Chapter 2: The New Life
1408 Words
The Seattle house was a masterpiece of glass, steel, and warm cedar wood, perched on a hill that overlooked the misty, slate-grey waters of the Puget Sound.
For the first two weeks, Rebecca’s life was confined to its luxurious walls. And Pascal made sure she didn't want for a single thing.
"I made you breakfast," Pascal said softly, pushing open the bedroom door on a rainy Tuesday morning.
Rebecca sat up against the plush pillows, rubbing the sleep from her eyes. Pascal walked in carrying a silver tray. He was wearing a simple grey cashmere sweater and dark slacks, looking devastatingly handsome and utterly domesticated.
He placed the tray over her lap. There was a perfectly poached egg, smoked salmon, avocado, and a steaming cup of coffee.
"You didn't have to cook, Pascal," she said, touched but slightly overwhelmed by his constant hovering. He hadn't let her lift a finger since they arrived. He cooked, he cleaned, he managed her medication schedule with militant precision.
"I wanted to," he replied, sitting on the edge of the mattress. He watched her take a sip of the coffee, a tense, expectant look in his eyes until she smiled.
"It's perfect," she murmured, though she noticed it was a bit too sweet. She didn't mention it; he looked so eager to please her that she couldn't bear to criticize him.
"Good." He exhaled, his broad shoulders relaxing. "I also finished setting up the study downstairs. I know the doctor said you need rest, but I know how you get when you're bored. I figured you might want a space to read or organize your thoughts."
After breakfast, he led her down the hallway to a room with floor-to-ceiling windows facing the water. When Pascal opened the door, Rebecca gasped.
It was the most perfectly organized home office she had ever seen. The desk was a massive slab of dark walnut, positioned exactly so the light wouldn't create a glare on the dual monitors. To the right of the keyboard, a heavy crystal pen holder was filled with precise, fine-tipped black ink pens. The chair was a high-end ergonomic model, adjusted perfectly for her height.
She walked over to the desk, her fingers brushing against the edge. A strange spark of muscle memory flared in her brain. This is exactly how I like it.
"How did you know?" she asked, turning to look at him in awe. "It's like... it's exactly what I would have chosen."
Pascal leaned against the doorframe, his hands tucked into his pockets. A complicated emotion flickered across his face—a mix of deep pride and something akin to guilt. "I know you, Rebecca. I know how your mind works. I know that you hate blue ink, that you need two screens to cross-reference data, and that you always keep your notes on the right side of the desk."
Because I spent the last three years watching your every move across boardroom tables, memorizing your habits to destroy you, he thought, though the words remained locked tight behind his teeth.
"Thank you," she smiled, genuinely moved. "You really are an amazing husband."
The word still felt slightly unnatural on her tongue, but seeing the raw, unadulterated joy that lit up Pascal's face made her want to say it more often. He crossed the room, wrapping his arms tightly around her waist and burying his face in her neck.
"I'm going to give you everything," he whispered fiercely against her skin. "A perfect life. Just you and me."
Later that night, long after Rebecca had fallen asleep to the sound of rain drumming against the glass, the perfect husband vanished.
In the dim light of the living room, Pascal sat with a laptop glowing harshly against his face. His jaw was clenched, his blue-grey eyes cold and ruthless as they scanned the screen.
He had intercepted the firewall he had built around Rebecca's digital footprint.
Marcus Reed was relentless. The man had already filed a missing person report in New York, which Pascal had quickly intercepted and neutralized using his high-level connections and a forged signature from Rebecca claiming she was simply on an extended sabbatical.
Where the hell are you? Marcus had emailed a dormant account Pascal had set up to catch the overflow. I know Pascal Cross took you. I know he was at the hospital. Call me back right now or I'm flying out there.
Pascal’s finger hovered over the trackpad. His lip curled into a vicious sneer.
You’ll never find her, Pascal thought coldly. She’s mine now.
With a few rapid keystrokes, he completely wiped the server, blocked the IP address, and routed Marcus's future emails into a digital black hole. He then checked the security cameras he had installed around the perimeter of the Seattle property. Everything was quiet. Secure. Untouchable.
He closed the laptop, plunging the room into darkness. He rubbed his tired eyes, his chest aching with a familiar, gnawing fear. He was walking a tightrope over a blazing inferno. One slip, one wrong move, and the fragile paradise he had stolen would burn to ashes.
The tension of that tightrope snapped the very next afternoon.
The rain had finally cleared, leaving behind a crisp, sunny afternoon. Pascal had set up a beautiful wooden chessboard in the living room, pouring them both a glass of sparkling water.
"I don't even know if I know how to play," Rebecca admitted, staring at the carved pieces.
"I'll teach you," Pascal said softly, moving his pawn. "Just follow your instincts."
For the first ten minutes, she moved hesitantly, asking questions about the rules. Pascal was patient, guiding her with gentle smiles and soft touches to her hand.
But midway through the game, something shifted.
Pascal moved his knight, preparing to corner her bishop.
Rebecca stared at the board. The fog in her brain seemed to part for a split second. A sharp, predatory instinct flared to life in her chest. Her hand shot out, moving her rook across the board in a swift, brutal maneuver that completely decimated his flank and trapped his queen.
"Check," she said, her voice dropping an octave, ringing with a sudden, icy authority. She looked up, her eyes flashing with a fierce, competitive fire that had absolutely nothing to do with a quiet life in Seattle.
Pascal froze.
Instinctively, the muscles in his jaw tightened. His eyes darkened, narrowing into a lethal, calculating glare. For a terrifying second, the gentle husband disappeared, replaced by a ruthless corporate shark. He leaned forward, his entire body language screaming hostility, ready to rip her argument—her strategy—to shreds. It was the reflex of a man who had fought her tooth and nail for years.
Rebecca flinched slightly, startled by the sudden, intense aggression radiating from him.
The movement snapped Pascal out of his trance.
He blinked, horror washing over his face as he realized what he had just done. The ruthless shark vanished as quickly as it had appeared, melting back into the devoted, slightly panicked husband.
He immediately slumped back in his chair, raising his hands in a gesture of total surrender.
"You... you got me," Pascal breathed out, forcing a laugh that sounded a little too breathless. "Brilliant move, darling. I didn't see that coming at all. You win. You always win."
Rebecca stared at him, her heart beating a little too fast.
She looked down at the board, then back at him. The whiplash was jarring. The way he had looked at her a second ago—like she was his greatest enemy, a threat he needed to annihilate—had felt incredibly familiar. It felt far more real than the gentle man who had surrendered his queen without a fight.
"Are you okay?" Pascal asked, quickly getting up to kneel beside her chair. He took her hands, his eyes wide with concern. "Did I scare you? I'm sorry, I just... I get competitive sometimes."
"No, it's fine," Rebecca murmured, pulling her hands back just a fraction of an inch to take a sip of her water.
She looked at the man kneeling before her, the man who had cooked her breakfast and built her a perfect study. He loved her. That much was obvious.
But as she stared at the trapped queen on the chessboard, a small, cold seed of doubt took root in her chest.
Why did it feel like we were at war?
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