Chapter 1: Tied by Chains, Torn by Pride

After my childhood sweetheart lost everything, I pulled out all the stops to make him marry me. Maybe that sounds a little crazy, but honestly? I didn’t care—not back then.

Even now, when I look back, I can still picture the stubborn set of his jaw, the way his eyes darted away from mine like he was looking for the nearest exit. The world had chewed him up and spat him out, and when there was nothing left, I was still there—clinging to him. Maybe that made me desperate. Maybe it made me foolish. But I didn’t care. Not then.

That night, he nearly ground his teeth to dust. I can still hear the sound of it—sharp and relentless in the dark.

He sat on the edge of the bed, knuckles bone-white around the sheets, every muscle wound tight. The moonlight slanted through the blinds, painting stripes across his face. Was he angry at me, or just at the world? I could hear his breath—shaky, furious, like he was holding himself back from spitting out something cruel.

"Why are you holding on so tight? Are we really in love?"

His voice was rough, each word clipped. God, he sounded so tired. I glanced at the silver chain rattling against the headboard, feeling a strange twist in my chest at the sight of it.

The chain was cold against my skin—a weird kind of comfort. I let my fingers linger there, tracing the links, heart pounding. For a second, I almost let the fear show, but then I steadied myself and, after a beat, replied with quiet certainty:

"Doesn't matter. I just want to."

I didn’t owe him an explanation. There was a pause. The silence between us felt heavier than the chain itself. I caught my own reflection in the window—a girl who refused to let go, no matter how much it hurt.

But things changed. He made a comeback.

His name started showing up in the business news again, that old spark flickering back in his eyes. He walked taller, his suits sharper. And with every new headline, he started poking at me, provoking me at every turn—like he needed to remind himself I was still there.

He’d toss out biting comments at dinner, leave for work before dawn, come home late. Each time, I felt the sting, but I didn’t argue. I didn’t cause a scene. I just swallowed it all and kept moving.

I went behind his back and signed up with a foreign medical relief team. Maybe it was selfish, but I needed something that was just mine.

I filled out the forms in the quiet of my bedroom, the soft glow of my desk lamp stretching shadows across the walls. My hand shook a little as I scrawled my name. I didn’t tell anyone—not my friends, not even my parents. I just tucked the acceptance letter in my drawer and started making lists: vaccines, power adapters, extra socks. Anything to keep my mind busy.

The night before I left, he showed up at my door, drunk. The smell hit me before I even opened it.

He leaned against the doorframe, breath heavy with whiskey, his tie askew. I’d never seen him like that—so unguarded, so lost. He looked nothing like the man I used to know.

"How can you be so calm?" His voice cracked, raw and accusing. His eyes were glassy, almost pleading, even as his words cut.

I took out the divorce papers. My hands shook. I handed them to him, the weight of the moment making my stomach twist.

"Mason Whitaker, I'm tired of this." For a second, I thought my voice would break. I held his gaze anyway. Maybe for the first time, I felt older than him. Maybe I always had.

Ask anyone—Mason Whitaker probably hates me more than anyone else.

His friends avoided me at parties. His mother stopped calling. What else could I expect? To get rid of me, he's worked nonstop these past years. Did he ever really want me around? Sometimes I wondered.

But then he made his comeback. For real this time.

His name was back on the company letterhead, his office overflowing with congratulatory flowers. He started bringing his stepsister, Grace Whitaker, right in front of me, like he wanted to rub it in my face.

She always had this way of making herself look fragile—like a porcelain doll about to break. "You have everything, Savannah. All I have left is my brother. Can't you just let him go?" she pleaded, her voice wobbling, eyes big and watery.

I calmly stood up, making sure the marks on my neck were visible. For a moment, I felt a little thrill—petty, maybe, but I wanted her to see.

The room was cool, the air heavy with the scent of fresh lilies. I took a breath, feeling the tension in my chest. With a troubled look, I said, "Sorry, it's not that I won't give him back—it's just your brother is too..."

As I spoke, I covered my cheeks with both hands, shyly lowering my head. I knew exactly what I was doing—leaving plenty to the imagination.

My cheeks burned, but I forced a little smile, letting the silence stretch. Grace's face, already pale, went completely white. She looked like she was about to collapse. I watched her eyes dart to Mason, red and brimming, before she turned and ran out in tears.

Her heels clicked frantically on the hardwood floor, echoing down the hallway. The room suddenly felt way too big, just the two of us left in the silence.

Mason stared at the mark on my neck, his face dark and stormy. I felt his gaze like a physical thing, heavy and impossible to ignore.

His jaw clenched. I could see the muscle twitching there, his fists curling at his sides. For a second, I braced myself, waiting for him to lash out. But before he could say anything, I piped up, my voice deliberately light:

"She ran off—aren't you going to chase her?"