The sound of the tires skimming against the wet road was the only noise I could focus on as the car sped down the empty highway. The rain had started to fall in sheets, blurring the windshield and painting the night with a haze of gray.
I was supposed to be focusing on my phone, responding to emails, but my thoughts were too clouded. I wasn't thinking about business or deals, not right now.
My mind kept drifting back to the harsh words Henry had spat at me, and the way his face had twisted in betrayal when I asked him about the cheat.
I couldn't shake the image of his numerous mistresses, laughed with, cried with—wrapped around my husband like they had every right to be with him.
That scent of another woman burned in my mind like a brand.
The irony was not lost on me. I had spent so many years in a gilded cage, surrounded by luxury and comfort, convinced that everything would be fine if I just kept up appearances.
I had been the dutiful wife—the one who supported Henry's every venture, every decision, his rise to power. I had put my own dreams and ambitions on hold, sacrificing for him, for us. But it was never enough.
I needed to make him pay. Not just for his different infidelities, but for every cruel thing he'd ever done to me. For all the small, petty moments of control. For treating me like a piece of furniture, something to be pushed aside when it no longer served its purpose.
The road's headlights barely cutting through the rain. I glanced at the clock on the dashboard—ten minutes until I reached the meeting spot. It wasn't a coincidence.
I had planned everything meticulously. There would be no turning back from here.
As I turned the wheel to adjust my direction, the car suddenly swerved. A sharp tug on the wheel yanked me back, and before I could process what was happening, the tires skidded, sending me into a tailspin. My heart pounded in my chest as the world outside seemed to twist and turn with the car.
My breath hitched in my throat as I felt the car careen off the road. There was a sickening crunch, and then darkness.
---
I woke up to the harsh sound of my own breathing, frantic. My body felt like it was submerged in cold water, heavy and paralyzed. Every inch of me screamed in pain, but nothing responded. My hands were clammy against the seatbelt, my head spinning.
The car had stopped. I could see through the fractured windshield that I had somehow ended up in a ditch. The rain had picked up again, and the storm was now raging, thunder booming overhead.
I attempted to move, to push myself up, but nothing happened. My legs were dead weight. My fingers could barely twitch. The pain in my body seemed to throb in time with my heartbeat.
The realization hit me slowly, like a creeping wave that had no intention of letting me go. I couldn't move.
I couldn't speak. The car was totaled, but I was alive—barely, but alive.
But this wasn't an accident. This was a plan. The fates had opened a door for me, and I was going to walk through it.
---
The emergency crew arrived soon after. The sirens screamed their arrival, followed by the urgent voices of paramedics, their hands reaching into the car to pull me free from the wreckage.
I wanted to scream, to tell them I was fine, to tell them this was all just part of a scheme. But nothing came out.
They cut through the seatbelt, lifted me carefully, and placed me on a gurney. I could feel their eyes on me, but there was no sympathy in their eyes. They thought I was a victim, helpless and broken.
And I let them believe it.
The paramedics rushed me to the hospital, and from there, I was quickly examined. Doctors poked and prodded, their words floating over me like they were speaking from a distance.
My body, my mind, felt as if it were underwater, muffled.
They didn't seem concerned. They didn't know the truth. They were convinced I was a woman who had suffered a tragic accident—another victim.
As they ran tests, I did my best to remain still. To keep my eyes wide open, but not enough to raise suspicion. I was carefully orchestrating this. Every inch of me, every movement, was calculated.
When they moved me to a private room, I made my first move. I could hear the nurses and doctors outside the door, their murmurs drifting through the walls.
I knew I was being observed, but I didn't care. I had to be still, to play the part.
I was no longer Sophia Johnson, the wife of a billionaire. I was just a woman with no voice, no ability to walk. And the world had to believe it.
---
The following days, I was hooked up to machines, monitored constantly, my body wrapped in bandages and braces. They told me it was a miracle I had survived, that I had been fortunate. But none of it felt real. I had a plan. And this was all part of it.
I watched as doctors came and went, as nurses adjusted my IV lines and checked my vitals. I remained silent. I refused to speak, refused to move. The more I played the part, the more convincing it became.
I wanted to laugh. They thought I was helpless. They thought I couldn't walk, couldn't talk. And soon enough, so would Henry.
---
By the end of the second day, I had received dozens of messages. Most of them from Henry, flooded with worry, concern, and a hollow apology that made my stomach churn.
It was a performance. The guilt he must have felt was too much for him to carry, and the fact that I wasn't answering his calls only deepened his fear.
I knew he was on his way to the hospital, his lawyer in tow, desperate to keep things from spiraling out of control.
I could imagine the phone calls he was making. He must have called his mistress first—she was always his first thought—and when she didn't answer, he would have tried to reach out to me.
He probably assumed I was in surgery, too deep in recovery to be responsive. But he didn't know the truth.
I was waiting. I was playing my part.
As I lay there, motionless, I had the distinct pleasure of knowing that I had already begun my revenge. Henry thought I was incapable of fighting back, incapable of speaking my mind. But that was exactly what I wanted him to think.
I had never felt more in control. The world could see me as a broken woman, and I would let them. I would use their sympathy to my advantage, manipulating their perceptions as carefully as I had manipulated every situation with Henry.
The accident had given me the perfect cover. The world would think I was damaged, fragile, a woman in need of protection. And all the while, I was setting the stage for the final act of my revenge.
---
When Henry arrived at the hospital, I was lying perfectly still, my eyes wide open, but blank. His footsteps echoed in the hallway outside my room, growing louder until they stopped right at the door. I heard him take a deep breath before pushing it open.
The moment I saw him, my pulse quickened. His face was pale, his eyes wide with fear. His suit looked out of place in the environment of the hospital room. He looked lost, disoriented.
And yet, even in his distress, I couldn't help but notice how his gaze flickered over me, how his posture stiffened as he processed what had happened.
He was terrified. Not because of me, but because of what he might lose.
He took a hesitant step toward me, his hand reaching out toward mine, but I didn't move. I couldn't move. I had to remain still, remain silent. His fingers hovered for a moment, and then, as if deciding I couldn't feel them, he withdrew.
He began speaking, his voice low and tight with emotion. "Sophia… I—I don't know what happened, but I swear… I swear I didn't mean for this to happen. I never—" He starmmer.
I could see the guilt in his eyes, but I didn't care. It was too late for apologies. Too late for regrets.
I remained motionless, my eyes fixed on the ceiling, while the storm of emotions I felt inside remained locked away, buried under layers of silence. He thought this was an accident, that I was a victim.
But the truth was far more dangerous than he could ever imagine.
And the game is just beginning.