Page 83 of Pretty Cruel Love

“I’m saying as of now, you’re officially mentally insane and you need to sell it hook, line, and sinker,” I murmur. “You’ll walk around the garden with one of the knives, then come inside and take a bubble bath while I make you breakfast… You’ll take your time calling 9-1-1.”

“Oh…” She nods. “Okay, I think I can do that.”

“Youwilldo that.” I keep her steady with my gaze. “I’ll tell you exactly what to say at every step of the way, to the police… and to your lawyer, and to whoever else gets involved.”

She trembles. “I’m going to prison for the rest of my life. All because of a mistake.” Her voice cracks. “You should move on. Find someone less… chaotic.”

“Stop.” I tilt her chin, making her look at me. “Have I ever broken a promise to you?”

She shakes her head.

“I won’t break this one either.”

36.5

SADIE

Back then…

Idon’t hear from Ethan for weeks.

No calls.

No letters.

Nothing.

It’s like he vanished—like I meant nothing at all. And for a while, I let myself spiral. Let the silence rip through me until I was hollow. Until I started to believe that maybe Iwasthe villain in his story. That I’d ruined everything.

Thrown away the one man who truly saw me. Loved me.

I felt stupid for destroying his perfect plan. For showing up at the estate and taking control in the worst possible way. And still, a twisted part of me tried to justify it. Tried to believe maybe this was karma.

I’d killed people before.

Just notthosepeople.

Maybe the universe was keeping score.

And then, in the middle of my lowest point—in the thick of orange jumpsuits, cold concrete, and another dehumanizingrant from my lawyer about how “judges don’t like emotional women”—a package arrived.

A book.

The Count of Monte Cristo.

At first, I thought it was a joke. A cruel coincidence. But I opened it anyway, grateful for somethinganythingto keep me sane. I sped through the first few chapters, escaping into Edmond Dantès’s world… until I noticed them.

Tiny, deliberate marks. Underlined letters that didn’t belong.

It took me hours. A day, maybe more. But eventually, in the silence of the pod, with nothing but the buzzing of the overhead light and the thrum of suppressed rage in my chest—I found him.

He wasn’t gone, and he hadn’t abandoned me.

He was speaking to me.

The message was buried across dozens of pages, tucked into the underlines and margins like a whispered vow:

O.L.I.F.

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