No Longer A Victim, Now I Rise

The next morning, Jackson was in the kitchen, wearing an apron, a cheerful smile plastered on his face. He was humming as he flipped pancakes. It was a grotesque parody of a happy domestic scene.

"Good morning, darling," he said, his voice bright. "I made your favorite, blueberry pancakes."

He looked at me, his eyes full of a tenderness that was now obscene. I felt like I was looking at a complete stranger.

"I thought we could go out today," he continued. "Just the two of us. A lovely drive up the coast."

"No," I said, my voice cold and empty.

He froze, the spatula hovering over the pan. He stared at me, his smile faltering. "What?"

"I don't want to go anywhere with you," I said.

He put the spatula down and walked over to me, his face a mask of concern. He crouched down, taking my uninjured hand in his. His touch felt repulsive.

"Elena, I know you're upset about yesterday," he said, his voice a low, soothing murmur. "I am so sorry. I was out of line. Please, forgive me."

His eyes were soft, pleading. It was the same look he had given me in the hospital five years ago. This time, it made me feel nothing but disgust.

I pulled my hand away and started eating the breakfast Maria had left for me, ignoring the pancakes he had made.

He watched me for a moment, then seemed to decide I had forgiven him. His smile returned, relieved.

"Come on," he said, pulling me to my feet. "Let's go shopping. I'll buy you anything you want."

He practically dragged me to the car.

Candida and Joey were already sitting in the back seat.

My heart sank. Of course.

"Joey was feeling a little down," Jackson explained, not meeting my eyes. "And Miss Camacho needed to pick up a few things for him. I thought we could all go together. A family outing."

His gaze flickered to Candida in the rearview mirror for a split second, a look of longing and possession that he tried to hide.

I said nothing. I got into the car, a silent, unwilling passenger in the charade of my own life.

At the mall, Jackson was a whirlwind of activity, pulling me into the most expensive stores. He bought me dresses, shoes, a diamond watch. The sales clerks fawned over him.

"Mrs. Parks, you are so lucky," one of them gushed. "Your husband adores you."

I managed a tight, painful smile. Adored me. If only she knew.

My eyes drifted over to Candida. She was standing by a jewelry counter, her gaze fixed on a sapphire necklace, a look of raw longing on her face. She had come from a wealthy family, but Jackson had taken everything from them. Now she was a kept woman, dependent on the man she claimed to hate.

Jackson followed my gaze. He saw the look on her face.

A few minutes later, he came back with a small, velvet box. Not for me.

He walked over to Candida. "Here," he said, his tone clipped and impatient, as if he were annoyed. "Try this on. I need to see if it would suit a client's wife."

He put the sapphire necklace around her neck, his fingers brushing against her skin. It was a lie, a thin, pathetic excuse to give a gift to his mistress in front of his wife.

I felt a cold laugh bubble up inside me. It was all so ridiculous, so insulting.

I turned and walked out of the store. I couldn't breathe in there anymore.

I was standing on the curb, waiting for the valet to bring the car, when it happened.

A white sports car, its engine roaring, screeched around the corner. It was out of control, heading straight for the sidewalk.

Straight for Candida, who had just stepped out of the store.

Jackson's face went white with terror.

"CANDIDA!" he screamed.

In that split second, he did something that sealed my fate. He was standing next to me. He shoved me, hard. I stumbled backwards, falling against the wall of the building.

He didn't do it to save me. He did it to get me out of his way.

He lunged towards Candida, pushing her out of the car's path.

He wasn't fast enough.

The car hit him, the sound a sickening thud of metal against flesh. He flew through the air, landing in a crumpled heap on the pavement.

The world erupted into chaos. People were screaming. The sports car sped off.

I looked at Jackson, lying on the ground, his leg bent at an unnatural angle. His eyes were wide with pain and fear.

But he wasn't looking at me. He was looking past me, at Candida, who stood frozen in shock.

"Candida," he gasped, his voice a pained whisper. "Are you... are you okay?"

My blood turned to ice. My heart stopped beating. In that moment, watching him lie broken on the ground, caring only for her, I knew.

Any last, lingering ember of love I had for him died. It turned to cold, hard ash.

I didn't go to the hospital. I didn't call an ambulance.

I stood there for a moment, looking down at the man who had destroyed my life.

Then, I turned and walked away.

The phantoms of a past life echoed through my own. I looked at the dark mark on my hand, the new skin still tender.

But the real pain was in my chest, a deep, hollow ache that was far worse than any burn.