Our love is a perfect Crime

The ghost of my right hand ached, a constant reminder of the car crash that stole my career as a concert pianist five years ago.

My husband, tech mogul David Miller, had lovingly built me a gilded cage-a penthouse palace where I was his celebrated, wounded wife, a testament to my sacrifice.

"It's a masterpiece, David. The whole thing," I overheard his best friend, Mark, say.

"The comeback story, the adoring husband. You've played it perfectly."

My fingers hovered over the piano keys in my studio.

My breath caught.

"Still," Mark pressed, his voice dropping, "that car crash... it was perfectly staged. How could you know Olivia would sacrifice her hand to save you?"

My world crumbled.

Staged?

I crept to the library door, peeking through the crack.

David, swirling amber liquid, smirked.

"Because she loves me," he purred, "just as I love Sarah."

Sarah Jenkins. His protégé. The brilliant pianist who had risen in my place.