The Neglected Wife's Bloody Revenge Pact

The freezing wind whipped against Jenna's face. She gripped the rough cotton rope tightly with both hands, the friction burning her raw palms.

She planted the soles of her bare feet against the rough stone exterior of the mansion. She took a shallow breath and began to walk her feet down the wall, lowering her body weight inch by inch.

Suddenly, a sharp tearing sound echoed above her head. One of the knots connecting the strips of fabric gave way slightly.

Her body dropped two feet in a split second.

Jenna's heart slammed against her ribs. She bit down on her lower lip so hard she tasted copper, forcing herself not to scream. Cold sweat instantly soaked the back of her shirt.

She couldn't afford to go slow anymore. She loosened her grip slightly and slid down faster. The rough fabric tore the skin off her palms, leaving smears of blood on the white cotton.

When she was about four feet from the ground, the rope simply ended.

She looked down at the dark, manicured lawn below. She let go of the rope and dropped.

She hit the grass with a heavy thud. A sharp, vicious twist wrenched her ankle, sending a searing flash of pain shooting straight up her calf.

She swallowed a groan. She couldn't stay in the open. She scrambled forward on her hands and one good knee, dragging her injured leg until she slid behind a dense row of tall hedges.

Seconds later, a sweeping beam of bright white light cut through the darkness. A security guard was walking the perimeter, sweeping his heavy flashlight right over the spot where she had just landed.

Jenna pressed her body flat against the damp earth. She held her breath. The smell of wet dirt and crushed grass filled her nose.

The guard didn't notice the dent in the grass. He kept walking, the beam of light fading into the distance.

Jenna waited until her lungs burned before she exhaled. She pushed herself up. Using the shadows of the massive oak trees to hide from the security cameras, she limped toward the outer perimeter of the estate.

Every step sent a jagged spike of agony up her left leg. She reached the low, wrought-iron decorative fence that separated the estate from the community roads. She hauled her body over the cold metal spikes and collapsed onto the hard asphalt on the other side.

She had escaped the house, but as she looked around, despair washed over her. She was inside a sprawling, ultra-exclusive gated community that spanned hundreds of acres.

It was a labyrinth of winding roads, towering trees, and identical stone walls. There were no street signs.

She dragged herself along the edge of the road, shivering violently in her thin shirt.

Suddenly, two blinding headlights swept around the curve of the road ahead.

The low hum of an engine grew louder. A white SUV with the community's private security logo plastered on the side rolled slowly toward her.

Jenna had nowhere to run. She froze, pressing her back against the rough bark of a massive tree trunk.

The patrol car rolled to a stop right next to the tree. The driver's side door popped open. A young security guard in a dark uniform stepped out.

The guard, Manny Correa, pulled a pack of cigarettes from his pocket. As he struck his lighter, the brief flash of orange flame illuminated the shadows. He caught a glimpse of movement behind the tree out of the corner of his eye.

Manny dropped the cigarette. He unclipped his heavy tactical flashlight from his belt, aimed it at the tree, and clicked it on.

"Hey! Who's back there? Step out!" Manny shouted, his voice tight with adrenaline.

The blinding beam hit Jenna directly in the face. She squeezed her eyes shut and instinctively threw her hands up to shield her face.

Manny kept the light steady. He saw a woman with messy hair, wearing a thin shirt. Her hands were covered in dried blood. She was barefoot, and her left ankle was swollen to the size of a baseball. She looked pale and terrified.

Jenna's brain shifted into overdrive. She needed him to pity her, not report her.

She let her hands drop slightly. She allowed the genuine trauma of her past life's death to flood her eyes. She began to tremble violently.

"Please," Jenna whispered, her voice cracking with raw terror. "My husband... he's going to kill me. I just got out. Please don't call him. Please."

Manny stared at the blood on her hands and the sheer, broken panic in her eyes. His professional suspicion crumbled instantly. He was a working-class guy; he hated the rich abusers who lived in these mansions.

He clicked off the flashlight. He looked nervously up and down the empty road.

"Get in the back," Manny hissed, waving his hand toward the car. "Hurry."

Jenna let out a shaky breath. She limped quickly to the SUV, pulled open the rear door, and threw herself onto the floorboards. She grabbed a thick gray emergency blanket off the seat and pulled it completely over her head.