Dying to Escape His Revenge

On the evening of our third wedding anniversary, Nicholas Prescott stood before a room full of flashbulbs and federal prosecutors, publicly handing over the ledger that dismantled my family’s empire. Overnight, Robert and Marian Mercer tumbled from the heights of old-money Manhattan society into federal custody. I dropped to my knees on the polished marble floor, clutching at the hem of his tailored trousers, begging him for mercy. Nicholas looked down at my red, swollen eyes, his mouth twisting into a razor-thin sneer. "Love you? Evelyn, my entire existence has been about destroying you." His voice was low, cutting through the murmurs of the crowd like shattered glass. "Fifteen years ago, when your parents drove mine to jump from our penthouse balcony for the sake of corporate debt, did they show any mercy? This isn't cruelty. This is justice. The Mercer family owes me blood." In the months that followed, he used my parents' survival in prison as a leash, keeping me locked inside his sprawling coastal estate, subjecting me to slow, deliberate torment. When I took a blade to my wrists, he tore it from my grip. When I starved myself, he held my head back while private doctors forced nutrient lines down my throat. His face contorted with cold fury as he hissed into my ear: "I will drag you back from the edge every single time, Evelyn. I will keep you alive just to make sure you suffer for the rest of your days." What Nicholas didn't know was that my parents had never driven his family to their deaths. Nor did he know that "Donor E"—the anonymous benefactor whose trust fund had paid for his private schooling, his Ivy League tuition, and his rise from an orphaned boy to a Wall Street titan—had always been me. In the end, I climbed the cliffs behind the estate, seeking the only silence left to me. And that time, when I stepped off into the salt air, his outstretched fingers were just a second too late to catch the hem of my falling dress. 1 "Kneel, Evelyn. Beg them for forgiveness." Nicholas’s voice had barely cut through the howling wind before the bodyguard behind me clamped two heavy hands onto the back of my skull, slamming my forehead down against the cold granite headstone. Crack. The impact vibrated through my teeth. Blood gushed from my split hairline, warm and thick against the freezing stone. A November squall was sweeping across the hillside cemetery, pelting us with driving rain. I had no umbrella, no coat; water and crimson rivers rushed together down the bridge of my nose, dripping onto the chiseled names of Arthur and Grace Prescott. The bodyguard didn’t pause. He grabbed my tangled, soaked hair, pulling my head back only to drive it into the stone again. And again. Not until the grey granite was slick with my blood did Nicholas finally lift two gloved fingers. "Get up," he said, stepping forward. "Wipe it off. Don't let your filthy blood stain my parents' resting place." My throat was raw, but I didn't dare make a sound. Any sign of defiance would only be visited tenfold upon my parents in their upstate cells. For their sake, to keep the guards from looking the other way while they were beaten, I swallowed every scream. My body shuddered with violent tremors. I pressed my palms into the muddy sod, struggling three times before I managed to haul myself onto trembling knees. I reached into my pocket for a handkerchief, but Nicholas tossed a bundle of sodden, shredded fabric directly into the mud before me. My breath caught. My vision blurred. It was ivory silk and hand-sewn French lace. The bespoke wedding gown he had commissioned for me three years ago, shredded into ragged ribbons. Nicholas tilted his head, savoring the horror in my eyes. He stepped in, his leather-clad fingers pinching my jaw until bone ground against bone. "Heartbroken?" he whispered, his breath warm against my freezing skin. "Watching you walk down the aisle in this made me sick to my stomach. Every sweet word, every tender touch—it was an act, Evelyn. An agonizing performance. Using it as a rag to scrub my parents' grave is the only real purpose it has ever served." He leaned closer, his eyes pitch-black. "Scrub it clean. If that headstone isn't dry, the warden won't bother feeding those two old convicts tonight." He released his grip, shoving me backward. I fell hard, the rough, gravelly earth tearing the skin off my palms. Satisfied by my humiliation, Nicholas turned on his heel. He slipped an arm around the slender waist of Elise Warren, pulling her under the shelter of his black umbrella. Elise shot me a smirk of triumphant pity over her shoulder as they walked down the stone path toward his idling Maybach. I had no choice. I gathered the wet shreds of silk, crawled back to the headstone, and began to wipe. Blood oozed from my forehead and the palms of my hands, mixing with the rain, smearing across the granite in ugly streaks. I had to scrub over and over, my fingers numb and stiff, fighting the downpour that refused to let the stone dry. I lost track of time. My knees went entirely numb; the rain soaked through my thin clothes until my core turned to ice. Eventually, the sky emptied itself, the rain tapering into a sullen mist. The bodyguard stepped forward, ran a calloused finger over the damp granite, and gave a reluctant nod. "That'll do." He reached down to haul me to my feet by my collar, but my strength was already gone. The heavy exhaustion that had been building inside me for months finally won. My eyes slipped shut, and my knees gave out completely. I tilted backward, falling into the dark. Before the light went out, a jagged edge of the neighboring plot’s stone base slashed deep across the side of my neck. A flare of sharp, brilliant pain—and then, a profound sense of lightness. I didn't feel fear. I only felt relief. In the final fraction of a second before my consciousness shattered, through the blur of my fading vision, I caught a glimpse of Nicholas. He was running back down the gravel path, his umbrella cast aside in the mud, his face pale and contorted with sheer panic. "Evelyn! Evelyn, look at me!" His voice sounded muffled, as if coming from the bottom of an ocean. For a fleeting moment, it felt like an old dream—back when he still pretended that I was the center of his world. "Evelyn, don't you dare close your eyes! Talk to me! Evelyn!" 2 I woke to the smell of damp plaster and industrial bleach. Opening my eyes, I stared at the peeling white ceiling of the basement utility room. I reached up, my stiff fingers brushing against the thick gauze wrapped around my neck. There was no surge of gratitude for being alive. Only a hollow, suffocating regret. I survived again. Before I could fully gather my senses, the heavy wooden door was kicked open. Mrs. Gable, the head housekeeper who had once bowed politely when I entered a room, stood in the doorway with her arms crossed. "Still lying there playing the invalid?" she sneered, tossing a bucket and a bundle of rags onto the concrete floor. "You think you're still the mistress of this estate? You're nothing more than a stray dog Nicholas keeps around to kick. Miss Warren wants the master suite cleaned from top to bottom. Get moving." She grabbed my arm, dragging me off the narrow cot. My feet hit the floor, soft and unsteady. A deep, unnatural heat burned behind my eyes; fever had settled into my bones, making the room tilt. I picked up the bucket and climbed the stairs to the second floor. When I pushed open the double doors of the master bedroom, the breath left my lungs. Elise was straddling Nicholas's lap in front of the mahogany desk, her slender arms looped tightly around his neck. They were kissing—deeply, messily. As I stepped over the threshold, she broke away with a soft gasp, a thin strand of saliva glistening between their parted lips before snapping. The sight struck me like an electric shock. The ache in my chest wasn't a metaphor; it was a physical tearing, as though someone had forced a handful of broken glass down my throat. I lowered my head instantly, tightening my grip on the plastic handle of the bucket. "I apologize," I whispered, staring at the floorboards. "Mrs. Gable told me Miss Warren requested the room cleaned." Elise nestled further into Nicholas's chest, her fingers playing with the lapel of his charcoal suit. Her voice was sweet, dripping with venom. "Oh, yes. Nicholas told me this used to be your bridal suite. No wonder the whole floor smells like defeat." She looked down at me from his lap, her chin tilted high. "Take every piece of your clothing, every framed portrait, every little keepsake, and throw them in the incinerator. And don't you dare use a mop. Get on your hands and knees with a rag. I want every single square inch scrubbed until it shines." She turned her face toward Nicholas, pouting playfully. "Nicholas, darling, you don't think I'm being too hard on her, do you?" Nicholas glanced at me. His gaze flicked over my fever-flushed cheeks, the dark circles under my eyes, and the white bandage at my throat, but there was no pity in his eyes—only irritation, as if my very presence were an unsightly stain on his rug. He looked away, pressing his lips softly against Elise’s temple. "Not at all. She's a stray. Treat her however you like, as long as it makes you happy." I pressed my lips together until I tasted copper, swallowed the shame, and sank to my knees. Keeping my head down, I dipped the rag into the cold water and began wiping the floor, inch by agonizing inch. Above me, Elise cupped Nicholas’s jaw, pulling him down into another lingering kiss. My mind betrayed me, dragging up memories of this very desk. Two years ago, right after we moved in, Nicholas had pulled me onto his lap in this exact spot, his head buried in the crook of my neck, whispering promises against my skin: Evelyn, it's you and me against the world. I love you, Evie. More than my own life. I’ll spend every day making sure you never know a moment of sorrow. Thud. A sharp kick struck my ribs. I tumbled forward, my hands splashing into the grey water of the bucket. Nicholas looked down at me from the edge of the desk, his brow furrowed with cold impatience. "Take the trash out and finish inside the walk-in closet. Elise and I want to rest." I used the wet rag to wipe away the stray tears that had dripped onto the hardwood, rose to my feet, and walked into the closet. Our wedding portraits had already been pulled from the walls; someone had used a box cutter to shred my face before tossing the frames onto the floor. My cashmere sweaters, my silk dresses, my jewelry boxes—everything had been stuffed carelessly into black heavy-duty trash bags. Every trace of the life we had built together had been systematically reduced to garbage. I dragged the bags out into the hallway. Through the cracked door behind me, I saw Nicholas sweep Elise up into his arms, carrying her toward the king-sized bed where I had slept for three years. She laughed, a high, melodic sound, before the heavy oak door clicked shut. Then came the muffled sounds of shifting sheets, gasps, and whispered intimacies. My feet felt like they were encased in concrete. I stood there in the corridor, unable to move, listening to the man I had loved make love to another woman in our bed. My fingernails dug into the meat of my palms until fresh blood broke through the scabs. The nausea hit me in violent waves; I braced myself against a marble pillar, dry-heaving until my ribs ached. The fever flared hot behind my temples. The world spun. I staggered toward the grand staircase. Standing at the top landing, looking down at the wide marble steps below, a profound, suffocating self-loathing rose up and swallowed me whole. I was tired. So deeply, impossibly tired. I closed my eyes, leaned forward, and let my weight drift over the edge. Just as the floor vanished beneath my feet, a calloused hand shot out from the side, gripping my wrist with crushing force and yanking me violently back onto the carpet. I opened my eyes, disoriented. Standing before me was a man in the estate’s black security uniform. His features were sharp, his jaw set, but his eyes held something I hadn't seen in this house for months: fierce, desperate concern. He gripped my wrist tighter, leaning in so his lips barely grazed my ear, his voice a low, urgent murmur: "Miss Mercer. I'm going to get you out of here." 3 "They spent fifty million on this engagement gala alone! Mr. Prescott treats Miss Warren like royalty." "Well, can you blame him? I heard Miss Warren is actually 'Donor E'—the secret benefactor who paid for his education after his parents passed away. Love combined with that kind of debt of gratitude? He’d give her the moon. But what I don't get is why he suddenly downgraded the wedding to an engagement party." "Oh, you didn't hear? The benefactor's identity isn't fully confirmed. Mr. Prescott is still verifying the old trust records. He wanted this mysterious 'Donor E' to stand as their primary witness at the altar. Since he hasn't tracked down the final paperwork, he pushed the wedding back and threw this gala instead!" The gossiping voices drifted past the service entrance. I leaned against the tile wall of the catering corridor, a faint, bitter smile tugging at the corners of my mouth. The "E" in Donor E didn't stand for Elise. It stood for Evelyn. When I was sixteen, using the dividends from the trust fund my grandfather left me, I set up an anonymous endowment through our family attorney to cover the living and educational expenses of the orphaned son of Arthur Prescott. I chose the letter E simply because it was the first initial of my name. None of it mattered anymore. Even if Nicholas discovered the truth tomorrow, what difference would it make? We were separated by a chasm of ruined lives, prison bars, and hatred. We were enemies until the day we died. I kept my head down, picked up my mop and bucket, and walked toward the grand ballroom's public restrooms to complete my assigned chores. As I passed through the service doors, an expensive leather shoe subtly extended from the edge of the hallway. Splash! I tripped, crashing hard onto the marble floor. The bucket tipped, dumping gallons of dirty, sudsy water all over my uniform. A ripple of cruel laughter broke out among the gathered waitstaff and high-society guests lingering nearby. Before I could push myself up, a pair of glittering silver heels clicked into my field of vision. Elise stood over me, her gown shimmering in the chandelier light, her face tight with barely suppressed rage. She looked around at the onlookers, then down at me, her eyes flashing. I lowered my head instantly, my voice hoarse. "Miss Warren, I'm sorry. I—" Crack. The slap was so hard it knocked my face sideways, my cheek slamming against the wet tile. Before I could draw breath, she struck me again. Crack. The metallic taste of copper flooded my mouth. My lips went numb. "You pathetic little cockroach," Elise hissed under her breath, her chest heaving. "You think you're clever, don't you? Purposely making a scene at my engagement party to humiliate me?" She raised her hand for a third strike, her diamond rings catching the light. Mid-swing, a man's hand caught her wrist mid-air. Elise spun around, furious words already on her tongue. "Who the hell do you think—Nicholas?" I looked up through my wet, tangled hair. Nicholas stood there, dressed in a bespoke tuxedo, looking tall and imposing. For a single, pathetic second—like the dying spark of a candle before it drowns in wax—a faint glimmer of hope rose in my chest. He had stopped her. Then Nicholas spoke, his tone smooth and cool. He took Elise’s raised hand, rubbing her reddened palm with his thumb, his voice filled with effortless tenderness. "Elise, if she offended you, tell the staff to deal with her. Why hurt your own hand? Look how red your palm is." He brought her fingers to his lips, kissing them lightly. "Does it hurt?" The breath left my lungs. The pain in my chest didn't flare; instead, it went completely, terrifyingly hollow. It was as if my nervous system, pushed past the limit of what it could endure, simply shut down all feeling to keep me from going insane. I didn't give Nicholas the chance to order his guards forward. I couldn't bear the thought of another beating at the hands of strangers. I raised my own right hand. And slammed it across my left cheek. Smack. The sound echoed sharply against the marble walls. I didn't stop. I raised my left hand and struck my right cheek. Smack. Smack. Smack. A dozen times. Over and over, with everything I had left, until my jaw felt unhinged and blood trickled from both corners of my mouth onto my soaked collar. Only then did I let my hands drop to my sides. I looked up at Elise, my eyes empty. "I apologize, Miss Warren. I was careless. There is no need for your staff to dirty their hands on my account." My voice was flat, devoid of emotion. "If you are still displeased, I can continue." The hallway fell dead silent. Even Elise took a step back, her eyes wide with unease. The guests looked at me as if I were a madwoman who had lost all instinct for self-preservation. Nicholas stood frozen. His expression shifted into something strange—a fleeting, fractured look that almost resembled agony. He took two involuntary steps toward me, his lips parting as if to say my name. His Adam's apple bobbed once, twice. Then his face hardened, his jaw tightening into a mask of cold dismissal. He waved a dismissive hand. "Get out of my sight." I gathered my strength, picked up the overturned bucket, and walked down the corridor without looking back. Behind me, Nicholas’s voice rang out, sharp as a whip, directed at the maid who had tripped me: "Pack your things. You're fired. Prescott House does not employ people who play petty games." Elise hurried to his side, trying to link her arm through his. "Nicholas, darling, she was just—" He pulled his arm away, his voice ice-cold. "I told you before, Elise. Do not bring your street habits into this house. I have a headache. Go back to your suite." Elise stood in the hallway, staring at his retreating back, her manicured nails digging deep into her palms. It was nearly midnight by the time I finished scrubbing the restrooms. Dragging my exhausted, aching body back down to the basement utility room, I found a small glass jar of burn ointment and sterile gauze sitting on the threshold. Inside my pocket, the burner phone Wesley had slipped to me buzzed faintly. I unlocked the screen: Everything is arranged, Miss Mercer. Hold on. Tomorrow, you're free. 4 The day I ran from Nicholas Prescott, the sky broke open. The rain over the Long Island sound fell in sheets, violent and relentless, turning the sea below the cliffs into a churning cauldron of slate-grey foam. My face was still swollen and bruised despite the ointment, but I climbed the winding stone path to the ocean pavilion at the edge of the estate. The housekeeper had ordered me to clean the floor-to-ceiling windows of the clifftop guest house. Years ago, during the first summer of our marriage, Nicholas had brought me here when the waters were calm and blue. He had stood behind me, wrapping a cashmere shawl around my shoulders, whispering: You said you loved watching the ocean from high up, Evie. So I built this pavilion for you. Do you love it? Now, staring at my reflection in the dark glass, I saw a ghost covered in bruises, hollow-cheeked, with dead eyes. I didn't dare remember anymore. Remembering was a slow suicide. The housekeeper had claimed I was the only one assigned to clean the pavilion today. But as I wiped the salt spray from the glass, the heavy oak doors behind me clicked shut with an ominous echo. I spun around. Elise stood near the entrance, wrapped in a fur coat. Behind her were four burly, rough-looking men in street clothes, their eyes roaming over me like vultures over carrion. Panic slammed into my chest like an adrenaline shot. I turned to sprint for the terrace fire exit, but the men moved faster. Two pairs of heavy hands slammed me down onto the polished oak floor, pinning my arms behind my back. Elise walked over slowly, the sharp click of her stilettos echoing off the high ceiling. She stopped beside my pinned hand, lifted her foot, and drove her metal stiletto heel straight through the delicate bones of my knuckles. I screamed, an agonizing, breathless sound. "You think you're untouchable, don't you?" Elise hissed, leaning down, her face twisted with rage. "You seduced him again, didn't you? That's why he canceled our wedding this morning! That's why he fired my girl! He even had high-grade burn ointment delivered to your rat hole of a room! You're the daughter of two convicted felons! You're worth less than a stray dog, and you dare try to steal him back from me?" She twisted her heel deeper into my flesh, then pulled back and kicked me squarely in the stomach. The breath exploded from my lungs. A wave of iron rose in my throat; I choked, spitting dark blood across the floorboards. "I don't have time to play games with you anymore," Elise said, smoothing her coat. She looked over at the four men with a cruel, indifferent smile. "I brought some friends to keep Miss Mercer company. Let's see if Nicholas still looks at you with pity after every man in this room has had his turn." She turned and walked out, the heavy doors locking behind her. The men laughed, low and greasy, stepping closer. One of them knelt, his beer-soaked breath hot against my face as his heavy fingers ripped the collar of my shirt open. "Never had a high-society princess before," he chuckled, pinning my shoulders down. "Hold still, sweetheart. It’ll hurt less if you don't fight." "Look at that skin," another sneered, unbuckling his belt. "Hey, hold her legs. Let me get a taste first—fuck!" The moment his grip loosened around my knees, I drove the steel-capped toe of my work boot directly between his legs with every ounce of strength I had left. He shrieked, doubling over in agony. I scrambled backward like a wounded animal, pushed myself to my feet, and bolted up the spiral staircase toward the pavilion’s observation deck. Behind me, the sound of heavy boots pounded against the wooden stairs—a relentless, waking nightmare closing in. In the top-floor corner office of Prescott Tower in Midtown, Nicholas felt a sudden, inexplicable tremor in his chest. A deep, cold dread settled over him. A frantic knock shattered the silence. His executive assistant rushed in, out of breath, slamming a manila folder onto the mahogany desk. "Mr. Prescott! The forensic audit on the Prescott Educational Trust just cleared. We tracked the original escrow accounts for Donor E." The assistant’s voice trembled. "It wasn't Miss Warren. It was... it was Evelyn Mercer." Nicholas stared at him, motionless. For three agonizing seconds, his brain refused to process the words. Then he lunged forward, grabbing the files. The documents were clear: established fifteen years ago, authorized by the Mercer family trust. Because Evelyn had been a minor at the time, the trust required the signatures of her legal guardians. Robert and Marian Mercer. His parents’ supposed mortal enemies had signed off on the trust that fed him, clothed him, and sent him to Harvard. They had willingly funded the son of the man who died in their wake—and years later, welcomed that same boy into their home as their son-in-law. "No," Nicholas whispered, his hands shaking so violently the paper rattled. "No, this is wrong. Get the car!" He shoved the desk back, sprinting toward the private elevator. "Drive to the estate! Now! I need to hear it from her!" His mind was a storm of terror. If the Mercers had funded his entire life, what else had he been wrong about? When the car screeched to a halt outside the estate, Nicholas burst through the front doors, rain dripping from his coat. Mrs. Gable hurried forward, bowing low. "Where is she?" Nicholas demanded, his voice ragged. "Miss Mercer was sent to clean the ocean pavilion, sir," Mrs. Gable stammered. "To prepare it for your wedding with Miss Warren—" Nicholas’s heart plunged. "I canceled the wedding with Elise this morning," he said, his voice deadly quiet. Before Mrs. Gable could answer, a young kitchen maid broke through the staff entrance, tears streaming down her face. "Mr. Prescott! You have to go to the pavilion! Miss Warren brought four strange men up to the cliff house, and Miss Mercer is up there all alone!" Crack. The world went white. Nicholas didn't wait for his security team. He bolted back out into the torrential rain, leaped into the driver's seat of his SUV, slammed his foot on the accelerator, and tore up the narrow mountain road leading to the clifftop pavilion.