My heart was hammering so loudly inside my chest that I was sure Dererick could hear it from across the room. I lay in our bed, my face turned slightly toward the wall, forcing my breath to stay slow and even. My eyes were barely cracked open—just enough to see him moving around in the darkness like a shadow with purpose. The clock on our nightstand glowed 2:17 a.m., its red digits slicing through the room like a warning.
Dererick was creeping around our bedroom wearing latex gloves.
Latex gloves.
And in his left hand, he carried a small black bag I had never seen before. Not his work briefcase. Not his gym duffel. Something different. Something deliberate. Something that didn’t belong in the room where we slept, where we lived, where we built a life—or at least, the life I thought we were building.
Three hours earlier, I had done the bravest, most terrifying thing I had ever done in my life.
When Dererick handed me my nightly cup of chamomile tea—just like he had every single night for the past month—I smiled and thanked him as if nothing was wrong. As if I didn’t know. As if suspicion hadn’t been gnawing at the back of my mind for weeks.
But when he went to brush his teeth, I poured every drop down the bathroom sink. I washed the cup. I dried it. I placed it back on my nightstand exactly where it had been.
Then I got into bed, pulled the covers up to my chest, and waited.
Now, watching him silently through my lashes, I knew I had been right to trust my instincts. Every horrible fear that had crawled through my mind came to life in the dimness of our bedroom. Dererick thought I was unconscious—drugged senseless, just like all the other nights. His movements were practiced, steady. This wasn’t improvisation. This wasn’t hesitation.
This was routine.
And the way he moved without fear, without even glancing toward me to check if I was stirring—that was what chilled me most. He wasn’t worried about waking me, because he believed I couldn’t wake up. Not with what he’d been putting in my tea.
I forced every muscle to go limp. I had practiced earlier that day, lying in bed and trying to mimic the weight of an unconscious body. Steady breaths. Relaxed face. Slack jaw. A body that looked like it belonged to someone deeply asleep.
Someone helpless.
The whole nightmare had started three weeks earlier, though I hadn’t understood it at the time. I had just assumed I was stressed. Freelance deadlines piling up. A major rebranding contract keeping me awake at night. Long hours at my computer as I tried to polish logo concepts for a restaurant chain with a demanding owner.
And then there was Dererick’s job—medical equipment sales. He’d been traveling more than usual, leaving me home alone for days at a time. When he was gone, I slept normally. When he was home, I woke up feeling like someone had reached down my throat and pulled out my energy by the handful.
Every morning was the same:
Disoriented.
Groggy.
A headache pounding behind my temples.
Pajamas twisted around my body like I’d been tossed in my sleep.
No memory of anything after 10 p.m.
At first, I told myself it was burnout.
Until my sister Clare called one morning sounding worried.
“Anna, are you okay? You sounded really weird last night. Like… drugged.”
I stared at the phone in confusion.
“We talked last night?”
“For almost an hour,” she insisted. “You kept repeating yourself. You were slurring your words. You sounded out of it.”
My stomach dropped like someone had cut a string inside me.
I didn’t remember any of it.
I remembered drinking tea.
Climbing into bed.
Then nothing.
Nothing.
That was the moment—right then, sitting in bed with my laptop and phone—that fear slid icy fingers down my spine.
The pattern was impossible to ignore after that. I started paying attention. Testing theories. Taking notes.
Tea = groggy, confused, memory gone.
No tea = normal sleep.
But I wasn’t ready to accuse my husband of anything. Who would be? This was Derek—the man who rubbed my feet after long days, who remembered my coffee order, who held me when I cried after our parents died.
But the bruises sealed it.
Finger-shaped marks on my arms.
A rectangular bruise on my hip.
Scratches on my thigh I didn’t remember getting.
When I asked him about them, he suggested I might be sleepwalking. His voice had been gentle, sympathetic. He looked genuinely worried. He offered to take me to a doctor.
And I almost let myself believe him.
Almost.
Tonight was the night I would get answers. Answers I wasn’t sure I even wanted.
Now, in the darkness, Derek moved closer to me. I kept my breathing slow. Even. Deep. My heart hammered violently against my ribs, begging me to run, but I stayed perfectly still.
He was standing over me.
Even in the faint light from the hallway, I could see the glint of something in his gloved hand.
He set something on the nightstand with a soft click.
I wanted to flinch. I wanted to scream. I wanted to bolt upright and shove him away from me.
But instead, I lay still.
Unconscious.
Helpless.
Exactly how he wanted me.
He reached into the black bag and pulled out a small camera.
He placed it on the dresser.
Angled it toward me.
Turned it on.
A tiny red light blinked to life.
My blood ran cold.
He was recording.
Whatever he was about to do—he wanted to capture it.
Derek crouched beside the bed, examining my face like he was studying a subject. Not a person. Not his wife.
An object.
He reached into the bag again and removed a small notebook. He flipped several pages, nodding as he scanned whatever he’d written.
Then he took out a pair of scissors.
I nearly ruined everything. Every instinct screamed at me to recoil.
But I didn’t move.
He carefully snipped a small piece of fabric from the hem of my pajama top. A place where I wouldn’t notice. He held the scrap up to the dim light, examining it, then sealed it inside a tiny plastic evidence bag.
Evidence.
What kind of evidence did he need from me?
But he wasn’t finished.
Derek took out his phone and began taking photos. No flash. Quiet clicks. Methodical. Precise.
Then he moved me.
He lifted my arm and positioned it differently.
He adjusted my head.
He tugged my pajama top slightly askew.
He spread my hair across the pillow.
Click.
Click.
Click.
He posed me like a doll—lifeless, pliable, unresisting—and documented each angle.
I let my limbs fall naturally, like dead weight, every time he moved me. I forced my body to stay slack, heavy, convincingly unconscious.
My skin crawled. My stomach churned. I wanted to scream.
But I didn’t.
I couldn’t.
I had to know what my husband had been doing to me for weeks—maybe longer.
After twenty excruciating minutes, Derek finally stopped adjusting me. He set his phone aside and pulled out his laptop. He began transferring the photos from his phone to the computer. I heard the faint sound of files moving, the quiet click of a keyboard.
Then he opened a program I couldn’t fully see from my position, but I recognized the layout.
He was uploading the photos.
Somewhere online.
A message notification pinged from his phone. He opened it and smiled—a smile that made my stomach twist with dread. He typed something quickly, waited, then angled his screen toward the camera as if showing someone proof.
Another message came in.
And another.
He took more photos of me.
Sent them immediately.
Whoever he was messaging was guiding him.
Directing him.
Telling him what to do to me.
My blood turned to ice.
Derek wasn’t acting alone.
Eventually, he began packing up. He sealed swabs and samples in more little bags—hair, skin, fibers, I didn’t know. He placed everything neatly into his black bag and zipped it closed.
Then, as if finishing a normal nightly routine, he bent over and kissed my forehead.
“Sweet dreams, Anna,” he whispered softly, lovingly.
For a split second—just one—I questioned my own sanity.
But then he left the room, walked downstairs, and slipped out the front door at nearly three in the morning.
Like he’d done many nights before.
Only now I knew why.
I stayed perfectly still for ten more agonizing minutes, listening to every sound, every creak, every whisper of wind.
Then I finally sat up.
My whole body trembled.
He was gone.
And I finally knew the truth:
My own husband had been drugging me.
Photographing me.
Documenting me.
And sharing me with strangers.
I had no idea how deep this went.
How long it had been happening.
Or what he was planning next.
But I was done being his prey.
I threw the covers off and stood, my legs weak but determined.
Derek had left for a three-day business trip.
That gave me six hours—maybe less—before he realized he’d forgotten something and came home early.
And I knew exactly where I had to start:
The locked briefcase under our bed.
I was about to uncover everything.
The house was silent except for the faint hum of the refrigerator downstairs. I stood in the darkness of our bedroom, shaking so badly I had to grip the edge of the dresser just to steady myself. The silence wasn’t comforting—it was suffocating. For the first time since I’d married him, the house felt like his house, not ours. His space. His lair.
And I was the intruder.
The briefcase under the bed wasn’t hidden well—not truly hidden. I’d seen him slide it under there months ago but never thought twice about it. Derek carried a work laptop everywhere, so the briefcase seemed normal enough. But tonight, I knew without a shadow of a doubt that his real laptop was inside. The one he never let me see. The one he pulled out only after he thought I was unconscious.
The one filled with answers I wasn’t sure I wanted.
I dropped to my knees and reached under the bed. The briefcase was heavier than I expected. Metal, not leather. Industrial. The kind someone would use to store things they never wanted anyone else to find.
There was a combination lock on the latches—three numbers.
My hands shook as I entered the only combination that made sense.
Our anniversary.
Click.
Of course. He hadn’t expected me to ever look.
The briefcase opened with a soft metallic groan.
Inside, Derek’s second laptop lay nestled in a foam mold. Beneath it sat a portable hard drive, several USB sticks, a packet of syringes, and a small bottle labeled with something that instantly made my stomach flip:
Zolpidem. High-dose. Warning: sedative.
So that’s what he’d been giving me.
I swallowed hard, grabbed the laptop, and carried it to the dresser where my shaking hands could rest against something solid. When I opened the lid, the screen glowed to life immediately.
He hadn’t even logged out.
Maybe he’d been in too much of a hurry to leave the house. Maybe he was confident that I’d sleep through anything until morning.
Or maybe—worst of all—he had never even considered the possibility I might wake up.
The desktop was organized in a way that immediately made me nauseous. Row after row of folders labeled neatly by dates, spanning back months. Nearly a year.
The oldest folder was eight months old.
Eight months.
He’d been drugging me for almost a year.
My fingers hovered over the trackpad before I forced myself to open the earliest folder.
Inside were photos—mostly harmless at first glance. Me sleeping in bed. Me curled on the couch during an afternoon nap. Me lying in bed after drinking tea.
Nothing posed.
Nothing disturbing.
Not yet.
But the timestamps showed that most photos had been taken at two, three, four in the morning. Times when I should have been in a normal sleep, but instead was unconscious, immobile, unaware.
I opened the next folder.
And the next.
And the next.
The photos became darker. Staged. More detailed. More violating. Different rooms. Different outfits. Different angles. Different levels of exposure I couldn’t even bring myself to look at for more than a second at a time.
My breath hitched.
He’d been doing this for months. Every night he made me tea, every night I thought he was caring for me, he’d been doing… this.
I opened the most recent folder. The one labeled with today’s date.
Only two pictures so far. Both taken earlier, before I’d decided to fake-drink the tea. Pictures of me in the kitchen, sipping water, writing in my planner. Completely innocent. Completely normal.
And then the ones from tonight.
Forty-three images.
Different angles. Me lying limp in bed. Pajamas slightly tugged aside. Hair posed. Skin exposed. Staged like I was a corpse prepared for display.
I squeezed my eyes shut, bile rising in my throat.
But as horrifying as the photos of myself were, they weren’t the worst part.
The worst part was the folders labeled with women’s names.
Jennifer.
Patricia.
Michelle.
Lauren.
Erica.
Six in all.
Six women.
Six victims.
Each folder contained hundreds of images, dating back years.
The oldest folder—Jennifer—went back almost five years. Photos showed a woman with blonde hair in different pajamas, in different bedrooms, under different sheets.
But then near the end of each woman’s folder was a subfolder.
Final Session.
Each final folder contained the last set of photos. Dozens—sometimes hundreds. All featuring women who looked progressively weaker. Sicker. Thinner.
I clicked open one final folder, my hand over my mouth as if it could somehow block out the horror.
The last photo in each folder was the worst.
Jennifer lying still on a bed—pale, hollow-eyed, impossibly still.
Patricia curled in a position no one could comfortably sleep in.
Michelle with her face slack, her mouth slightly open, her skin an unnatural shade.
My mouth ran dry.
Were they dead?
No… no, they couldn’t be. He wouldn’t store pictures of—
But he might.
I clutched the dresser until my knuckles whitened.
Underneath the women’s folders was a document titled Client Communications.
I opened it.
Immediately, lines of emails, chat logs, and payment receipts filled the screen. Derek had been selling access to photos and videos. And worse, to live sessions. Some customers requested “hands-on services,” others requested “specific staging.”
He’d documented who paid what. Who wanted what. Who requested what “level.”
Basic.
Enhanced.
Premium.
And then another label underneath:
Graduation Service.
My lungs seized. Derek had replied to a client two days ago, telling him:
“Anna is almost ready for graduation. Final phase starting soon.”
My name.
My name was attached to something that had killed the other women.
A cold sweat drenched my back.
He hadn’t been done with me. Not even close.
He was preparing me for the final phase—whatever that meant. And based on the photos in the other women’s final folders, it wasn’t hard to guess.
It was permanent.
As I stared at that word—graduation—something shifted deep inside me. A survival instinct I didn’t know I possessed.
I wasn’t going to end up like those women.
Not a photo set.
Not a final folder.
Not a product.
I was going to survive.
I copied everything onto a flash drive—every folder, every photo, every document, every horrifying piece of evidence I could gather as fast as possible. My fingers were trembling so violently that I had to keep re-clicking files that I missed.
It took twenty minutes.
Twenty long, suffocating minutes where I kept glancing toward the window, terrified I’d see headlights pulling into the driveway, Derek returning for something he’d forgotten.
When the copy finished, I grabbed the flash drive and backed up the files to my email as well.
For once, paranoia paid off.
If Derek found the flash drive, he wouldn’t know about the copies I hid online.
When I finished, I put everything back exactly where it had been.
Folder structure untouched.
Laptop positioned the same way.
Briefcase closed and tucked back under the bed.
He couldn’t know.
Not yet.
My next step was calling Clare.
She worked overnight shifts at the hospital. She wouldn’t be home for hours. When she didn’t pick up, I left a message:
“Clare, it’s an emergency. Call me as soon as you get this.”
My voice was shaking so badly I barely recognized it.
Next, I stared at the bedroom window. The sky was still dark, but I saw a light on at the house across the street.
Mr. Peterson.
Our elderly neighbor. Always awake early, always watching the neighborhood from his front porch. If Derek had been sneaking out at night, maybe he’d seen something.
Maybe I wasn’t alone.
I pocketed the flash drive and made my way to the front door. Every step felt heavy, like the house itself was trying to hold me back.
I stepped outside into the cold early-morning air and hurried across the street.
Mr. Peterson opened the door in his bathrobe, concern spreading across his face the moment he saw me.
“Anna? What’s wrong, dear? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
“Can I come in?” I whispered.
He guided me inside gently, like I was fragile glass.
When we sat at his kitchen table, I tried to steady my breathing. My hands were trembling so violently that he reached out and covered them with one of his own.
“Anna, what happened?”
My throat tightened. I didn’t know how to say it. How do you tell someone that your husband isn’t who they think he is? That he’s been drugging you, photographing you, sharing you with strangers online?
“Mr. Peterson,” I said softly, “have you noticed Derek doing anything strange at night?”
He froze.
Then slowly—too slowly—he nodded.
“I’ve been wondering when you were going to ask me that.”
My blood turned to ice.
“What do you mean?”
He sighed heavily. “Derek comes and goes at all hours. Sometimes two, three in the morning. Sometimes men park down the street and walk toward your house in the dark.”
My stomach twisted.
“Why didn’t you say anything?”
“He told me you were ill.” Mr. Peterson’s voice dropped. “He said you were on strong medication. That you’d been having… episodes. That he had to take you to late-night emergencies. He even asked me not to bring it up because it embarrassed you.”
I felt sick. Derek had prepared alibis. Planted explanations. Created a narrative where I was the unreliable one.
But Mr. Peterson wasn’t fooled.
“It never sat right with me,” he said quietly.
I pulled out my phone and showed him photos of Derek’s notebook pages. His face drained of color.
“Oh my God,” he whispered. “We need to call the police.”
We called.
But they didn’t take it seriously. A dispatcher made it sound like a domestic issue that could wait.
Several hours, they said.
Hours I didn’t have.
Then my phone rang.
It was Clare.
I answered immediately. “Clare—please, I need—”
“Anna,” she said urgently, “I’m coming over. And I’m bringing someone with me.”
What happened next would change everything.
Clare arrived an hour later with Detective Martinez—a friend from the hospital who specialized in cases involving drugging and assault. The moment she saw the evidence on my flash drive, she didn’t hesitate.
“This is far bigger than your husband,” she said. “This is a criminal network.”
By noon, police had swarmed the area.
By evening, they had a plan.
They would let Derek come home.
Then they would watch him try to drug me again.
Then they would catch him—hands on the evidence.
I was terrified.
But I knew I had to be strong.
When Derek came home at 7 p.m., he walked through the door smiling, carrying flowers and chocolates.
He kissed me like nothing had changed.
Like he hadn’t been preparing to destroy me.
And I let him.
Because tonight, I wasn’t his victim.
I was the bait.
And this time, I wouldn’t be the one who ended up in a folder labeled Final Session.
Derek walked into the house like he always did—warm smile, soft voice, gentle hands holding flowers as though he hadn’t spent the last eight months turning our marriage bed into a crime scene. His scent—cologne and mint—washed over me when he hugged me, and I had to force my body not to recoil. Every cell inside me screamed to run, to spit in his face, to claw at his skin and demand answers he didn’t deserve.
But tonight, I wasn’t here to confront him.
Tonight, I was here to end him.
“Missed you,” Derek murmured into my hair.
I swallowed hard. “I missed you too.”
Detective Martinez had warned me not to act differently. Anything unusual might spook him. Anything out of character might tip him off. And if Derek got even a whiff of suspicion, I might not live long enough to see what came after the “final phase.”
So I smiled.
I let him kiss my cheek.
I let him put his arm around my waist as we walked to the kitchen.
The kitchen counters were spotless. I’d cleaned all morning to keep from thinking about what I’d seen—my limp body in photos, the other women’s final folders, the sickening outlines of Derek’s secret world.
He set the flowers on the counter and pulled me into another hug. His heartbeat felt steady, calm, familiar. It made my skin crawl.
“I got your favorite,” he said, holding up a box of chocolates. “Figured we should celebrate. I’m home early.”
Early.
Not good.
Detective Martinez had planned the entire sting around the assumption that he’d return around seven, then follow his usual bedtime routine. But if he was early, if he noticed the police surveillance, if anything went slightly wrong…
I kept smiling.
“That’s so thoughtful,” I said softly.
His eyes glowed with warmth. Charm. Manipulation. Lies.
“Long day?” he asked, stroking my cheek.
Try the worst day of my life, I thought.
But out loud, I said, “Just tired. You know how the project’s been.”
He nodded sympathetically, the perfect picture of a supportive husband.
“Why don’t I make you some tea?” he offered.
My heartbeat stuttered.
“Tea?” I asked lightly.
I had to play this perfectly.
His smile was soft, affectionate. “Of course. Chamomile. It always helps you sleep.”
He brushed his thumb along my jawline as if he adored me. As if he hadn’t been drugging me, staging me, selling me.
I forced a laugh. “Only if you have some too.”
That gave him pause.
Just a second. Too quick for him to notice—but I saw it.
“Oh, I’d love to, but caffeine keeps me up,” he said easily. “Even herbal.”
A lie. A stupid lie, but one he’d probably told me a hundred times.
“I’ll just make yours,” he said, kissing my forehead.
I nodded. “Okay. Thanks, babe.”
He turned to fill the kettle.
The moment his back was turned, I exhaled shakily. My palms were sweating. My legs trembling. I felt like a rabbit sitting perfectly still while a wolf sniffed at its fur.
But I wasn’t prey tonight.
Not tonight.
I glanced toward the living room closet. Hidden inside, behind the coats, a wire sat taped beneath the top shelf—its signal transmitting to Detective Martinez and three other officers stationed in unmarked cars parked discreetly along the street. More officers hid behind fences. One blended into the Petersons’ hedge. Two more waited on the backyard patio behind a screen of darkness.
They were all listening.
They were all waiting.
For Derek to incriminate himself.
For him to bring out the black bag.
The camera.
The drugs.
The evidence they needed to put him away for life.
The kettle began to heat. Steam curled into the air. Derek hummed softly—the same tune he always hummed when preparing tea, the lullaby he used to sedate me into oblivion.
“Long day?” he asked casually over his shoulder.
My stomach twisted. He always asked me this at night. Before the tea. Before the darkness.
“A little,” I said, sitting at the table.
He poured the water. Reached for the honey.
And then his hand paused.
He turned slightly. His eyes met mine, soft but sharp.
“You okay?” he asked.
My throat tightened. “Yeah. Why?”
“You just seem… off.”
My heart spiked in my chest.
“I’m fine,” I said with a light laugh. “Just tired.”
He studied me a moment longer, then nodded and returned to the tea.
I wiped my sweaty palms on my jeans under the table.
He stirred the cup. Everything in me screamed at the sight of the tea swirling in the mug. The liquid that had stolen my memories for months. The poison he fed me nightly. The trap disguised as love.
He placed the tea in front of me and sat across from me, elbows rested on the table, chin on his hand.
Watching.
“Drink,” he urged softly.
I lifted the cup. The warmth radiated against my skin. The smell—familiar, floral, sweet—made my stomach churn. He watched every movement, examining my face for any sign of suspicion or resistance.
My fingers shook as I brought the mug to my lips.
And then I faked it—just like Detective Martinez taught me.
Pretend to sip.
Let the steam hit your face.
Tilt the cup barely.
Do not drink.
I did it perfectly.
He smiled.
“Feel better?”
I nodded, lowering the untouched tea.
“Good,” he said, standing.
He walked toward the bedroom, humming again.
The signal.
He was following the routine.
The routine that included the black bag.
The camera.
The notebook.
The poses.
The photos.
The samples.
The routine that would expose him.
I followed slowly, giving the officers time to take position.
My legs felt like pillars of ice as I stepped into the dim bedroom. Derek was already gathering his things—his phone, the small black bag, the latex gloves tucked in his back pocket.
He turned toward me and smiled warmly.
“You look sleepy.”
I forced a yawn. “Yeah… that tea always hits fast.”
He nodded. “Good. Let’s get you into bed.”
My blood ran cold when he approached me. Gentle. Caring. Like he wasn’t a monster.
He touched my arm and guided me toward the bed.
“Lie down,” he said softly.
I obeyed.
The sheets felt cold. The pillow felt too soft. I knew officers were listening, waiting for me to mimic unconsciousness—but the moment Derek pulled out the latex gloves, I nearly lost control.
The sight of them made my breath stutter.
He noticed.
“Just relax,” he said gently.
Relax.
Relax while he prepared to drug me.
Pose me.
Sell me.
My eyes fluttered closed as he slipped the gloves on.
“Good girl,” he whispered, stroking my cheek. “It’s better when you sleep through it.”
My stomach twisted.
That was enough.
“Now,” he murmured, reaching for his bag, “let’s begin tonight’s—”
The bedroom door exploded inward.
“DEREK WILSON! HANDS WHERE WE CAN SEE THEM!”
Three officers stormed in, weapons drawn.
Derek jerked back, shocked. For the first time since I’d known him, pure, unfiltered panic flashed across his face.
“Anna?” he whispered, looking at me, betrayed. “You— you’re awake?”
I sat up slowly. “I knew.”
He looked between me and the officers, disbelief turning into fury, then dread.
“No,” he breathed. “No, Anna, you don’t understand—”
“Hands UP!” Detective Martinez barked.
Derek raised his hands, shaking, his perfect composure shattered.
He stared at me with tears forming—anger, confusion, panic twisting his expression into something unrecognizable.
“How long?” he whispered as an officer cuffed him. “Anna… how long have you known?”
I met his eyes. “Long enough.”
His face contorted. “You betrayed me.”
I let out a breath that felt like it had been trapped inside me for months.
“No,” I said softly. “You betrayed me.”
The officers hauled him upright.
He didn’t fight.
He just stared.
Stared with a hatred and heartbreak so tangled it made my stomach churn.
As they dragged him toward the door, he twisted one last time, eyes locked on mine.
“You ruined everything,” he spat. “Everything I built.”
I held his gaze. Steady. Unbroken.
“You’ll never hurt anyone again.”
He snarled, but the officers shoved him out before he could speak another word.
The moment Derek disappeared down the hallway, my strength snapped like a thread pulled too tight. My legs folded. The room spun.
Detective Martinez rushed to me, steadying my trembling shoulders.
“It’s over,” she said gently. “You’re safe now.”
I wanted to believe her.
I needed to believe her.
But even as I sat there in the dim bedroom, surrounded by police, Derek’s words echoed through my mind—
Everything I built.
Because deep down, I knew one horrible truth:
Derek hadn’t built all of this alone.
There were others.
Clients.
Collaborators.
Predators.
And they weren’t going to disappear quietly.
Not without a fight.
The moment Derek was dragged out of our bedroom, the house transformed from crime scene to command center. Officers moved through it with quiet purpose, snapping photos, collecting evidence, securing every room. Red and blue lights pulsed faintly through the living room curtains as unmarked cars idled outside. It should have felt safe.
It didn’t.
I wrapped my arms around myself, sitting on the couch while Detective Martinez spoke with her team. The adrenaline that had kept me functioning for the last twenty-four hours drained from my body all at once. My fingers trembled uncontrollably. My throat felt raw. I could still hear Derek’s voice—soft, loving, venomous.
You ruined everything I built.
He never said “we.”
He said “I.”
But nothing about what I’d found on his laptop felt like the work of a lone predator.
There were messages from dozens of clients.
Requests for staged photos, poses.
Payments from multiple states.
Encrypted instructions for “live access.”
He wasn’t alone. Not even close.
“Anna?”
I blinked. Detective Martinez had crouched beside me, her voice gentle, but her eyes sharp.
“You did incredibly well,” she said. “We have Derek in custody. Federal agents are on their way to assist with the evidence. This is bigger than we thought.”
A humorless laugh escaped me. “You mean bigger than what I thought.”
She squeezed my shoulder. “What you found tonight may lead to uncovering an entire trafficking and exploitation ring.”
The words pierced through me like needles.
Trafficking.
Exploitation.
Words that felt too big, too monstrous, too grotesque to be connected to Derek—the man whose laugh once melted me, whose hands once felt like home.
My stomach churned. “Do you know what… what happened to the other women? The ones in the folders?”
Detective Martinez’s jaw tightened.
“We’re investigating. But Anna—many of those women haven’t been heard from in years.”
I felt the blood drain from my face.
“I’m sorry,” she said softly.
I nodded numbly, gripping the couch cushion until my knuckles whitened.
Mr. Peterson stepped inside cautiously from the doorway, rubbing his hands together nervously. “Is she… is she alright?”
Martinez nodded. “She’s safe for now. Thank you for calling when you did.”
He looked at me, his eyes glistening. “Anna, dear… I wish I had said something sooner.”
Tears filled my eyes. “You didn’t know. Nobody knew.”
And that was the most terrifying part.
Derek had built a life so ordinary, so unremarkable, so perfectly polished that no one saw what lay underneath. Not our friends. Not our families. Not me.
The detective cleared her throat. “Anna, I need to walk you through a few more things. But first—do you want a moment alone?”
I shook my head. “If I’m alone right now, I’ll fall apart.”
She nodded, respectful.
“Then let’s sit here a bit,” she said. “No questions yet. Just breathe.”
I took a shaky breath.
And then another.
My chest loosened a little.
Until my phone buzzed.
I jumped.
Martinez tensed immediately. “Who is it?”
I glanced down.
Unknown Number.
One text.
Pretty show. Did you like the ending?
My heart stopped.
“Detective…” My voice cracked. “Someone texted me.”
She snatched the phone from my hand and read the message. Her expression hardened.
“Everyone, lock this perimeter down!” she barked to the officers. “Someone is watching the house!”
Chaos erupted.
Officers sprinted outside.
Others closed the blinds.
One stationed himself at the front door.
Another grabbed his radio and spoke rapidly into it.
Mr. Peterson paled. “Dear God…”
Martinez put a protective arm in front of me, positioning herself between me and the windows.
“Anna,” she said calmly, “this message did not come from Derek. He doesn’t have access to a phone.”
Meaning someone else was watching.
Someone else was nearby.
Someone else had been involved the whole time.
I swallowed hard. “The other clients.”
“Yes,” she said. “His network.”
Her radio crackled. A voice responded:
“No movement detected yet. Neighboring streets clear. We’re checking rooftops and vehicles.”
I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to breathe, but each inhale felt like it got stuck halfway.
“Anna,” Martinez said gently, “is there anything—anything at all—you saw on Derek’s computer that suggests someone local? Someone close?”
I tried to think.
Most messages were encrypted usernames.
Random strings of letters.
No faces.
No names.
No clues.
But then—
A chill shot through me.
“There was one number…” I whispered. “One number Derek called more than any other. Every day for a month. Late at night. Early morning. Multiple times.”
Martinez’s eyes sharpened. “Do you remember the number?”
I struggled, trying to visualize the digits.
I wrote them down earlier—
In Derek’s notebook—
The numbers—
My breath hitched. “Wait. I took photos of the notebook!”
I scrambled to grab my phone, scrolling through the hundreds of photos I’d snapped that morning. Page after page. Dates. Times. Drug doses. Poses. Payment logs.
And then—
The page with the numbers.
“There!” I pointed.
Martinez leaned over my shoulder. “Our tech team will trace this. If this number belongs to someone in town, we’ll know.”
She snapped her fingers and an officer rushed over to take the phone and transfer the images to their database.
“Anna,” Martinez said quietly, “whoever texted you is taunting us. They’re not just part of Derek’s ring. They might be someone he was closest to. Someone who knew his patterns.”
Mr. Peterson, overhearing, wrung his hands. “Oh Lord… could it be someone from this neighborhood?”
I nodded slowly.
Derek had never traveled far for “business” at night.
Clients sometimes parked nearby.
And Derek once said something that now echoed like a gunshot in my ears—
“Everyone has secrets, Anna. Even our neighbors.”
My voice trembled. “Detective… what if someone here was watching Derek’s sessions live?”
Martinez exhaled sharply. “Then we’re dealing with a predator who knows your face, your house, your routine—and may be watching from only feet away.”
A fresh wave of nausea struck.
The room suddenly felt smaller. The air thicker. Every shadow more threatening.
My hands shook violently.
Martinez noticed. She sat beside me, steady and calming.
“You’re not alone,” she said. “We’ve got you. And we’re going to dismantle every last piece of Derek’s network.”
Before I could respond, the officer with my phone hurried back inside. “Detective Martinez—we got a hit.”
She stood instantly. “Talk.”
“The number traces back to a burner, but the ping is local. Very local. Within a three-house radius.”
My blood went cold.
Three houses.
Three.
My eyes darted to Mr. Peterson—
No. He looked horrified, confused, terrified for me.
Then I thought of the Johnsons next door—quiet, middle-aged, two kids in college.
The Bramwells behind us—older couple, sweet, always gardening.
But the officer continued—
“And based on the signal, there’s only one house in range right now sending active packets.”
My breath stopped.
“The Wilson residence,” the officer finished. “The ping came from inside this house.”
Every hair on my arms stood on end.
“Wait—what?” Martinez demanded. “You mean this phone is inside?”
“No,” the officer said. “Not the phone.”
He swallowed.
“We traced the IP. It came from another device on the Wilson home network.”
I stared at him, throat tight.
“What device?” I whispered.
His face paled.
“A laptop.”
I felt the world tilt beneath me.
Derek had taken his black bag.
He had taken the laptop he used for the sessions.
But—
Detective Martinez hissed, “Anna—was there another laptop in the house?”
Yes.
Yes.
A memory hit me like a punch to the ribs.
Two weeks ago.
Derek snapping at me: “Don’t touch that. That’s work stuff.”
A gray laptop. On the dining table. Quickly shoved into his briefcase the moment I walked into the room.
I’d forgotten about it. Because Derek had so many devices. Tablets. Work laptops. Sales equipment.
“Anna?” the detective pressed urgently.
My voice was barely a whisper.
“He has… another laptop.”
Martinez stiffened. “Where?”
I scanned the room frantically.
“He kept it in his office,” I said. “The small bedroom.”
Martinez spun toward her team. “Go. Now.”
Officers rushed down the hall.
I stood slowly, my legs wobbling, and followed.
The moment we reached Derek’s office, I smelled something faint. Metallic. Sharp. Wrong.
His office was usually tidy, everything in its place.
But tonight—
It looked disturbed.
A drawer slightly open.
A stack of papers shifted.
A carpet corner lifted.
“Secure the room!” Martinez barked.
Two officers swept the space.
Then one called out—
“Detective. We found it.”
A gray laptop sat under the desk, its screen still warm, the power light glowing faintly.
And on the screen—
A chat window.
Open.
Active.
Seconds old.
A message sent just before the officers reached the door:
She’s awake. I saw everything.
My heart lurched.
“Martinez,” the tech officer said, voice tight. “Whoever sent this—he was watching Anna in real time.”
Martinez turned sharply. “How? Derek used hidden cameras—did Anna find all of them?”
I froze.
I hadn’t.
I hadn’t even thought to look.
Martinez looked at me. “Anna—where were the cameras Derek set up?”
“One in the bedroom,” I whispered. “On the dresser.”
“Any others?”
“I… I don’t know.”
“We need to sweep the house,” she ordered. “Now!”
Officers tore through each room, checking vents, light fixtures, outlets, smoke detectors.
Five minutes later:
“Detective! In the living room!”
Martinez ran.
I followed.
The officer held up a tiny black lens no bigger than a thumbnail. Embedded inside the smoke detector facing the couch.
The same couch I’d been sitting on
when Mr. Peterson comforted me.
When Martinez talked to me.
When I cried.
Someone watched all of it.
From their device.
On Derek’s network.
Through the hidden cameras Derek installed.
My skin crawled so hard I nearly collapsed.
“Detective…” I whispered. “How long… how long has someone been watching?”
She looked at me grimly.
“Long enough to know everything.”
The room swayed. I grabbed the wall.
Martinez put her hands firmly on my shoulders.
“Anna. Listen to me.” Her voice was urgent but steady. “You are not safe here. Someone else is involved. Someone nearby. Someone who knew Derek. Someone who knew this house.”
I swallowed hard, my voice barely a rasp.
“Detective… what do we do?”
She straightened.
“We’re moving you to a secure location. Right now. We need to dismantle this entire network before they realize Derek is in custody.”
I nodded, shaking helplessly.
She placed a hand on my back, guiding me toward the door.
But as we reached the hallway—
Another officer rushed in, breathless.
“Detective Martinez—urgent!”
She turned. “What?”
He held out his radio, eyes wide.
“We traced the second laptop’s outgoing connection.”
Martinez stiffened. “And?”
The officer swallowed.
“The device receiving the feed is no longer stationary.”
“What does that mean?”
“It’s moving,” he said quietly. “Leaving the area. Fast.”
Martinez’s face hardened.
“Is it in a car?”
“Yes, detective. And based on the ping—”
The officer hesitated.
“We think the person watching Anna was parked on this street.”
My heart stopped dead in my chest.
“They were watching from outside,” I whispered.
Martinez nodded grimly. “Yes. And now they’re running.”
A cold, hollow dread filled my bones.
Derek wasn’t the end.
He was the beginning.
His network was alive.
And now one of them knew I had taken everything from him.
One of them was out there.
Driving away.
Free.
Watching.
Waiting.
Planning.
Detective Martinez didn’t waste a second.
“Move her now!” she barked. Officers surged around me in a flurry of motion—holsters snapping, radios crackling, boots thudding against hardwood. The living room, once serene and familiar, had become a battlefield staging point.
Within moments, I was surrounded—one officer in front, two behind, Martinez at my side.
“Stay close,” she said. “Keep your head down.”
I nodded, though my legs felt like water. My body buzzed with fear so sharp it felt electric.
The house door opened.
Cold night air slammed into me. Crisp. Black. Heavy with danger.
The world outside had never felt so hostile.
Blue and red lights splashed across the sidewalk. Every shadow looked like an enemy waiting to strike. Officers scanned rooftops, hedges, cars parked along the curb.
“Go!” Martinez ordered.
They escorted me to the armored vehicle parked at the end of the walkway. I climbed inside, gripping the seat as if it might disappear.
The door slammed shut with a metallic clang.
Inside the vehicle, it was eerily quiet. No hum of an engine. No chatter. Just the low static of police radios and the subtle vibration of my own fear.
Martinez climbed in beside me and spoke low so only I could hear.
“He’s gone.”
The one from the network.
The one who was watching me.
The one who sent the text.
“Do we know who he is?” I whispered.
“We have a partial IP trace, but he’s using masking tools. We’ll find him.”
“How can you be sure?”
She turned her head, meeting my eyes.
“Because he made a mistake,” she said flatly. “He contacted you. That’s evidence. And people who think they’re untouchable are always sloppy.”
I swallowed, trying to believe her.
She continued. “We’re relocating you to a safe house outside the county—secure, guarded, off-grid. No one gets near without authorization.”
“What about Derek?” I murmured.
“He’s already in federal custody,” she assured me. “Your evidence sealed it.”
I let out a shaky breath. A small part of me couldn’t believe it was real—that the man I’d married, a man who slept beside me for four years, was sitting in a cold interrogation room somewhere, wrists cuffed, his empire crumbling.
“Anna,” Martinez said, voice softening, “you did the right thing. You saved yourself. And you may save others we haven’t found yet.”
Tears pricked my eyes.
“I don’t feel like a hero,” I whispered.
“You don’t have to be one,” she said. “You just have to stay alive. Let us handle the monsters now.”
I wanted to believe that too.
The drive to the safe house took over an hour. A car followed behind us, another one led in front. When we finally arrived—a plain cabin hidden behind tall pines—one thing was clear:
This wasn’t some temporary shelter.
It was a fortress.
Silent. Remote. Secure.
“Inside,” Martinez said as soon as we stepped out. “Get some rest. We’ll have agents here twenty-four/seven.”
But rest was impossible.
My thoughts were a chaotic tornado—Derek’s face, the photos, the helplessness, the betrayal. And worse—the unknown predator who’d been watching me from mere feet away.
The cabin was quiet—too quiet. It was well-lit, comfortable, stocked with food, clothes, blankets. But as I lay on the bed hours later, wrapped in a thick quilt, everything around me felt surreal.
Safe, but not safe.
Protected, but hunted.
Alive, but haunted.
I drifted into a shallow, restless sleep, jolting awake at every creak, every gust of wind.
Around dawn, someone knocked softly.
“Anna?”
Martinez.
“Come sit outside with me,” she said gently.
The sunrise spilled orange and gold across the treetops. The forest smelled like pine and cold earth.
We sat on the porch. She handed me coffee. I wrapped my hands around the mug, letting the warmth seep into me.
“There’s something you should know,” she said.
I tensed.
“We found another cache on Derek’s phone. A hidden partition.”
My heart squeezed painfully.
“What was in it?”
She paused, choosing her words carefully.
“Videos.”
My stomach dropped.
“Oh God.”
She nodded. “Not just of you. Of others. We’ve identified some of the women from the photos. Some were reported missing years ago. Some were never reported at all.”
I swallowed hard, nausea rising.
“Are they… are any of them alive?”
“We’re still investigating. But I want to be transparent—most likely, no.”
A painful silence stretched between us.
“Why?” I whispered. “Why was he doing all of this?”
“Control,” Martinez said softly. “Power. Profit. Psychopathy. He built a fantasy life, a world where he had complete dominance. And he found others who wanted to take part.”
I stared into the rising sun, trying to make sense of something senseless.
“Do you think Derek…” I hesitated, struggling for the words. “Do you think he ever actually loved me?”
She looked at me for a long, heavy moment.
“I think he loved the version of you he could control,” she said. “The real you? The one with thoughts and autonomy? That’s the woman who brought him down.”
I let that sink in.
The version of me he couldn’t control.
For the first time since this nightmare began, I felt a spark—small, but real.
Strength.
For three days, I stayed at the safe house while teams raided Derek’s storage units, his office, his accounts. They found more files. More evidence. More horror.
But also—hope.
Victims who had been unidentified for years.
Families who’d finally get answers.
A network unraveling.
Every hour, more predators were arrested across multiple states. Derek’s “clients.” His “partners.” People who’d paid for access to unconscious women. People who’d thought anonymity protected them.
It didn’t.
Not anymore.
On the fourth morning, Martinez came to me with a gentle smile.
“You might want to hear this.”
She turned on the TV—a rare exception in the safe house.
Breaking news headlines scrolled across the screen:
NATIONWIDE STING OPERATION UNCOVERS MULTI-STATE EXPLOITATION RING
17 ARRESTS MADE — MORE EXPECTED
WOMAN’S BRAVERY SPARKS MAJOR INVESTIGATION
FEDERAL AGENTS CREDIT SOURCE FOR CRITICAL EVIDENCE
I stared at the screen, my heart pounding.
“They’re talking about you,” Martinez said quietly.
Me.
Anna Wilson.
The woman who had once believed her husband was her safe place.
I shook my head. “I’m not brave. I just… survived.”
“Surviving is brave,” she said.
The next day, Clare finally arrived. The moment she saw me, her face crumpled and she rushed into my arms.
“Oh my God, Anna…” she sobbed. “I was so scared—so scared you weren’t going to make it.”
I clung to her, burying my face in her shoulder.
“I wouldn’t be here without you,” I whispered.
She stepped back slightly, wiping her tears. “Are you really okay?”
“No,” I admitted. “But I will be.”
Clare nodded, her eyes fierce. “And I’ll be with you for every part of it.”
For the first time in days, I felt something warm unfurl in my chest.
Not fear.
Not dread.
Not survival instinct.
Something softer.
Hope.
Weeks passed.
The investigation exploded into national headlines.
Derek was indicted on multiple charges—kidnapping, drugging, sexual exploitation, conspiracy, attempted trafficking, and countless others.
A federal judge denied bail for him and his accomplices.
He would never see daylight as a free man again.
I testified. I cried. I healed. Slowly, painfully, but steadily.
I met other survivors—women from across the country who’d escaped similar horrors. We formed a bond stronger than fear.
I moved in with Clare, started therapy, rebuilt my freelance career. Piece by fragile piece, I reclaimed the life Derek had tried to steal from me.
And eventually, I started something new.
A nonprofit.
Designed to help victims of drug-facilitated assault and exploitation.
A place where women could find resources, support, legal help, community.
A place where they could feel seen.
I named it Sweet Dreams, reclaiming the words Derek whispered every night before he drugged me.
It felt powerful.
Necessary.
Mine.
One morning, months later, while speaking at a survivor event, I said something I didn’t plan, but it came out anyway.
“My husband tried to turn me into a product,” I told the room. “But instead, I became a survivor. And now you will too.”
The room erupted in applause.
I knew then—I wasn’t Anna Wilson, victim of Derek.
I was Anna Wilson, survivor, advocate, warrior.
Derek took eight months from me.
But he didn’t take me.
Not my spirit.
Not my future.
Not my worth.
And he never would again.
A year after Derek’s final sentencing, I visited the beach where he’d proposed. Alone this time. The waves rolled in gently, sunlight dancing across the water like the world hadn’t been shattered.
I stood there, letting the ocean wind tangle my hair.
And I whispered to the past version of myself—the one who’d overlooked red flags, who wanted so badly to believe she was loved, who never imagined the monster in her own home.
“You made it,” I whispered. “You’re safe now.”
I walked away from the water, leaving the memories where they belonged—behind me.
My future waited somewhere else.
Bright.
Peaceful.
Mine.
For the first time in far too long, I felt free.
