In the third year of our marriage, I caught my husband, Conrad Voss, with his secretary in his office.   Her clothes were in disarray as she leaned against him, stroking her flat stomach in open defiance. Conrad merely looked at me coldly and told me to stop making a scene.   I drove away in the rain. A red sports car suddenly struck me from behind and to the side, forcing my car onto the guardrail.   The crash left both my legs badly injured and caused severe brain damage.   To bury the scandal, Conrad claimed the accident had made me mentally unstable and that I needed rest. Then he had me committed to a locked private care facility.   For 3 years, he never came or asked about me. His secretary moved into my home and took her place at his side as his future wife.   In the third year, he finally brought her to take me home.   Now visibly pregnant, she wore the emerald bracelet my mother had left me and smiled down at me.   "These 3 years should have taught you some manners. Behave yourself when you get home. Know your place."   Conrad looked down at me. A mix of emotions flickered in his eyes before his expression turned cold again.   "Do as you're told, and you'll still be Mrs. Voss."   Sitting in my wheelchair, I slowly looked up.   "I don't need to be."   He crouched and lifted my chin with his fingertips. His touch was light, but his eyes searched my face.   "Felicity, stop this."   I knocked his hand away and pointed at the man being interviewed on the financial channel.   "That's my husband," I said in earnest.