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Tears well up in my eyes, and with a surge of adrenaline, I summon all my strength and manage to free one arm. In a swift motion, I swing my hand toward him, the force of my slap echoing in the air. He staggers back, a shocked expression flashing across his face as he rubs his cheek.
A cruel smile twists his lips then as he glares at me, his eyes cold and calculating. He dabs at his lips and finds a smear of blood, his sneer deepening.
“You shouldn’t have done that,” he growls.
Before I can react, he reaches into his waistband and pulls out a knife, the blade glinting in the dim light of the hallway. I gasp as he presses it against my throat, the cold metal sending shivers down my spine.
“If you put your hands on me again,” he hisses. “I’m going to give you a reason to cry, bitch.”
I swallow hard, the lump in my throat threatening to choke me as I stare into his eyes. He shoves me away, and I fall to the ground with a loud thump.
I stay on the floor, crying and shaking, for God knows how long. With trembling hands, I reach for my purse beside me and rummage through it until my fingers wrap around the familiar shape of my phone. Relief floods through me as I unlock the screen.
I quickly navigate to my messages, fingers tapping out a text to the one person who always manages to make me feel safe, even when I know I shouldn’t turn to him. It’s a risky move, reaching out to someone who stirs up emotions I’ve tried to bury, but in this moment of vulnerability, he’s the only one I can think of.
I type and delete over and over, unsure what to say, but eventually settle on a hey, simple yet loaded with unspoken words. It’s a silent plea for comfort, for reassurance, even though I know deep down that it’s a dangerous game.
I hit send and wait, heart thudding in my chest. Minutes pass, and still, there’s no reply. Sadness creeps into my chest, mingling with the mess of emotions already present.
I understand, though. I’ve been there, on the other side of the screen, ignoring messages from him for a year. I can’t blame him for not responding, not after the way I shut him out. It’s a bitter pill to swallow—I’m reaping what I sowed.
With a heavy sigh, I text the next best person. My brother.
As I finally push myself off the floor, I tentatively start to wander around the house. There’s a strange stillness in the air, and I can’t help but wonder if Andrew has left me here alone.
I make my way through the hallway and, just as I reach the door to Andrew’s office, I catch a faint murmur.
“As soon as we’re married, I’ll set the plan in motion.”
Panic grips me. What plan?
Just then, my phone vibrates, and I quickly back away from the door.
Dimo: I’m on my way.
Relief fills me. I need to get out of here as soon as possible.
Everything about Andrew feels off, but one thing is clear: he won’t let anyone get in his way.
I quietly step into the kitchen to grab my things. As I bend down to put on my shoes, Andrew’s voice startles me.
“Where are you going?”
My hand flies to my chest. “Home. Dimitri is on his way.”
He crosses his arms with a skeptical look on his face. “That seems unnecessary. I could’ve taken you.”
And get in the car with you after you sexually assaulted me? No, thanks.
“It’s fine. He was already out, anyway,” I lie, and I pray that my brother is close, because every second I spend in Andrew’s presence is a second too long.
Sweat runs down my forehead and I already feel the urge to take the edge off again, but the rest of my stash is at home.
As if summoned, my brother texts me that he’s arrived.
I wiggle my phone in front of Andrew, avoiding his gaze. “Well, that’s me. I’m going to head out.”
As I’m about to leave, he grabs onto my bicep, hard. I let out a hiss.
