Spare Part Wife: Liver For His Mistress

The taxi screeched to a halt in front of the Tribeca building, tires splashing through a puddle that had formed in the gutter. It was raining now, a cold, miserable New York drizzle that soaked through Jada's silk dress the moment she stepped onto the pavement. She stumbled, nearly twisting her ankle in her heels, but she caught herself on the door handle. "You okay, miss?" the driver asked, eyeing her disheveled appearance in the rearview mirror. "Fine," Jada choked out. She threw a crumpled bill at him-she didn't even look at the denomination-and slammed the door. The doorman, a kind older man named Roberto, smiled as he saw her approach. "Good evening, Mrs. Long! Happy Anniver-" Jada brushed past him without a word, her head down, hair plastered to her cheeks. She couldn't bear to hear that word. Anniversary. It felt like a curse. She rushed to the private elevator at the back of the lobby, her fingers shaking so badly she dropped her key fob twice before managing to scan it. The doors slid open, and she collapsed against the mirrored wall as the car ascended. She was hyperventilating. Short, sharp gasps that didn't deliver enough oxygen. Her chest ached. Pinecrest Nursing Home. The threat echoed in her mind. He would kill her grandmother-indirectly, slowly, by removing care-to save Hazel. The elevator dinged, opening directly into the penthouse foyer. Jada stumbled out, kicking off her heels. She reached up and ripped the diamond necklace from her throat. The clasp snapped, scratching her skin, but she didn't care. She threw the jewelry onto the entry table. It landed in a velvet tray with a dull thud. It felt like she was taking off a collar. She ran to the master bedroom. The room was vast, cold, decorated in shades of grey and charcoal that Darius loved. It felt like a mausoleum. She dragged a heavy suitcase from the top shelf of the walk-in closet, the wheels rumbling on the hardwood floor. She threw it open on the bed and started grabbing clothes indiscriminately. Jeans. Sweaters. T-shirts. Anything that wasn't silk. Anything that wasn't a gift from him. Beep. The sound came from the foyer. The biometric lock. Access Granted. Jada froze. Her heart hammered against her ribs like a trapped bird. He was here. How was he here so fast? Heavy, deliberate footsteps echoed on the marble floor of the living room. They were getting closer. Panic surged through her. She abandoned the suitcase and rushed to the bedroom door. She grabbed the handle to slam it shut, to lock it, to put a barrier between her and the monster. But a large hand slammed against the wood, holding it open with terrifying ease. Darius stood there. He was impeccable. His suit was dry. His breathing was even. He looked like he had just come from a board meeting, not from destroying his marriage. The contrast to her shivering, soaked form was stark and humiliating. "Running away is childish, Jada," he said. He reached up and loosened his tie, unbuttoning the top button of his shirt. It was a casual, domestic gesture that made Jada's stomach turn. Jada backed away, retreating until the back of her legs hit the mattress. "I'm leaving you," she said, her voice trembling but defiant. "I'm filing for divorce. Tonight." Darius walked into the room. He glanced at the messy suitcase on the bed with a look of distaste. "You leave when I say you can leave." He lifted a polished Oxford shoe and kicked the suitcase shut. The sound was like a gunshot in the quiet room. Jada lunged for her phone on the nightstand. She needed a lawyer. She needed the police. She needed someone. Darius was faster, but not with his hands. He simply raised his voice slightly, a command directed at the empty air. "Lockdown protocol, level three," he said calmly. A soft chime echoed through the room. The screen of Jada's phone went black. She tapped it frantically, but it was dead, unresponsive. "Give it back!" she screamed, realizing he had remotely disabled it. She clawed at his arm, her nails digging into the expensive fabric of his suit. He caught her wrists effortlessly. He pinned them to her sides, using his weight to back her against the wall next to the bed. He forced her to look at him. "Stop it," he ordered. They were close. Too close. Jada could feel the heat radiating from his body. For a split second, the old chemistry-the physical pull that had blinded her for three years-sparked in the air. Darius's gaze dropped to her lips. His eyes darkened, pupils dilating. For a heartbeat, he looked like he wanted to kiss her. Then, the mask slammed back into place. His face hardened into stone. "The surgery is scheduled for Tuesday," he said, his voice devoid of emotion. "You will be there." "Or what?" Jada challenged, staring up at him with eyes blazing with tears and fury. "You'll tie me down? You'll drag me there unconscious?" "If I have to," Darius replied. His voice was dangerously low, a rumble in his chest that she felt against her own. He released her abruptly, pushing himself away as if touching her burned him. He turned his back, pocketing his own phone. "You are confined to the penthouse, Jada. The smart home system is engaged. All communications are blocked, and no one goes in or out without my authorization." "You can't do this! This is kidnapping!" "It's marriage," Darius corrected coldly. "And protecting an asset." He walked to the door. Jada rushed to the window. She looked down. They were on the forty-fifth floor. The street below was a blur of wet asphalt and yellow taxis. There was no fire escape. She turned back, desperation clawing at her throat. "Sleep in the guest room," she spat out. "If you come near this bed, I will kill you." Darius stopped at the threshold. He looked back at her, his expression unreadable. "This is my house," he said. "I sleep where I want." He walked out and pulled the door shut. Click. Whirrrrr. The sound of the electronic deadbolt sliding into place. The smart home system. He had locked her in from the outside. "Darius!" Jada pounded on the heavy wood with both fists. "Darius, open this door! Open it!" Silence was the only answer. She screamed his name until her throat was raw. She kicked the door until her toes throbbed. He didn't come back. Slowly, Jada slid down the door, her silk dress ruining on the floor. She pulled her knees to her chest and buried her face in her arms. She was trapped. In the home she had decorated. With the man she had loved. She was a prisoner in a gilded cage, waiting to be harvested.