His Kindness Is A Trap, I Break Free

Chapter 3: The Blind Spot

To celebrate her second week out of the hospital, Pascal planned a weekend getaway to a luxury cliffside resort in Cannon Beach.

The drive down the coast was breathtaking. The Pacific Ocean crashed against jagged sea stacks, the grey mist giving the landscape a wild, untamed beauty. Inside the warm, leather-scented cabin of Pascal’s SUV, the atmosphere was perfectly curated. Soft jazz played on the stereo, the seat warmers were on, and Pascal drove with one hand casually resting on her thigh.

He was the picture of a devoted husband, constantly checking if she was too cold, too tired, or hungry.

But Rebecca couldn't shake the strange residue of the chess game. Every time she looked at him, she searched for that flash of the predator.

Her opportunity came unexpectedly an hour away from the resort.

Pascal’s phone, connected to the car’s Bluetooth, rang with an urgent tone. He glanced at the screen, a flicker of genuine annoyance crossing his features. "I'm sorry, darling. It's the broker for the Seattle property. I have to take this. It will only be a minute."

"It's fine," she said.

He answered the call. A frantic, overly apologetic voice echoed through the speakers. "Mr. Cross, I'm so sorry to interrupt your weekend, but there's a major issue with the zoning permits for the expansion you requested. The city council just denied the fast-track application. We might have to delay the renovations by six months."

Rebecca watched Pascal's profile. He didn't yell. He didn't panic.

Instead, a chilling, absolute calm settled over him. It was a terrifyingly familiar shift. As she looked at him, a sequence of logical steps rapidly unfolded in her mind, clear as crystal.

He’s not going to argue the law, Rebecca thought suddenly, her brain firing on all cylinders. He’s going to target the councilman’s reelection campaign. He's going to threaten to pull the funding for the downtown plaza project.

"Listen to me very carefully, David," Pascal’s voice was smooth, dark velvet wrapped around a steel blade.

Tell him to call Councilman Harris, Rebecca's mind predicted with eerie precision.

"Call Councilman Harris directly," Pascal instructed, his tone deadly even.

Remind him who funded his last campaign, her brain supplied instantly.

"Remind our good councilman exactly whose PAC funded his last reelection campaign," Pascal continued seamlessly.

Give him an ultimatum. Twenty-four hours.

"Tell him if the permits aren't approved by Monday morning, I will personally see to it that the funding for the downtown plaza project is redirected to his opponent. Do you understand?"

"Yes, Mr. Cross. Right away," the broker stammered, hanging up.

Pascal exhaled, his features instantly softening as he turned to look at her. "I'm sorry about that. Business never sleeps."

Rebecca felt the blood drain from her face. She managed a stiff nod, turning her gaze back to the ocean. Her heart was hammering against her ribs.

It wasn't just that she had guessed his strategy. She had felt it. Her mind had mirrored his with an exact, ruthless symmetry. It was a terrifying, deeply ingrained synergy. They thought exactly alike. When he moved, she knew exactly where he would strike. It felt like they had spent years dancing on the edge of a knife, anticipating each other's most cutthroat maneuvers.

Was this how husbands and wives operated? Like rival generals in a war room?

The feeling of unease followed her into the evening.

The resort’s restaurant was a magnificent glass atrium built right over the cliffs. The ambiance was intimate—dim candlelight, the sound of the ocean crashing below, and the clinking of crystal glasses.

Pascal sat across from her, looking effortlessly handsome in a dark blazer. He ordered her a glass of sparkling water with a twist of lime—exactly how she liked it—and held her hand across the white tablecloth.

"You look beautiful tonight," he murmured, his thumb stroking her pulse point.

"Thank you," she smiled, trying to force the tension out of her shoulders.

The sommelier approached their table, carrying a leather-bound wine list. "Good evening. Have we decided on the wine pairing for the tasting menu?"

"Yes, we'll do the pairing," Pascal said, handing the menu back.

"Excellent," the sommelier smiled. "And for the main course, the chef is offering a choice between the Wagyu beef or the seared scallops. I just need to verify—are there any allergies or strong aversions I should make the kitchen aware of?"

The sommelier looked directly at Rebecca, offering her a polite, expectant smile.

Rebecca opened her mouth to answer for them. We're a married couple of two years, she thought. I should know this.

But her mind went completely blank.

She looked at Pascal. He was waiting for her to speak, a fond, patient smile on his lips.

Panic seized her throat.

She knew, with absolute certainty, how he would dismantle a corporate opponent. She knew he wouldn't hesitate to use blackmail to get a zoning permit. She knew his negotiation tactics were aggressive, his patience in a boardroom was practically nonexistent, and his strategic foresight was brilliant.

But as she stared at the man across from her, she realized something horrifying.

She didn't know if he liked scallops.

She didn't know how he took his steak.

She didn't know his favorite color, or if he was allergic to shellfish, or what side of the bed he preferred to sleep on.

She knew his mind. She knew his weapons. But she didn't know him.

"Rebecca?" Pascal prompted gently, noticing her sudden pallor. "Darling, are you alright?"

"I..." She swallowed hard, her eyes darting to the sommelier and then back to Pascal. "I... I'm sorry. My head..."

Pascal's demeanor changed instantly. He dropped her hand, turning to the sommelier with a sharp, protective glare. "Give us a moment. Please."

The sommelier quickly backed away.

"Are you dizzy? Is it a migraine?" Pascal was already standing up, ready to whisk her away, his face etched with genuine panic. "I shouldn't have brought you out so soon. We're going back to the room."

"No, no," Rebecca forced out, grabbing his wrist to stop him. His skin was warm, his pulse steady beneath her fingertips. "I'm fine. I just... I forgot."

"Forgot what?" he asked softly, kneeling beside her chair, completely ignoring the stares of the other patrons.

"I forgot what you like," she whispered, her voice trembling. She looked into his deep, worried eyes. "I couldn't remember if you were allergic to anything. I couldn't remember your favorite food. Pascal... what kind of wife doesn't know her husband's allergies?"

Pascal went incredibly still.

For a fraction of a second, a look of sheer, unadulterated terror flashed in his eyes. It was so raw and vulnerable that it took her breath away. He looked like a man who had just felt the ice c***k beneath his feet.

But he recovered with frightening speed. He reached up, cupping her face in his hands, his thumbs smoothing away the frantic crease between her eyebrows.

"Hey. Look at me," he commanded softly, his voice a warm, grounding anchor. "You were in a massive car crash. Your brain suffered severe trauma. The doctor said the memories would be fragmented, remember?"

"But I remembered the zoning laws," she argued, a desperate edge to her voice. "I knew exactly how you were going to handle that phone call in the car. Why would I remember corporate strategy but forget what my own husband likes to eat?"

Pascal's jaw tightened. He leaned in closer, his forehead resting gently against hers.

"Because we ran our own company together," he lied, his voice steady, smooth, and deeply reassuring. "We spent twelve hours a day fighting side-by-side in the trenches. It's muscle memory, Rebecca. The personal things... the quiet things... those are the fragile memories. They'll come back. And until they do, I'll remind you."

He pulled back just enough to look into her eyes. "I'm not allergic to anything. I prefer the Wagyu, medium-rare. My favorite color is the exact grey of your eyes. And my favorite place in the world is wherever you are."

It was the perfect answer. It was romantic, logical, and deeply comforting.

He kissed her forehead, stood up, and signaled the waiter to bring the food. The crisis was averted. The perfect husband had saved the day once again.

But as Rebecca sat there, sipping her sparkling water, she felt completely cold.

The seed of doubt had blossomed into a thorny, suffocating vine. Because despite his beautiful words, her instincts—the same sharp, predatory instincts she had felt during the chess game and the phone call—were screaming at her.

He is lying.