My Fiancé Postponed Our Wedding for His Ex

Vance found me in the guest bedroom. I was sitting on the edge of the bed, phone in my hand, trying to pull up the security footage one more time.

He stood in the doorway. Didn't knock. Just stood there, looking at me like I was something he needed to contain.

"Els. Put the phone down."

I held it tighter. "I need you to see this. Just look at it. Please."

"I'm not looking at anything. You need help."

"Vance—"

"You accused a dying woman of faking her illness. You accused a three-year-old of assault. You're inventing pregnancies, inventing conspiracies—" His voice cracked. "You're not well."

I stood up too fast. The room tilted. I pressed one hand against the wall. "I'm not inventing anything. The footage is right here. Just look."

I held the phone out toward him.

He crossed the room in three strides and grabbed it from my hand. Not gently. His fingers closed around my wrist for a second, tight enough to bruise, before he yanked the phone away.

"You're dangerous," he said quietly. "Camille was right. You're dangerous."

I reached for his arm. "Please. Just listen—"

He jerked back like I'd burned him. "Don't touch me."

I froze.

Behind him, Margaret Sullivan appeared in the doorway. Vance's mother. She was wearing pearls and an expression of cold satisfaction.

"Is she cooperating?" Margaret asked.

Vance didn't look away from me. "No."

Margaret's mouth thinned. "Then we proceed as discussed."

"What does that mean?" I whispered.

Neither of them answered.

That night, Vance came back with two men I didn't recognize. Sullivan household staff. They didn't meet my eyes.

"Get up," Vance said.

I stayed on the bed. "Where are we going?"

"Somewhere you can't hurt anyone."

One of the men stepped forward. I tried to push past him. He caught my arm. The other one grabbed my other side. They lifted me off the bed.

I screamed Vance's name. He turned his back and walked out.

They dragged me to the car.

---

The Sullivan estate was two hours north. I'd been there once before, for a garden party. I remembered white tents and champagne and Margaret introducing me to her friends with a smile that never reached her eyes.

They took me around the back. Down a set of stone steps I hadn't known existed. Through a heavy door that opened into darkness.

Vance flipped a switch. A single bulb buzzed to life overhead.

Concrete walls. Concrete floor. A cot with a thin blanket. A bucket in the corner.

"You'll stay here," Vance said. His voice was flat. Empty. "Until you're better."

I turned to look at him. "I'm still bleeding."

He flinched. Just slightly. Then his face went hard again. "Someone will bring you food. Water. You'll be fine."

"Vance. Please."

He stepped back through the door. One of the staff members stayed behind. Young guy. Maybe twenty-five. He wouldn't look at me.

"Her name's Daniel," Vance said. "He'll check on you."

Then he left.

The door locked behind him. Heavy bolt sliding into place.

Daniel set a tray on the floor. Bottle of water. Granola bar. He still wouldn't meet my eyes.

"How long?" I asked.

He didn't answer. Just backed toward the door, knocked twice. Someone opened it from the outside. He slipped through. The bolt slid home again.

I sat down on the cot and pressed my hands between my legs. Still bleeding. Not as much as before. But enough.

I closed my eyes and made myself breathe.

---

Day one: I slept. Woke up. Slept again. Daniel brought food twice. Set it down fast. Left faster.

Day two: I tried talking to him. Asked for a phone. Asked for a doctor. Asked him to please just listen. He shook his head and left.

Day three: I started watching him. Really watching. He checked his phone when he thought I was asleep. Set it face-down on the tray while he carried my meals. His hands were full for exactly three seconds when he opened the door—tray in both hands, door pushed open with his shoulder.

Three seconds.

Day four: I was half-delirious. The bleeding had slowed but the cramping hadn't stopped. I hadn't showered in four days. Hadn't changed clothes. The basement smelled like concrete and rust and something sour I didn't want to name.

Daniel came with dinner. Knocked. Waited for the bolt to slide. Pushed the door open with his shoulder, tray in both hands.

I lunged.

My hand closed around his phone. He yelped. Dropped the tray. Grabbed for my wrist.

I twisted away. Fell. Hit the concrete hard. Kept my grip on the phone.

"Give it back," Daniel said. His voice was panicked. "Jesus Christ, give it back—"

I rolled onto my side. Unlocked the screen. My hands were shaking so hard I almost dropped it.

There was a number. One Brendan had made me memorize weeks ago. *If everything else fails.*

I dialed.

Daniel was yelling now. Reaching for the phone. I kicked at him. Missed. He grabbed my ankle.

The line rang once.

Twice.

Then a voice. Low. Controlled. Already in motion.

"Where are you?"

I opened my mouth. Daniel wrenched the phone from my hand.

But I'd already said it. The only thing that mattered.

"Sullivan estate. Connecticut. Basement."

The line went dead.

Daniel stared at the phone in his hand. Then at me. His face was white.

"Who did you call?"

I didn't answer.

He backed toward the door. Fumbled with the bolt. Slammed it shut behind him.

I lay on the concrete floor, arms wrapped around my empty stomach, and waited.

Somewhere above me, I heard shouting. Footsteps. Doors slamming.

I closed my eyes.

Help was coming.

I just had to hold on a little longer.