Elena's POV
"I'm married to him."
The words come out flat. Emotionless. Like I'm talking about someone else's life.
Adrian stares at the frozen video on my phone—my signature on a marriage license I never knew I was signing. His face has gone completely blank, which somehow scares me more than if he were angry.
"It's not legal," Marcus says immediately, already typing on his laptop. "Fraud, coercion, forgery—we can fight this."
"It's legal enough to block her testimony," Adrian says quietly. "Spousal privilege. She can't be compelled to testify against him, and anything she says voluntarily can be challenged."
I set down my coffee mug before I drop it. My hands won't stop shaking. "Four months ago. He told me it was a catering contract for a company event. I signed it without reading because..." My voice breaks. "Because I'd learned not to question him. Questioning led to—"
"Don't," Adrian interrupts. "Don't finish that sentence."
But we all know what questioning led to. The bruises on my ribs remember.
"Can we annul it?" I ask desperately. "Divorce? Something?"
Marcus shakes his head. "Annulment requires proving fraud, which takes time. Divorce takes longer—New York requires grounds and waiting periods. Either way, spousal privilege applies during marriage and can extend after."
"So we have nothing." I laugh, but it sounds broken. "Eight months of collecting evidence, risking everything to escape, and it was all for nothing. He planned this. He knew I was gathering proof, so he married me without my knowledge to make it worthless."
"Not worthless," a new voice says.
We all turn.
A woman stands in the penthouse doorway—late thirties, sharp eyes, detective's badge clipped to her belt. She must have come up with Marcus's security code.
"Detective Rachel Morrison," she introduces herself, walking in like she owns the place. "NYPD, white collar crimes division. And before you ask how I got past your security, Adrian, I didn't. You let me up twenty minutes ago."
Adrian nods once. "We had an appointment."
"You knew she was coming?" I ask.
"I called her last night. After the shooting." He turns to Morrison. "How much did you hear?"
"Enough." She sits at the kitchen counter uninvited, pulling out a tablet. "The marriage license is a problem, but not an insurmountable one. Spousal privilege protects testimony, not physical evidence. Those USB drives, recordings, photographs—all still admissible."
Hope flickers in my chest. "Really?"
"Really. As long as we can verify they weren't obtained through privileged marital communications." Morrison looks at me directly. "When did you start collecting evidence?"
"Eight months ago."
"And the marriage?"
"Four months ago, apparently."
"Perfect. Half your evidence predates the marriage. That half is definitely clean." She swipes through files on her tablet. "I've been investigating CrossMed Pharmaceuticals for eighteen months. Illegal drug trials, falsified research, patient deaths covered up. But Damian Cross is smart—he keeps himself insulated, uses shell companies and intermediaries. I've never been able to tie him directly to the crimes."
"Until now," Marcus says.
"Until now." Morrison looks at me with something like sympathy. "Your evidence could save lives, Miss Moretti. CrossMed has trials running right now—experimental drugs being tested on vulnerable populations without proper consent. Homeless people, undocumented immigrants, anyone who won't be missed if something goes wrong. People are dying."
The weight of that settles over me. People dying. Real people, while I stayed silent because I was afraid.
"How many?" I whisper.
"That we know of? Forty-three deaths over two years. But the real number is probably higher." Morrison's voice is gentle but firm. "You're not responsible for those deaths. Damian is. But you have the power to stop more from happening."
I think of the recordings on my USB drives. Damian on the phone, arranging payments to doctors who would falsify autopsy reports. Laughing about a homeless man who died from experimental cancer treatments—"One less mouth for the city to feed."
I think of the photographs I took of internal memos detailing "acceptable loss rates" for human trials.
I think of all the people who died while I was too scared to speak up.
"I'll testify," I say. "Marriage or no marriage, privilege or no privilege. I'll tell everyone what he did."
"Elena—" Adrian starts.
"No." I cut him off. "You said I had three options: run, trust the police, or destroy Damian with you. I choose all three. I'm not running anymore, I'm trusting Detective Morrison to do her job, and I'm helping you destroy him. Whatever it takes."
Morrison smiles. "Good. Because I have a plan, but it requires you to be brave."
"I'm listening."
She pulls up a document on her tablet. "We have six weeks before Damian's lawyers bury everything under motions and delays. Six weeks to build an airtight case. The spousal privilege complicates things, but there's a workaround."
"What kind of workaround?" Adrian asks suspiciously.
"The privilege doesn't apply if the testimony relates to a crime against the spouse." Morrison looks at me. "Elena, did Damian ever discuss his illegal business activities while simultaneously threatening or harming you?"
I think back to the night four months ago when he made me sign the "catering contract." He'd had his hand around my wrist, squeezing hard enough to bruise, while explaining how important it was that I sign. Mentioned something about "insurance" and "making sure you can't destroy me even if you try."
"Yes," I say. "Multiple times."
"Then we have a case for the crime-fraud exception. If we can prove he used the marriage itself as a tool to commit fraud and obstruct justice, the privilege doesn't apply." Morrison starts typing. "But we need more than your word. We need evidence that he knew you were collecting information and married you specifically to block it."
"The video he just sent," Marcus offers. "Where he admits the marriage was a trap."
"Good start, but his lawyers will claim it was a joke, taken out of context." Morrison thinks for a moment. "We need him to confess on record. With witnesses. In a setting where he feels safe enough to gloat."
"The charity gala," Adrian says.
Morrison nods. "Five days from now. I'll be there undercover as a guest. We wire Elena, get Damian talking, and record everything. Once he confesses to using the marriage fraudulently, the privilege collapses and we can use all of her evidence."
"And if he doesn't confess?" I ask.
"Then we have a harder fight ahead. But I know Damian Cross's type—narcissistic, egotistical, desperate to prove he's smarter than everyone. He won't be able to resist explaining how he outsmarted you." Morrison closes her tablet. "Trust me, he'll talk."
"There's a problem," Adrian says. "Damian has people everywhere. Cops, judges, prosecutors on his payroll. How do we know you're not one of them?"
Instead of getting offended, Morrison laughs. "Fair question. Let me show you something." She pulls out her phone, opens a photo.
It's a young woman, maybe twenty, lying in a hospital bed. Tubes everywhere. Eyes closed.
"My niece, Sarah," Morrison says quietly. "Three years ago, she volunteered for a CrossMed clinical trial. They told her it was a routine medication for anxiety. It was actually an experimental drug that hadn't passed basic safety tests. She had a severe reaction—brain damage, coma. She'll never wake up."
Her voice stays steady, but I see the pain in her eyes.
"CrossMed paid my sister a settlement with an NDA attached. Buried the incident. Damian Cross walked away without consequences." Morrison puts her phone away. "So no, I'm not on his payroll. I'm the one person in the NYPD who wants to see him burn as much as you do."
The room is silent.
Then Adrian nods. "Okay. We work together."
"Five days," Morrison says, standing. "That's all we have before the gala. We use that time to prepare Elena, set up surveillance, coordinate with my team. No mistakes, no second chances. We get one shot at this."
"I'll be ready," I say.
Morrison looks at me—really looks at me. "You're brave, Miss Moretti. Braver than you know. Most abuse survivors never find the courage to fight back."
"I'm not brave. I'm just tired of being afraid."
"That's the same thing." She heads for the door, then stops. "One more thing. Damian's being released in fifty-four hours. My sources say his lawyers are pushing hard, calling in favors. The assault charges won't stick—he's claiming self-defense, that you attacked him first."
My stomach drops. "But I didn't—"
"I know. But with his resources and your history of 'mental instability'—" she makes air quotes, disgusted "—that he's carefully documented over three years, he'll paint himself as the victim. The judge will likely grant bail by tomorrow morning."
"Tomorrow?" Adrian's voice is sharp. "That's less than twenty-four hours."
"I know. So whatever you're planning, accelerate it. Once he's out, he'll come for Elena immediately." Morrison's expression is grim. "He won't wait for the gala. He'll make his move the second he's free."
She leaves.
The three of us sit in heavy silence.
"Twenty-four hours," I finally say. "Then he walks out of that jail cell and comes for me."
"No," Adrian says flatly. "He walks out and finds you've disappeared."
"What?"
"We move you. Tonight. New location, complete blackout, no one knows where you are except Marcus and me." He's already planning, I can see it in his eyes. "Morrison's right—we can't wait for the gala. We need to control the situation now."
"Adrian, I can't hide forever—"
"Not forever. Just until we're ready." He stands, starts pacing. "We accelerate the timeline. Force Damian to the gala by making it the only place he can find you. He'll be desperate, off-balance, more likely to make mistakes."
"And if he doesn't take the bait?"
Adrian stops pacing. Looks at me with those storm-gray eyes that see too much.
"Then I do what I should have done three years ago," he says quietly. "I end him. Permanently."
The way he says it—cold, certain, without hesitation—reminds me that Adrian isn't a hero. He's something far more dangerous.
A man with nothing left to lose.
My phone buzzes. Another message from Damian's lawyer:
Bail hearing moved up to 6 AM tomorrow. Expect release by 8 AM. Mr. Cross looks forward to reuniting with his wife. —Anderson & Associates Legal
Followed immediately by a text from Damian himself:
Twelve hours, baby. Then I'm coming home. I hope you're ready. We have three years of marriage to catch up on. Starting with our wedding night. Sweet dreams. —D
Below the text, an attachment loads.
It's a photo of a bedroom. Familiar furniture, familiar walls.
My old bedroom. In the apartment I shared with Damian.
Except now there are chains attached to the bed frame.
New chains. Recently installed.
Waiting for me.
I show Adrian and Marcus the photo.
Marcus swears under his breath.
Adrian's face goes completely blank—that dangerous kind of blank that means he's two seconds from murder.
"Pack your things," he says to me, voice deadly calm. "We're leaving. Now."
"Where are we going?"
"Somewhere he'll never find you." Adrian is already moving, pulling weapons from hidden compartments, loading ammunition. "Marcus, initiate Protocol Seven. Full blackout, zero digital footprint."
"On it," Marcus says, fingers flying across his keyboard.
"Adrian, wait—" I start.
The lights go out.
All of them.
Not just in the penthouse—I can see through the windows that the entire building is dark. The whole block.
"That's not me," Marcus says, voice tight. "Someone else cut the power."
Adrian's gun is already drawn. "Elena, get to the safe room. Now."
"But you said we were leaving—"
"Plans changed. Move!"
I run toward the safe room, shoulder screaming with pain.
Behind me, I hear Adrian and Marcus taking defensive positions.
Then I hear something worse.
Elevator ding.
Someone's coming up.
But the power is out. The elevators shouldn't work.
Just like last time.
The elevator doors open.
Footsteps. Multiple people. Heavy boots.
"NYPD!" a voice shouts. "Adrian Cross, you're under arrest for kidnapping and unlawful imprisonment!"
What?
Adrian's voice cuts through the darkness. "I want to see a warrant."
"We have one. Stand down or we will use force."
Flashlight beams sweep the penthouse. I count at least six officers.
This is wrong. Everything about this is wrong.
"On what grounds?" Adrian demands.
"On the grounds that Elena Moretti is being held here against her will. Her husband filed a missing persons report and provided evidence of kidnapping."
Damian.
This is Damian.
He sent cops—real cops—to arrest Adrian and take me back.
"Elena came here willingly," Adrian says.
"Is that true, Mrs. Cross?" One of the officers shines a light directly in my face. "Are you here willingly, or has this man been holding you captive?"
I open my mouth to answer.
Then I see Detective Morrison step out from behind the officers.
But something's wrong. Her expression. The way she's looking at Adrian with disgust instead of alliance.
"Answer the question, Elena," Morrison says coldly. "Are you being held here against your will?"
This isn't the same woman who was here thirty minutes ago. Who showed me her niece's photo. Who promised to help.
Either she's the world's best actress, or—
Or the Detective Morrison I met wasn't real.
"Last chance," the lead officer says to Adrian. "Stand down or we arrest you for resisting."
Adrian looks at me across the dark room. I see the calculation in his eyes. The impossible choice.
Surrender and let them take me back to Damian.
Or fight cops and become a fugitive, destroying any chance of legally stopping Damian.
"Adrian," I whisper. "Don't."
His jaw clenches. Slowly, he sets down his gun.
They swarm him immediately, forcing him to the ground, handcuffing him roughly.
Marcus tries to intervene—they cuff him too.
Then two officers approach me.
"Mrs. Cross, you're safe now. Your husband is waiting for you downstairs."
"No." I back away. "No, you don't understand—"
"Ma'am, please don't make this difficult. Mr. Cross has been very worried. He just wants to take you home."
"He's not my husband! The marriage is fraud! He—"
"Ma'am, we have the marriage license right here. Legal and binding. You're his wife, and he has every right to take you home."
They grab my arms—gentle but firm—and pull me toward the elevator.
I fight. I scream. I try everything Adrian taught me.
It doesn't matter.
There are too many of them.
Adrian struggles against his handcuffs, roaring my name. "Elena! Don't say anything! Don't sign anything! I'll find you! I swear to God, I'll—"
One of the cops hits him. Hard.
He goes down.
"Adrian!" I scream.
They drag me into the elevator.
The doors close on Adrian's face—bloody, furious, helpless.
The elevator descends.
Floor by floor, taking me back to hell.
When the doors open, Damian is waiting in the lobby.
He's in a suit, freshly released, looking perfect and triumphant.
"There's my wife," he says, smile wide and terrible. "I've missed you so much, baby. Let's go home."
The officers hand me over to him like I'm property being returned to its rightful owner.
Damian's arm wraps around my waist—possessive, crushing, familiar.
"Thank you, officers. I'm so grateful you found her. My poor wife, she's not well. Has some... mental health issues. Gets confused, believes things that aren't real." His grip tightens painfully. "But don't worry. I'll take excellent care of her. She's exactly where she belongs now."
He leads me toward the door.
I look back one last time, hoping to see Adrian, Marcus, someone who can stop this.
But there's only darkness.
And Damian's whisper in my ear, soft and deadly:
"Welcome home, Mrs. Cross. Did you miss our bedroom? I made some improvements. You're going to love what I've done with the place."
The car door closes.
And I realize with absolute certainty:
I'm never getting out alive this time.