Читать книгу: «Save Me»

© Dina White, 2026

ISBN 978-5-0070-5981-7

Created with Ridero smart publishing system

Author’s Note

This book contains scenes of psychological and physical abuse, descriptions of toxic relationships, and other content that may be triggering for some readers.

This story does not romanticize violence. It is about a victim’s path to freedom, the right to be heard, and a choice that changes everything.

If you or someone you know is experiencing

domestic abuse, please reach out for help. You are not alone.

Table of Contents

Part I. THE CAGE

Chapter 1. The Perfect Couple

Chapter 2. Three Attempts

Chapter 3. The Debt

Chapter 4. The Bookstore

Part II. THE CAPTIVE

Chapter 5. The First Night

Chapter 6. Small Talk. The Phone Call

Chapter 7. The Crack

Chapter 8. Quiet Steps

Chapter 9. The Visitor

 
Chapter 10. Boundaries
Chapter 11. Closer
 

Chapter 12. The Night Conversation

Chapter 13. The Discovery

Chapter 14. After

Chapter 15. The Ex

Chapter 16. The Breaking Point

Chapter 17. The Morning After

Chapter 18. A New Reality

Part III. FREEDOM

Chapter 19. The Preparation

Chapter 20. The Calm Before the Storm

Chapter 21. The End

Part I. THE CAGE

───

Chapter 1. The Perfect Couple

The ballroom glittered.

Crystal pendants on three enormous chandeliers shattered the light into hundreds of sharp sparks. White tablecloths smelled of starch. Champagne poured into slender glasses without a single splash — the waitstaff here never made mistakes. The Hayes Foundation charity gala had drawn the city’s elite for the fourth year in a

row, and for the fourth year in a row, everything was flawless.

As was the girl standing at the host’s side.

Avery Brooks held a champagne glass she hadn’t touched once. An ivory gown hugged her figure, baring her shoulders and collarbones — just enough to look elegant, not provocative. Warren had chosen it himself. “It suits you,” he’d said as the tailor zipped her up. “Modest and expensive. Nothing vulgar.” She remembered that word. Vulgar. Everything he didn’t like eventually became vulgar. Her old jeans, her laugh, her friends — all of it was vulgar, and he had gently, patiently, relentlessly removed it from her life.

Now she stood, straight as a rod, smiling. Her facial muscles had long memorized the correct

position: corners of her lips lifted, eyes slightly narrowed, head tilted just enough to look engaged but not deferential. She had practiced in front of a mirror. Warren said it was important.

“Avery, darling.”

His palm settled on her waist. His fingers tightened — not hard, but enough for her to feel every knuckle. He always held her like that in public: possessive and tender at the same time. The gesture of a man who adored his woman and feared losing her just a little. Avery had believed in that once. Once.

“Mr. Grayson,” Warren flashed a dazzling smile at an elderly gentleman with a ruddy face and silver temples, “allow me to introduce my fiancée, Avery.”

She extended her hand. Her fingers were cold — the one thing she couldn’t control. Circulation. Or fear. Sometimes they were the same thing.

“Charming,” Mr. Grayson pressed his lips to her knuckles. “Warren, my boy, how did you get so lucky?”

“I know.”

The fingers on her waist tightened. For one heartbeat. A fraction of a second longer than necessary. Avery stopped breathing.

Mr. Grayson noticed nothing. No one ever did.

───

Across the room, half-turned toward the bar, a man stood watching them.

Cole Shaw had arrived without an invitation and without a date, which was normal for him. He had no interest in charity auctions, small talk, or the champagne they served warm here — he preferred water. The only reason he’d come to this ballroom was a brief conversation he planned to have before the formal program began.

He already knew Warren Hayes wasn’t going to pay.

Cole had seen men like him dozens of times. They smiled, nodded, promised “just another week” — and dragged it out for months, hoping the creditor would lose patience, snap, make a mistake. Then they could play the victim and paint him as the heartless dog demanding what was his. Warren was a master of this game. Cole

had read him the first day they signed the contract.

Now he was watching Warren. And the girl beside him — beautiful, cool, flawless. She smiled so evenly it looked almost professional. Cole mentally tagged her: a trophy. Another rich heir’s companion — model looks, expensive dress, empty eyes. They always looked the same.

He finished his water and headed for the exit. Dante was waiting by the door.

“Shaw.” Someone called his name.

Cole turned. Warren Hayes himself, champagne glass in hand, smiling with all the warmth of a jewelry store window.

“Glad you made it. I hope the champagne is

decent?”

“I don’t drink champagne,” Cole replied.

“Ah, right. The ascetic.” Warren’s smile widened. “Listen, about our business… I remember, I’m on top of it. A couple more weeks and we’ll settle everything. You know how it is — business, force majeure, this and that.”

“I understand.”

“Excellent.” Warren clapped him on the shoulder — familiar, a beat longer than their brief acquaintance allowed. “You know I always pay my debts.”

Cole said nothing. He shifted his gaze to the girl. She stood a few steps behind Warren, wearing the same frozen smile, staring somewhere past

him. A beautiful porcelain doll.

“My fiancée, Avery,” Warren said, noticing his glance. “Darling, this is Cole Shaw. My business partner.”

“Former partner,” Cole corrected.

“Don’t be a bore.” Warren laughed and wrapped an arm around Avery’s shoulders. She didn’t pull away, didn’t tense up — just accepted the gesture as a given. “Well, we must go. The mayor is waiting. Good to see you.”

Cole nodded. Warren steered the girl deeper into the ballroom, and she followed — the same smooth, lifeless grace.

“Problem client?” Dante asked quietly as they stepped into the hall.

“Not a client. A debtor.” Cole pulled on his coat. “And he’s not going to pay.”

“What do we do?”

Cole paused at the exit and looked back at the ballroom through the glass doors. Warren Hayes stood at the center of the crowd, dazzling and confident in his untouchability. Beside him stood his flawless fiancée — a trophy in an ivory gown.

“He has something he values,” Cole said. “If he won’t pay in money, he’ll pay with what he loves.”

“The girl?” Dante asked.

Cole shrugged.

“We’ll see.”

───

The evening dragged on like molasses. Avery moved from one group of guests to another, feeling Warren’s gaze on her back. He was always watching — even when he was talking to the mayor, even when he was laughing at someone’s joke, even when he lifted his glass to his lips. His attention was an invisible chain around her wrist.

“More champagne, Miss Brooks?”

A waiter appeared at her left. A young man with reddish hair and a scatter of freckles across his nose. He smiled at her — just smiled, the way you smile at any guest — and Avery automatically smiled back.

That was enough.

She didn’t notice Warren finish his conversation. Didn’t hear his footsteps. At some point, his fingers simply closed around her elbow, and he leaned close to her ear.

“Are you flirting with the help?”

His voice was velvet. If anyone overheard, they’d think he was whispering something tender. Avery knew this tone. Cold. Dangerous.

“I was just — ”

“Quiet. Smile. We’re leaving in fifteen minutes.”

He released her elbow and became perfect again. Adjusted his cufflink, nodded at someone across the room, laughed at someone else’s

joke. Avery stood with her champagne glass and counted in her head. One, two, three — inhale. Four, five, six — exhale. Seven, eight, nine…

Fifteen minutes. She could last that long.

───

The car whispered over wet asphalt. City lights drifted past the window — yellow, red, blue — but Avery watched only Warren’s hands. He was driving. Silent.

The silence was worse than shouting. When he was silent, it meant he was angry. And when he was angry, any word from her was a match tossed into gasoline. Avery had learned not to speak first. Learned to wait.

“Do you know why I host these galas, Avery?”

“For the foundation,” she said quietly. “Charity.”

“For status,” he corrected. “Status is everything. People need to see the perfect picture: a successful man, his devoted woman, their flawless life. It builds trust. Trust brings money. It’s simple.”

Avery was silent.

“And when that man’s woman smiles at the waitstaff,” he turned the wheel, and the car swung onto their street, “she ruins the picture. Do you understand?”

Yes. She understood.

He parked by the house and killed the engine. The silence thickened, heavy as deep water.

Warren turned to her. The streetlamp light fell across his face, and Avery saw what no one else ever saw: eyes with no warmth. No spark. No pity.

“You made two mistakes tonight,” he said. “The first was with the waiter. The second was looking at Shaw.”

She flinched. He noticed. Of course he noticed.

“Who is he?” she asked, even though she knew her questions never led anywhere good.

“No one.” Warren unbuckled his seatbelt and reached for her face. His fingers brushed her cheek, slid down to her neck, and stopped. Didn’t squeeze. Just rested there — a threat without action. “Just a man who thinks he can take something from me.”

He pulled his hand away and got out of the car.

Avery stayed seated. One, two, three — inhale. Four, five, six — exhale. Somewhere in her chest, beneath the layers of fear and learned obedience, a thin thread pulsed. A faint, barely perceptible heartbeat. She listened to it and thought that once — in another life, it seemed — that pulse had been louder.

She stepped out of the car and walked to the house.

The door closed behind her with a soft click. Warren stood in the entryway, removing his watch. Rolex Day-Date, platinum. The bracelet slid across his wrist with a quiet metallic sound.

Avery hated that sound more than anything.

“Go to the bedroom. You’re sleeping alone tonight. Think about your behavior.”

He didn’t lock the door. She didn’t leave anyway.

Avery pulled her diary from behind the dresser — a black spiral-bound notebook, worn, with bent corners. She sat on the floor, leaning against the bed, and began writing by the light of her phone.

Today he didn’t hit me. He just said I ruin the picture. I am a detail. Like a watch. Like a cufflink. I can be adjusted if I slip. I can be punished if I break.

There was a man at the gala. Shaw was his name. Warren said he wants to take something from him. I wonder what. Maybe if someone really did take something from Warren, he’d

understand what it feels like to lose.

No. He wouldn’t understand. Men like him never understand.

She closed the diary and hid it again. Lay down on the bed, still in her gown.

Rain fell outside the window. Avery listened to the drops hitting the glass and thought that tomorrow would be the same day. And the day after. And a year from now.

Somewhere in her chest, the thin thread pulsed.

It was still pulsing.