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My life with political hopeful Ethan Hayes was a gilded cage in the Hamptons. We hosted glittering fundraisers, surrounded by donors and power brokers. I thought I had everything, a perfect facade. Then, my half-sister Brooke feigned a champagne glass accident, theatrically blaming me. Ethan, my devoted husband, immediately turned on me, his face a mask of cold fury. He publicly branded me "unwell" and "unhinged," erasing my existence for his career. That night, two men dragged me away to a brutal "wellness retreat" in Montana. For two years, it was a prison where I was drugged, abused, and systematically broken, losing my voice and my identity. I was a shell, trained only to survive. Ethan never visited, only paid the enormous monthly fees. When he brought me back as a political prop, my trauma erupted; I instinctively dropped to my knees and shined a donor's shoes. He called me "shameless" and "unhinged," reinforcing my public ruin. The final, searing truth came from Brooke: Ethan had paid a "management fee" to specifically destroy me. The numb silence of two years fractured. An icy, pure rage ignited within me. Locked away, I used a hidden bobby pin to pick the lock, my hands shaking with adrenaline. This broken woman was coming for him, armed with the buried evidence that would be his absolute ruin.