Saved by My Enemy

The afternoon sun streaming through the floor-to-ceiling windows should have felt warm on my skin, but sitting in our Beverly Hills mansion, I felt nothing but the familiar chill that seemed to follow me everywhere these days.

I curled up on the leather sofa, remote in hand, mindlessly flipping through channels until the entertainment news caught my attention.

The anchor's voice filled the empty living room.

"Harper Blackstone just welcomed her second child, and husband Ryan gifted her a five-million-dollar Richard Mille watch as a 'push present.' This Hollywood power couple continues to build their empire, though they're still recovering from the tragic loss of Ryan's firstborn son Jake three years ago..."

The screen showed Harper stepping out of a black Bentley, glowing in her maternity dress, that same radiant smile I remembered from when she used to work for me.

Ryan's protective hand on her lower back, the way he looked at her like she hung the moon.

Jake. Ryan's only son. The heir to the Blackstone entertainment dynasty. Eight years old when he drowned at their engagement party.

I clicked off the TV and stared at the blank screen. Three years, and I still couldn't escape the nightmare.

My phone buzzed – trainer reminding me about tomorrow's session. I didn't give a shit about Pilates right now. All I could think about was how empty this house felt, how I spent most days rattling around in it like some ghost.

Lyndon was probably locked away in his recording studio again, working on whatever new artist had caught his attention this month. But more likely, he was on the phone with Harper. He always got that dreamy look when her name came up.

"She's so brilliant," he'd say whenever Harper's latest business move made headlines. "Beautiful and smart. Ryan's lucky to have her."

Too fucking lucky.

I wanted kids. God, I wanted them so badly it physically hurt sometimes. The doctors had been clear – the beating after Jake's death left me unable to carry children. But every time I brought up adoption or surrogacy, Lyndon would get this distant look.

"Soon, baby. When things settle down with the company. Harper says the timing isn't right for the industry."

Harper says. Everything in our house revolved around what Harper fucking said.

I'd been Ryan's fiancée. We were planning our wedding when Jake died at our engagement party. Three hundred witnesses watched that little boy drown while I was inside touching up my lipstick.

"Where was the bride?" the headlines screamed. "How could a future mother be so negligent with a child?"

The public crucifixion was swift and brutal. Ryan's only son, his heir, his everything – dead while I was primping. The Blackstone family's grief was front-page news for months.

But Harper? She was the hero. "Assistant Risks Life to Save Child." Photos of her performing CPR, soaking wet, sobbing over Jake's lifeless body.

Within six months, she wasn't Ryan's grief counselor anymore. She was his wife.

The kitchen felt too big with just me in it. Maria had left for the day, and the silence was getting to me. I fired up the espresso machine, this ridiculously expensive Italian thing that probably cost more than most people's rent.

While it brewed, I caught my reflection in the black granite. Three years of surgery, three years of healing, and sometimes I still felt like that broken girl who lost everything in one night.

I poured the coffee into Lyndon's lucky mug – this plain white thing that looked cheap next to all our designer crap. He'd had it since college, said it reminded him of simpler times. Of Harper.

They'd gone to Juilliard together. He'd been obsessed with her even then, but she'd had bigger ambitions than a struggling music producer.

"Harper's always been destined for greatness," he'd told me once, drunk and nostalgic. "I knew she'd end up with someone like Ryan eventually."

Someone like Ryan. Not someone like him.

I was halfway to the recording studio when I heard voices. The door was cracked open - maybe Marcus had just arrived and hadn't closed it properly yet. Lyndon was usually obsessive about sound quality.

I slowed down, not wanting to interrupt something important. But as I got closer, the words made my blood freeze.

"Boss, I'm still worried about the Jake situation. What if the Blackstones start digging into it again? That family has resources..."

Lyndon's voice, dismissive and cold: "They won't. The matter's closed. Jasmine took the fall, Harper got what she wanted. Clean and simple."

"But now Jasmine is your wife, and what she went through after - the beating, the threats, everything that followed..."

"She's living in luxury now," Lyndon cut him off, irritated. "Private car, personal chef, unlimited credit cards, this house. Some sacrifices are necessary for Harper's happiness."

Harper's happiness. Not ours. Hers.

The mug slipped from my nerveless fingers, shattering against the marble with a sound like a gunshot. Hot coffee splashed across my ankles, but I felt no pain. I couldn't move, couldn't breathe.

Three years. Three fucking years of thinking this man saved me. Three years of gratitude, of trying to be the perfect wife for my hero.

And Harper. Sweet Harper who held my hand in the hospital when they told me I'd never have kids. Who cried with me at my parents' funeral.

All of it was bullshit. Every single moment.

I pressed my back against the wall, heart pounding so hard I thought I might pass out. My hands were shaking, my whole body was shaking.

Everything I thought I knew was a lie.

I forced myself to move, stepping around the broken ceramic. My legs felt like they might give out, but somehow I made it back to our bedroom.

I sat on the bed, staring at my hands. They wouldn't stop shaking.

Twenty minutes later, footsteps in the hallway. I grabbed random clothes from the closet, pretending to organize when Lyndon walked in.

"Hey, beautiful." That warm, concerned voice. The same voice that had whispered in my ear for three years. "You look a little pale. Rough yoga class today?"

I turned to face him. Really looked at him – the worried expression that used to make me melt. How much of this was an act?

"Just tired." I managed a smile. "I was going to bring you coffee, but got distracted."

He pulled me close. His arms used to feel like safety. Now they felt like a cage.

"You've been stressed lately," he said against my hair. "How about we visit your parents tomorrow, then spend the weekend in Malibu? You love the ocean."

My parents. The parents his plan murdered.

"That sounds perfect," I lied. My voice came out steady somehow. "I'd love that."

He kissed my forehead. Every instinct screamed at me to shove him away.

"Get some rest. I'll finish up and be right back."

After he left, I lay in bed staring at the ceiling. Hours crawled by. The clock read 2:47 AM when I finally heard his steady breathing beside me.

Three years of sleeping next to my parents' killer. Three years of feeling grateful to the man who destroyed everything.

Did he ever actually love me? Or was this all guilt money? Some twisted game?

I thought about Harper, probably sleeping peacefully with Ryan and their kids. The life that should have been mine. The assistant who smiled at me every morning while knowing exactly what she'd done.

I turned to study Lyndon's face in the dark. He looked so peaceful, so innocent.

But he'd orchestrated my downfall to clear the path for Harper. To give her the life she wanted, the family she coveted. The thought made my stomach turn.

I had to find out everything. Every lie, every manipulation, every moment of the last three years.

I was done being the grateful victim.

Time to become something else entirely.