familiar bottle from his pocket and shook out two white pills. "Here, be a good girl. Take your medicine. Everything will be fine once you take it." I stared at the pills in his palm, my stomach churning. This was the poison that had kept me in a fog for three years. I took the pills and obediently put them in my mouth, taking a sip of water. As the pills slid toward my throat, I pressed them firmly under my tongue. "I'm going to bed," I said, turning and walking unsteadily toward the bedroom. The moment the door clicked shut, I ran to the bathroom, spat the pills into the toilet, and flushed. Over the sound of rushing water, I stared at the pale, unfamiliar face in the mirror. My dear husband. The man who shared my bed. It was time I started playing my part in this charade. 2 Late that night, Peter was sound asleep. I slipped out of bed and took his phone from his wallet. Fingerprint unlock. I used his. For three years, I had been cut off from the outside world—no phone, no internet. He claimed it was to protect me from any "triggers." I navigated to his banking app and entered the password. My birthday. How ironic. My hands began to shake as I stared at the balance, a string of numbers so long I couldn't even count them. I scrolled quickly through the transaction history. Every single deposit was clearly labeled: "Pocket Money." They came from a name both familiar and distant: Mr. Chen, my father's personal assistant. The most recent transfer was from yesterday. A million dollars. Peter’s spending records were staggering. Luxury cars, designer watches, custom-made suits. He had even purchased several properties in another city. He was using my money to live like a king while keeping me locked in this tiny rental, like a pet. No, even a pet had a better life than this. Fighting the urge to smash the phone, I opened his messaging app. Pinned to the top was a chat with a girl named "Vivi." Their conversations were sickeningly sweet and explicit. Peter called her "baby," transferring her money without a second thought. "Baby, do you like this penthouse downtown? I'll put it in your name." "Baby, we're going to Paris for Fashion Week next week. Buy whatever you want." The last message was a photo. Vivi was snuggled in Peter’s arms, beaming. The background was their new home, lavishly decorated. And hanging on the wall was an oil painting by my mother's favorite artist. It had been a gift from my father for my eighteenth birthday. Now, it was just another tool for Peter to impress his mistress. My vision swam, and I nearly collapsed. I clamped a hand over my mouth, stifling a sob. He hadn't just stolen my money. He had betrayed our marriage. I took a deep breath and, using his phone, photographed all the evidence. Then, I found Mr. Chen's number and memorized it. Once I was done, I placed the phone back where I found it and climbed into bed. The man beside me breathed evenly, lost in some pleasant dream. I lay awake, staring into the darkness until dawn. I had to get out. Immediately. But I had no ID, no money. I couldn't even get out of the building. To "protect" me, Peter had installed a state-of-the-art security lock on the door, and only he knew the code. I was a bird trapped in a cage. The next day, Peter had an "important meeting" at the "office." This was my only chance. Before he left, he kissed my forehead tenderly, as he always did. "Wait for me at home. I'll take you out for a nice dinner tonight." The moment the door shut, I pulled a small, pre-packed suitcase from under the bed. It held only a few changes of clothes and a small amount of cash I had managed to hide—money he occasionally gave me for groceries, which I had saved, dollar by dollar. I walked to the door and stared at the cold, impassive keypad, my heart hammering. How was I going to get out? I suddenly remembered a time a repairman had come to fix a leaky pipe. I overheard Peter mention an emergency reset function for the lock. It was a long shot, but I had nothing to lose. Following a tutorial I found online, I pressed a random sequence of buttons. Beep. Password has been reset. My hands trembled. I pulled the door open, and blinding sunlight flooded my face. For the first time in three years, I walked out of that cage on my own. 3 I didn't dare take a car. I ran along side streets until my legs gave out. I stopped at a payphone and dialed the number now burned into my memory. It rang for a long time before someone answered. "Hello, who is this?" It was Mr. Chen's voice, calm and professional. I opened my mouth, but no sound came out. "Hello? I'm hanging up if no one's there." "Mr. Chen… it's me." My voice was a hoarse whisper. The line went dead silent. After what felt like an eternity, Mr. Chen spoke again, his voice trembling. "Miss Monroe? Is that you? Where are you right now?" The tears I had been holding back finally broke free. "Mr. Chen, I…" I gave him an address and then sank to the ground, unable to say another word. Less than twenty minutes later, a fleet of black cars pulled up. Mr. Chen rushed out and hurried to my side. Seeing my disheveled state, his eyes reddened. "Miss Monroe, you've suffered." I was taken back to the manor that had only existed in my "delusions." My father was waiting in the living room. The moment he saw me, he shot to his feet, his eyes flooding with a mixture of pain and guilt that threatened to drown me. "You're home. That's all that matters. You're home." He reached out to hug me, then stopped, as if afraid he'd break me. I knew he was blaming himself. Three years ago, I had married Peter against my father's wishes and moved out to live our own life. At first, we kept in touch. But then Peter claimed my "condition" was worsening and that I needed absolute quiet, severing all contact between me and my family. My father had sent people to find me, but Peter always turned them away, saying I didn't want to see anyone, that I was undergoing treatment and couldn't be disturbed. My father, thinking I was merely suffering from postpartum depression, didn't want to pressure me. So he simply wired money to my account every month, believing that as long as I was financially secure, I would eventually get better. He never could have imagined that his precious daughter was being held prisoner by her own husband, treated like a mental patient for three whole years. "Dad, I'm okay," I said, forcing a smile. The family doctor arrived and gave me a thorough examination. The results showed I was severely malnourished, and the long-term use of a powerful sedative had caused damage to my nervous system. "This medication," the doctor explained, "if taken in large doses, can cause hallucinations, memory loss, and even permanent brain damage." His words were a hammer blow to my heart. I wasn't sick. I was being poisoned. My father's face darkened, and he slammed his fist on the table. "Peter Blackwood," he growled, each word dripping with venom. "I'll make him wish he was dead." That night, I moved back into my old room. The pink princess bed, the walls lined with dolls—everything was exactly as I had left it three years ago. Yet, it all felt completely foreign. After a long shower, I put on clean clothes and looked at myself in the mirror. My skin was sallow, my eyes were vacant, and I was so thin I was practically a skeleton. Was this really Clara Monroe, the girl who used to be so vibrant and proud? I couldn't stand to look at that face any longer. The next day, I had Mr. Chen bring in the best stylists and nutritionists. I cut off my dry, brittle hair and replaced it with a chic, short style. I started working out and eating right. I was going to reclaim the three years I had lost, piece by piece. A week later, I could already see a shadow of my former self in the mirror. My new phone rang. It was an unknown number. I answered, and Peter’s frantic, angry voice flooded the line. "Clara Monroe, where the hell are you?"
? Continue the story here ?? ? Download the "MotoNovel" app ? search for "394323", and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel