Unchained​

In a fiery car crash, I threw myself in front of Jacob Vance and saved his life. In doing so, I fell into a coma, becoming the untouchable saint in his memory, the ghost he could never let go of. But when I woke up, I found a fiancée by his side—a woman who shared my eyes, my smile. That’s when I learned the truth: I was living in a dark romance novel, a world designed for my suffering. Jacob was destined to waver between us, torturing me with his indecision. After a series of heart-wrenching and brutal events, I would finally die of cancer. Only then would Jacob have his grand epiphany, casting aside his fiancée to live a life of lonely regret. The Laws of this World whispered, "This is the greatest punishment for him." And I thought, To hell with that. 1 It didn’t take long for the news of my awakening to reach Jacob. He was overseas at a critical summit, but the moment he heard, he dropped everything and chartered the first flight back. That evening, I saw him, haggard and travel-worn. He burst through the door to my private room, the usually stoic, reserved man stumbling as he collapsed by my bedside. He seized my hand, his grip desperate, as if I were a priceless treasure he’d almost lost forever. “Chloe… Chloe! You’re really awake. I thought they were lying to me…” Jacob pulled me into a fierce embrace, his hot tears searing my neck. “Why did you do it?” he choked out. “Why did you push me out of the way? If I had known you’d end up like this, lying here for years… I would rather it had been me who died.” The nurses in the room were already wiping their eyes, captivated by what they saw as a beautiful, tragic love story. If I hadn’t dreamt of the brutal future awaiting me, a premonition of all the pain to come, I might have been moved, too. He held me for a long moment. When I remained still and silent, he pulled back slightly, his voice soft with concern. “Chloe, why aren’t you saying anything?” I moistened my lips, gesturing to my throat, which felt like sandpaper. He was on his feet in an instant, pouring a glass of lukewarm water and helping me take small, careful sips. Once the soothing water eased the rasp in my throat, I spoke, my voice a fragile whisper. “I saved you?” He froze, a bitter smile twisting his lips. “You did. You shoved me so hard… before I even knew what was happening, the car hit you. It sent you flying.” Jacob clutched his head, a wave of pain washing over his face as he relived the memory. “Chloe, don’t you ever do something so foolish again. You’re the most important person in my life. If anything had happened to you… I would have lost my mind.” I said nothing. Because in my memory, that wasn’t how I ended up in a coma. Not at all. But as he spoke, his expression was utterly sincere, and the faces of his assistant and the nurses showed no hint of surprise. It confirmed my suspicion: this novel-world had a self-correcting mechanism, capable of rewriting reality to fit its plot. But… My fingers traced the line of his jaw, up to his perfect, sculpted features. There, just at the edge of his eyelid, was a tiny, faint brown scar. According to the script, my selfless sacrifice should have left him completely unharmed. Yet, here was proof—a flaw in the narrative. The car crash had left its mark on him, however small. It meant the plot wasn't entirely absolute. It could be bent. I suppressed the storm of emotions rising within me, forcing myself into the role I was meant to play. “Jacob,” I whispered, my eyes welling with tears. “I’ve missed you so much…” I threw my arms around him and began to sob, just as the girl in the story would have. 2 After I woke up, no matter how demanding his schedule, Jacob made time to visit me at the hospital every single day. He always brought me flowers. Not the extravagant, air-freighted bouquets of a billionaire, but simple arrangements he’d chosen himself from a small florist down the street. Today, he brought a spray of fragrant lilies, their white petals nestled against dark green eucalyptus leaves. A gentle breeze drifted through the open window, filling the room with a sense of serene beauty. As he gently combed my hair, he smiled. “Don’t you like them, Chloe? I remember you made a list once, full of all the places you dreamed of seeing.” He held me, his voice a low murmur against my ear. “You’re still recovering, so for now, I can only bring the world to you in pieces. But get better soon, my love. After we’re married, I’ll take you to every single one of those places. I promise.” Just as the words left his lips, his phone buzzed, a sharp, intrusive sound. Jacob pulled it from his pocket, turning away slightly as he glanced at the screen. His posture stiffened. “Chloe, it’s a work call. I’ll just be a moment.” He didn’t even wait for my reply, stepping over to the window to answer. I felt a cold, bitter laugh rise in my throat. If I didn't know that was Isabelle Croft on the other end, calling to discuss the final details of their engagement party, his tender words might have actually melted my heart. In the days that followed, I threw myself into physical therapy. Years in a coma had left my body withered and weak; the road to recovery was more arduous than I could have imagined. There were moments when the pain was so intense I wanted to scream, to give up, but the memory of the nightmares that plagued my unconsciousness was a relentless whip, driving me forward. I had to be strong. I had to be ready before the next major plot point unfolded. It was the only way to seize control, to prevent that dream from becoming my reality. My efforts paid off. One week before Jacob’s engagement party, I was discharged from the hospital and moved into the Vance estate. He settled me into a sun-drenched room on the second floor. After the staff had unpacked my things, I asked to explore the house. They must have been given instructions by Jacob, because no one stopped me. The estate was immense. It took me three full days to map out every corner, every hallway, every hidden door. And through it all, Jacob and I were the picture of a loving couple, just like we used to be, before the crash, before the lies. 3 But as the day of the engagement party drew closer, a palpable tension began to radiate from Jacob. He was growing anxious. With me living under his roof, he needed a reason, a solid excuse, to get me out of the house on the day of the party. In the original story, I was still in the hospital, conveniently out of sight. But now, here I was, a living, breathing complication nestled in his arms. I reached up, gently smoothing the worry lines forming between his brows. “What’s wrong? You look so stressed, even at home.” He flinched, his eyes clouded with conflict. After a moment of hesitation, he began, “Chloe, in a few days…” I cut him off, playing the part of the understanding lover. “There’s a traveling art exhibition opening downtown in a few days,” I said, my voice bright. “I’d love to see it. Can I go?” I leaned into him, my tone playful and coaxing. The relief that washed over his face was immediate. “Of course,” he said, his smile returning. “I’ll have my assistant get you tickets. I have a major meeting that day, so I’ll have Davies drive you.” I smiled and nodded. The engagement party was on a Friday night. Jacob saw me off early that morning, his affection a mask for his relief. Davies, his ever-polite assistant, drove me to the gallery. His conversation was pleasant, but he kept dropping hints about all the other wonderful places to visit nearby—boutiques, cafes, parks. Jacob’s orders were clear: keep me occupied for as long as possible. I spent the morning wandering through the exhibition, then had a late lunch at a nearby bistro. By early evening, I found a high-end spa. “Mr. Davies,” I said with an apologetic smile. “I’m so sorry to keep you waiting, but would you mind if I just popped in here for a bit? A friend gave me a gift card, and I haven’t had a proper spa day since… well, since before. It seems like the perfect chance.” His smile widened, all too happy to oblige. “Of course, Ms. Sutton. Take all the time you need.” But I wasn't there for a massage. I was there for the back exit. It was the perfect way to slip away while keeping Davies pinned in place. Once outside, I hailed a cab and gave the driver the one address that had been burning in my mind. The Vance estate. 4 Standing outside the towering gates of the Vance estate, I took a deep, steadying breath. As dusk settled, the mansion began to glow, light spilling from every window, turning the colossal building into a glittering jewel against the darkening sky. I slipped away from the main entrance, hiding in the shadows of a side path. From my vantage point, I watched as a parade of luxury cars delivered the city's elite—politicians, tycoons, celebrities—all arriving for the grand celebration. In my nightmare, the dream that was my future, this was the day I finally completed my physical therapy. Filled with joy and hope, I had returned to the Vance estate, only to walk into the scene of my beloved’s engagement party with another woman. The shock had shattered me. I had stared at Jacob’s stunned face, turned without a word, and walked away, setting in motion the tragic story of our love. This world’s plot had a way of healing itself. Even if I avoided Isabelle tonight, the story would conspire to reveal her to me eventually. But I had learned something crucial: the plot’s self-correction took time. And in that window of time, I had to do something drastic to ensure I never walked that tragic path again. The Vances were a pillar of society; I had no invitation. Walking through the front door was impossible. In the story, the original me had forced her way in, a scene of humiliating, desperate chaos. I wouldn't make the same mistake. During my three days exploring the estate, I’d found it: a small, seldom-used service gate, overgrown with ivy. I slipped the key I’d copied into the lock. It turned with a quiet click. I was in. The backyard had been transformed. To impress the Croft family, Jacob had spared no expense. Crates of exotic ingredients flown in from overseas, dozens of renowned chefs, and tables groaning under the weight of a lavish feast. Society’s finest mingled, champagne in hand, their polite smiles hiding shrewd, calculating eyes. I was dressed in a simple, pearl-white silk dress. I looked elegant enough to blend in, and in the bustling crowd, no one noticed the uninvited guest in their midst. My gaze swept across the garden, past the laughing guests, and up towards the mansion. There, on the second-floor balcony, stood a solitary figure. She wore a stunning designer gown, her long hair elegantly pinned with a pearl clip. Even from this distance, I couldn’t see her face clearly, but I knew. I knew with absolute certainty that she was the one I was looking for. Isabelle Croft. 5 I navigated the crowds, slipping inside the mansion and making my way to the second-floor balcony. Isabelle stood with her back to me, swirling a glass of champagne, lost in thought. She turned at the sound of my footsteps. When her eyes landed on my face—a face so strikingly similar to her own—she gasped. "You... it's you? You're Chloe Sutton? The one who saved Jacob?" I gave a slight nod. A bitter, self-deprecating laugh escaped her lips. "So it's true. I wondered why he would ever agree to an arranged marriage with my family. They were all right..." She stepped closer, her eyes scanning my features, searching for the resemblance. "We really do... look alike." Her family had built their empire on the East Coast, only expanding to Veridia City two years ago. To gain a foothold in a new city's competitive business world, an alliance with a family like the Vances was the fastest way. Her father had proposed the marriage. "Everyone told my father not to bother," she continued, her voice laced with irony. "Veridia has no shortage of eligible heiresses. If Jacob Vance wanted a wife, he could have had his pick from here to Paris. So why was he still single?" Isabelle took a sip of her champagne. "My father had given up hope. But then, Jacob saw my picture. And he agreed." Her eyes, shadowed with a strange mix of clarity and disillusionment, met mine. "I thought it was love at first sight. I never imagined it was because, as everyone whispered, I looked so much like you." I remained silent. This wasn't the Isabelle I knew from the story. The novel painted her as a one-dimensional, brainless antagonist, a mere tool to create conflict between Jacob and me. But the woman standing before me was self-aware, her pain palpable. She was no mere plot device. Just as I was about to speak, reality slapped me in the face. Isabelle's eyes flickered to something over my shoulder. Suddenly, her body lurched forward. The champagne glass in her hand tilted precariously, the golden liquid about to spill all over her expensive gown. I recognized the scene instantly. It was a moment from later in the story, at another party. Isabelle would accuse me of deliberately spilling wine on her. Jacob, refusing to believe my denials, would force me to kneel on broken glass and apologize to her, all to appease the Croft family. The author had tried to frame it as a twisted act of protection—by humiliating me himself, he was preventing the Crofts from seeking further revenge. But pain was pain. Whether it came from Jacob or the Crofts, it made no difference. And it all stemmed from one source: his own weakness. His inability to be alone while I was in a coma, his selfish need for a substitute. How could the author ever label a man like that devoted? In that split second, I saw her intent. I moved first. My hand shot out, clamping down on the rim of the glass. I used so much force that the fragile stem should have snapped, but it held firm. The champagne sloshed, but not a single drop touched my skin. Isabelle stared at me, her eyes wide with shock. Her heel wobbled, and she started to fall. Before she could hit the ground in a dramatic heap, my other hand snaked out, grabbing her arm and wrenching her upright. I clapped a hand over her mouth, dragging her from the brightly lit balcony into the deep shadows of an alcove. A moment later, Jacob and a group of guests passed by, their laughter echoing in the hall. They heard nothing. They saw nothing. 6 Once they were gone, I released her. "What the hell do you think you're doing?" I demanded, my voice a low hiss. Isabelle seemed to snap out of a trance, her eyes slowly regaining focus. She looked at me, her expression bewildered. "I... I don't know," she whispered. "It's like, ever since I met Jacob, my body just does these... strange things on its own." "Sometimes I'm clinging to him, acting like a spoiled child. Other times I'm cruel, sneering at other women who have a crush on him," she said, her gaze intense. "I was never like this back home. Never." But until this moment, no one had ever called her out on it. Her own mind had simply accepted these actions as normal, never questioning the bizarre impulses. "Ms. Sutton," she asked, her voice trembling slightly. "Do you believe me?" I studied her face, searching for any sign of deception. I found none. "Isabelle," I asked softly, "are you in love with Jacob?" She hesitated, her hand pressing against her chest as if to feel her own heartbeat. The strange compulsions might not be hers, but the affection for Jacob… that was real. She gave a slow, deliberate nod. I let out a breath I didn't realize I'd been holding. If her love was just another part of the script, I would have had no way to convince her to help me. I chose my words carefully. "I'm not here by choice. Jacob is keeping me here, against my will. I don't love him." Isabelle looked skeptical. "But the stories… everyone says you were inseparable. That you even took a bullet for him, metaphorically speaking." "There was a car crash, yes," I countered, "but it wasn't to save him. He's the one spinning that story, making sure everyone believes I'm here because I want to be." I poured every ounce of sincerity I could muster into my expression, praying she would believe me. And she did. Whether it was my performance or her own innate decency, she finally accepted my words. After a long pause, she asked quietly, "What do you want me to do?" A spark of hope ignited within me. I grabbed her hand. "Your brother," I said urgently. "I hear he's in the military, Special Forces?" She hesitated, then nodded slowly. "Please," I pressed, "can you introduce me to him? Jacob has connections everywhere. If I'm going to escape him, I need help from someone he can't control, someone he fears." Isabelle’s expression, once sympathetic, suddenly turned cynical. "So that's it. You're just using me to get to my brother." I knew what she was thinking. She saw me as just another woman trying to climb the social ladder by latching onto her powerful brother. I couldn't let her walk away. As she turned to leave, I stepped in front of her, blocking her path. "Believe me or not, I'm telling you the truth." My voice was desperate, earnest. "Even if you don't trust me, trust your brother's judgment. Just make the introduction. He'll be able to see for himself whether I'm a social climber or someone who genuinely needs his help." She stared at me for a long, tense moment, her eyes searching mine. Finally, she relented. "Fine," she sighed. "I'll set up a meeting. But after that, you're on your own." She was about to leave, but paused at the door. She turned back, a thoughtful look on her face. "Chloe Sutton… I did some research on you. Don't you have a sister? Where is she now?" 7 After striking the deal with Isabelle, I slipped out through the same side gate I’d used to enter, melting back into the night. I took a cab back to the spa, reappearing just as a real customer would, feigning relaxation and offering my apologies to a waiting Davies. He waved it off, his relief palpable, and drove me back to the Vance estate. When we arrived, the mansion was pristine. The staff had worked with chilling efficiency; there wasn't a single trace of the lavish party that had just ended. Jacob was waiting for me. He pulled me into his arms, his voice a soft murmur against my hair. "Chloe, you're finally back. I missed you like crazy." He tilted my head up to kiss me. I didn't resist, letting him take what he wanted. After a moment, he pulled away, his voice thick with desire. "I got ahead of myself," he rasped. "I almost forgot you're still recovering." He took a deep breath, stroking my hair. "Go on up to bed. I need a cold shower." I nodded obediently and left him standing there. Upstairs, I collapsed onto the plush bed, my body aching with a day's worth of tension and exhaustion. Sleep claimed me almost instantly. 8 That night, for the first time in years, I dreamed of my sister, Lily. In the grand, tragic novel of my life, Lily was barely a footnote, a single line in my backstory. But to me, she was everything. Our father was a pilot. He died in a crash when we were young, a fiery end to a life lived in the sky. Our mother, a gentle soul, did something that seemed both insane and incredibly brave: she followed him, leaving my sister and me orphaned. We were sent to live with our grandmother in the countryside. But she was a woman broken by grief, having lost her husband and then her daughter. In truth, we took care of her more than she ever took care of us. Those years of shared hardship forged an unbreakable bond between Lily and me. We had the same dreams. In college, we were dirt poor, living from one meager paycheck to the next. We worked and studied constantly, but in our rare moments of peace, we'd huddle together, watching documentaries. Our favorite was a series about the ancient Silk Road. The names of those faraway places—the Gobi Desert, the whispering poplar forests—they were like magic spells to us. We made a pact: one day, when we had money, we would see them all. I can still see her so clearly, scribbling on a notepad while gnawing on a piece of stale bread. She’d look up at me, a mischievous grin on her face, revealing a single, endearing crooked tooth. "Chloe," she'd say, "you're so frail. When we're out there in the wild, don't you dare ask me to carry you when you get tired." I was about to retort, to say something back to her, when the dream dissolved into a blinding white light, and I was awake. Sunlight streamed through the massive floor-to-ceiling windows, warming the hardwood floors. I stood barefoot in the center of the room, running a hand through my tangled hair in frustration. If Isabelle hadn't mentioned her, I might have never realized. How long had it been since I’d even thought about Lily? The most important person in my entire world. 9 Isabelle was true to her word. Less than a week after she agreed to help, I received a text from her with a time and place. At this early stage of the story, Jacob hadn't yet become the possessive jailer he would later be. So, on a day he was occupied at the office, I arranged to meet her brother, Leo Croft, at a café near the city’s landmark Twin Towers. The meeting was set for noon. I arrived half an hour early. I slipped into the restroom to touch up my makeup, deliberately making myself look paler, more fragile. I stared at my reflection: a woman in a cream-colored cashmere sweater and a long, flowing chiffon skirt. I looked delicate, ethereal, breakable. I didn't know if this performance would earn Leo's sympathy, but I was playing the long game. In the future I had dreamed of, the one where Jacob held me captive, it was a righteous, justice-driven Leo who noticed my plight and tried to rescue me. His attempt had failed, and Jacob had dragged me back. But he was the only person I knew of, the only character in this twisted story, with the power to help me break free. 10 When I returned to my table, a man was already sitting there. He was tall and lean, with sun-kissed skin that contrasted sharply with his fierce, handsome features. He had the unsettling stillness of a predator, the kind of man who moved like the wind. I walked over and sat down opposite him. "You must be Leo Croft." He glanced up, his expression unreadable, and gave a curt nod for me to speak. I ordered two coffees—an iced Americano for him, a cappuccino for me. When they arrived, he took a sip of his, and we sat in a heavy silence. Finally, I couldn't stand it any longer. My eyes fell on his untouched coffee, his stoic face, and then on the corner of a pamphlet sticking out of his jacket pocket. It was for a nature photography exhibition, right next door in the Twin Towers. I decided to take a risk. I invited him to see the exhibit with me. His expression remained cool, but I saw the tension in his brow ease ever so slightly. We walked into the gallery side-by-side, greeted by a stunning photograph of a lioness nursing her cubs. "The Ethiopian savanna, during the dry season," he said, his voice a low rumble. "Most of the herd animals migrate toward water, and the predators follow. This was a lioness who fell behind, her cubs starving." I listened without comment. He didn't seem to mind, leading me to the second floor. In the center of the room hung the exhibition's masterpiece: a breathtaking shot of a whale breaching the surface of the ocean. It was taken in the Arctic Circle, under the rare and magical glow of the aurora borealis. The sky was a canvas of surreal, vibrant colors, transforming the already majestic scene into something otherworldly. A giant rising from the deep to roar its existence at the heavens. "This is—" "Taken three years ago, off the coast of Iceland," I finished for him, my voice quiet. He turned to look at me, surprised. "The photographer was on a fishing trawler, hoping for a good catch of cod. He stumbled upon this by accident." I moved to a nearby display, a series of photos documenting the cod fishing industry. I couldn't help but smile. "Hard to believe the UK and Iceland almost went to war over these things, isn't it?" My finger traced the glass case. Leo looked at me, confused. "What?" "You don't know? The Cod Wars," I explained, glancing at him to gauge his reaction. He didn't seem annoyed; if anything, he looked intrigued. I pressed on. "After World War II, Iceland repeatedly expanded its territorial waters to protect its fishing industry. Britain, of course, wasn't happy and sent the Royal Navy to escort their trawlers. But Iceland was clever. Because of a loophole in the NATO agreement, Britain couldn't engage militarily, but Iceland's coast guard was free to fire in 'self-defense.' They harassed the British fleets until Britain finally gave up the territory. A classic David and Goliath story." I finished with a small smile, then looked at him, my heart sinking. His face was as impassive as ever. I was sure I had failed, that my attempt to connect with him had been a disaster. Just as I was about to give up, a slow smile spread across Leo's face. "Ms. Sutton," he said, his eyes glinting with a newfound respect. "You are not at all what I expected."

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