His Poisoned Love, My Escape

Yuda Xiaojie

Romance | Completed

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My husband, Austen, the man the world saw as my devoted admirer, was the artist of my pain. He had punished me ninety-five times, and this was the ninety-sixth. Then, a message from my stepsister, Joyce, buzzed on my phone: a photo of her perfectly manicured hand holding champagne, captioned, "Celebrating another victory. He really does love me more." A second message from Austen followed, "My love, are you resting? I' ve asked the doctor to come. I' m sorry it had to be this way, but you must learn. I' ll be home soon to take care of you." I had always known Joyce was the trigger, but I never understood the mechanism. I thought it was just Austen' s own brand of cruelty, ignited by Joyce' s lies. But then, I found a voice recording of Austen's. His calm voice filled the silent room, "...number ninety-six. A broken hand. It should be enough to appease Joyce this time. But my debt must be paid. Fifteen years ago, Joyce saved my life. She pulled me from that burning car after the kidnapping. I vowed that day I would protect her from everything and everyone. Even from my own wife." My mind went blank. Kidnapping. Burning car. Fifteen years ago. I was the one there. I was the girl who pulled a terrified, crying boy from the back seat just before it exploded. His name was Austen. He had called me his "little star." But when I returned with the police, another girl was there, crying and holding Austen' s hand. It was Joyce. He didn't know. He had built his entire twisted system of justice on a lie. Joyce had stolen my life-saving act, and I was paying the price. Every cell in my body screamed one word: Escape.

Family Revenge CEO Drama Kickass Heroine

Chapter 17

01-06 21:35

Chapter 1

My husband, Austen, the man the world saw as my devoted admirer, was the artist of my pain. He had punished me ninety-five times, and this was the ninety-sixth.

Then, a message from my stepsister, Joyce, buzzed on my phone: a photo of her perfectly manicured hand holding champagne, captioned, "Celebrating another victory. He really does love me more."

A second message from Austen followed, "My love, are you resting? I' ve asked the doctor to come. I' m sorry it had to be this way, but you must learn. I' ll be home soon to take care of you."

I had always known Joyce was the trigger, but I never understood the mechanism. I thought it was just Austen' s own brand of cruelty, ignited by Joyce' s lies.

But then, I found a voice recording of Austen's. His calm voice filled the silent room, "...number ninety-six. A broken hand. It should be enough to appease Joyce this time. But my debt must be paid. Fifteen years ago, Joyce saved my life. She pulled me from that burning car after the kidnapping. I vowed that day I would protect her from everything and everyone. Even from my own wife."

My mind went blank. Kidnapping. Burning car. Fifteen years ago. I was the one there. I was the girl who pulled a terrified, crying boy from the back seat just before it exploded. His name was Austen. He had called me his "little star." But when I returned with the police, another girl was there, crying and holding Austen' s hand. It was Joyce.

He didn't know. He had built his entire twisted system of justice on a lie. Joyce had stolen my life-saving act, and I was paying the price. Every cell in my body screamed one word: Escape.

Chapter 1

Alana Mcneil had endured ninety-five punishments.

This was the ninety-sixth.

The pain was a familiar poison, seeping into her bones. She lay on the cold marble floor of the master bathroom, her body a canvas of fresh and faded bruises.

Her husband, Austen Ballard, the man the world saw as her devoted admirer, was the artist of this pain.

He did it all for her stepsister, Joyce.

A week ago, Joyce had "accidentally" tripped over a rug at a family dinner, spilling red wine on a politician's wife.

Joyce had cried, pointing a trembling finger at Alana.

"She must have put the rug there on purpose. She's always been jealous of me."

That night, Austen had come home, his face a mask of cold disappointment.

He' d dragged her into the kitchen and forced her to kneel on broken glass.

"Joyce is fragile, Alana. You know that. You need to learn to be more careful around her."

Two weeks before that, it was the ninety-fourth punishment.

Austen had locked her in the wine cellar for two days with no food and only a single bottle of water.

The trigger? Joyce had complained that Alana had received more compliments on her dress at a charity gala.

"You embarrassed her," Austen had said through the thick wooden door. "You need to understand your place."

The ninety-third punishment was even more absurd.

He had held her head underwater in the bathtub until she nearly passed out.

Her crime was forgetting to water a pot of orchids Joyce had gifted them, a plant Alana was allergic to.

"It was a gift, Alana. A symbol of her kindness. Your carelessness is an insult to her."

Now, the ninety-sixth.

Her left hand was shattered.

He had slammed it repeatedly with a heavy book from his study.

She had been working on a new architectural design, a sketch she was proud of, and had forgotten to pick up a call from Joyce.

Joyce had then called Austen, sobbing, saying Alana was ignoring her, that she must hate her.

Alana' s breath hitched. The agony in her hand was a white-hot scream. She tried to move, to crawl away from the center of the vast, cold room, but every muscle protested.

Her phone, which had skittered under a vanity during the struggle, suddenly lit up.

A message. From Joyce.

A photo of her own hand, perfectly manicured, holding a glass of champagne. The caption read: "Celebrating another victory. He really does love me more."

Alana' s heart stopped. She had always known Joyce was the trigger, but she never understood the mechanism. She thought it was just Austen' s own brand of cruelty, ignited by Joyce' s lies.

Then, a second message buzzed. This one was from Austen.

"My love, are you resting? I' ve asked the doctor to come. I' m sorry it had to be this way, but you must learn. I' ll be home soon to take care of you."

The world knew Austen Ballard as a doting husband. A tech mogul who had eyes for no one but his brilliant architect wife, Alana Mcneil. He bought her islands, named companies after her, and spoke of her in interviews with a reverence usually reserved for gods.

No one would ever believe the truth.

Sometimes, even Alana couldn't. How could the man who kissed her scars with such tenderness be the one who put them there?

She remembered his pursuit. It had been relentless, a storm of adoration and grand gestures. He had swept into her life when she was at her lowest.

She had always been cautious with love. Her past had taught her to be.

Her mother died when she was ten. Her father, a man obsessed with social climbing, remarried within a year.

His new wife and her daughter, Joyce, turned Alana' s life into a quiet hell. She became the unpaid servant, the shadow in her own home, blamed for every misfortune.

Her father, needing his new wife' s connections, allowed it. He saw Alana not as a daughter, but as an inconvenience.

Then Austen Ballard appeared. He saw her. He had been a guest at a party her father threw, and he saw Joyce "accidentally" trip Alana, sending her tumbling down a short flight of stairs.

He didn't help her up. Instead, he walked to her father and spoke in a low, dangerous voice.

The next day, her father' s company stocks plummeted. Austen had systematically dismantled his business.

He then presented Alana with the controlling shares of what was left of her father' s company, effectively giving her back the inheritance her father had planned to give entirely to Joyce.

He had her father and stepmother publicly apologize to her. He made Joyce transfer to a school in another state.

He held her face in his hands, his eyes burning with an intensity that felt like salvation.

"I will never let anyone hurt you again, Alana. I swear it."

And she, a girl starved of protection and love, had believed him. She had fallen into his arms and trusted him with the broken pieces of her soul.

A lie. It was all a lie.

He didn't protect her. He just became the only one allowed to hurt her. And he did it all for Joyce.

The realization was a cold, hard stone in her stomach.

She needed to know why. She needed to understand the foundation of this madness.

Ignoring the fire in her hand, she pulled herself up, using the vanity for support. She had to get to his office. His private study. That' s where he kept his secrets.

She stumbled out of the bathroom, down the grand, silent hallway. The house felt like a beautiful tomb.

His study was at the end of the west wing. The door was locked with a biometric scanner. Her fingerprint wouldn' t work.

But his password was always the same. Her birthday. The irony was a bitter taste in her mouth.

The door clicked open.

The room smelled of leather and his expensive cologne. It was a place she was rarely allowed to enter.

She went to his desk. On his computer, a voice recording app was still open. He often recorded his thoughts.

She clicked on the most recent file, dated today.

His voice filled the silent room, calm and rational.

"...number ninety-six. A broken hand. It should be enough to appease Joyce this time. It has to be enough. I cannot bear to hurt Alana more than this. But my debt must be paid."

The voice continued, and Alana felt the floor drop out from under her.

"Fifteen years ago, Joyce saved my life. She pulled me from that burning car after the kidnapping. She was just a child, so brave. I vowed that day I would protect her from everything and everyone. Even from my own wife."

He sighed. A sound of genuine conflict.

"Alana is my world, but she is willful. She hurts Joyce without thinking. These punishments... they are a way to correct her, to balance the scales. To keep my promise to Joyce while still keeping Alana by my side. It is the only way."

Alana' s mind went blank.

Kidnapping. Burning car. Fifteen years ago.

She was the one there.

She was the girl who had been playing in the woods and saw the black van crash. She was the one who pulled a terrified, crying boy from the back seat just before it exploded.

His name was Austen. He had a small scar above his eyebrow, a detail she' d never forgotten. He had called her his "little star" because of the star-shaped barrette in her hair.

She had run to get help, but when she returned with the police, another girl was there, crying and holding Austen' s hand.

It was Joyce.

The world swam. Alana gripped the desk, a wave of nausea washing over her.

He didn't know. He had built his entire twisted system of justice on a lie. Joyce had stolen her life-saving act, and Alana was paying the price.

A sharp, agonizing pain shot through her stomach. A pain that had become more frequent over the last few months. The doctors couldn' t find a cause.

She remembered Austen, just last week, holding her, stroking her hair.

"We will figure this out, my love. I'll hire every specialist in the world. I can't stand to see you in pain."

His love was a lie. His protection was a cage. His care was poison.

Every cell in her body screamed one word.

Escape.

She couldn' t do it alone. Austen's power was absolute. He had eyes and ears everywhere.

She needed an enemy of his. Someone powerful enough to challenge him.

Dalton Underwood.

His biggest rival in the tech world. A man who, according to the tabloids, had hated Austen for years.

A man she had known in college. A man who had looked at her with a quiet kindness she had been too scared to accept back then.

Her hand throbbed, but a new, cold resolve flooded her veins. She pulled out her spare, hidden phone.

She found his number through an old Stanford alumni network. Her fingers shook as she typed the message.

"Dalton Underwood. This is Alana Mcneil. I need your help. I can give you my shares in Ballard Industries. All of them. Just get me out of this country. Give me a new life."

She pressed send.