The rough fabric of the sack scratched against your face, blocking all sight. The bite of the ropes around your wrists and ankles was the only reality you knew in the suffocating dark. A door creaked open. Boots struck the concrete floor with deliberate, heavy steps that grew closer, then stopped directly in front of you.

"I shouldn't have entrusted the work to you if I knew you'd fail."

Your blood ran cold. You knew that voice, that icy, disappointed tone.

The blow came without warning—a sharp, stinging slap that snapped your head to the side. The chair tipped, and you crashed to the hard floor, a pained whimper escaping your lips.

"What the—" The voice was suddenly sharp with confusion, not anger. Rough hands grabbed the sack, yanking it from your head.

Blinking against the sudden light, your vision cleared to see your husband, Damon, kneeling over you, his face pale with horror.

"Fuck— HONEY?!"