Three years ago, my husband, Ethan, had me committed to a private sanatorium in Utah. “It’s for your own good,” he’d said. But only a year before that, he had bought me one of only three Guarneri violins in the world, telling me my fingers were made for music. All because of a single, staged “backstage breakdown,” he was able to legally imprison me. He became my guardian. And I became his patient. For three years, I was forced to swallow countless psychiatric drugs and subjected to shock therapy until I forgot every score I had ever known. Chloe, the violin prodigy, died. What survived was a swollen, numb shell that only knew how to nod. Now, he has brought me back to his penthouse in New York. His fiancée, Olivia, once my best friend, is nestled at his side. He points at me and smiles gently at her. “Don’t be afraid. She’s very docile now. She won’t have another episode.” … Olivia’s soft hand rested lightly in the crook of Ethan’s arm, a......
