After My Fiancé Chose the Villain

The mountain air had felt so crisp and promising just hours ago. Braxton and I had arrived at the secluded resort with such excitement, our pre-wedding honeymoon finally beginning. The rustic cabin overlooking the valley seemed like the perfect escape from wedding planning stress, a chance to reconnect before our big day next month.

Now, as rough hands dragged me from our bed in the middle of the night, that same mountain air felt suffocating through the black hood they'd pulled over my head.

"Braxton!" I screamed, my voice muffled by the fabric. I could hear him shouting my name from somewhere nearby, his voice filled with panic and rage.

"Shut up!" A gruff voice barked, and something hard struck my ribs, sending lightning bolts of pain through my chest.

They separated us immediately. I was shoved into what felt like a small, damp room that reeked of mold and decay. When they finally ripped the hood from my head, I found myself staring at three masked figures in a windowless concrete space lit by a single harsh bulb.

"Where is he?" I demanded, my voice stronger than I felt. "What do you want?"

The tallest one stepped forward, his eyes cold behind the ski mask. "We want information about Pierce family business dealings. Bank accounts, offshore investments, security protocols."

"I don't know anything about that," I said, which was mostly true. Braxton kept his family's business separate from our relationship.

The man's laugh was ugly. "You're about to marry into one of the wealthiest families in the state, sweetheart. Don't play dumb."

When I remained silent, he nodded to his companions. The first blow came without warning, a vicious backhand that sent me sprawling to the cold floor, my lip splitting open. Blood filled my mouth, metallic and warm.

"This can be easy or hard," he said, crouching beside me. "Tell us what we want to know, and maybe you both walk out of here."

"I told you, I don't know anything!" I spat blood at his feet.

That's when the real nightmare began.

Hours blended into an endless cycle of questions, silence, and pain. They used fists, boots, electrical devices that sent agony coursing through my body until I couldn't tell where one wave of torture ended and the next began. My ribs cracked under their assault. My face swelled until I could barely see through my left eye.

But the worst part wasn't my own suffering—it was hearing Braxton's voice through the thin walls, calling my name, begging them to stop. Every scream that escaped my lips felt like a betrayal of the man I loved.

"Please," I gasped during one brief respite, my voice barely a whisper. "Whatever you want from the Pierce family, take it out on me. Don't hurt him. He doesn't deserve this."

The leader tilted his head, studying me with what might have been curiosity. "Interesting. You really think you can protect him?"

"Yes," I said without hesitation. "Hurt me instead. I can take it."

Something shifted in the room's atmosphere. The three men exchanged glances, and I caught a flicker of what looked almost like... approval?

"Well," the leader said slowly, "if you insist."

The next seventy hours became a blur of calculated cruelty. They broke my legs methodically, one bone at a time, the sound echoing through the small space like gunshots. I bit through my tongue to keep from screaming, tasting copper and salt. When unconsciousness tried to claim me, they'd splash cold water on my face or apply electrical shocks to keep me awake.

Through it all, I held onto one thought: Braxton was safe. Every moment I endured meant another moment he was protected. Every broken bone, every burn, every cut was a shield between the man I loved and these monsters.

By the time rescue arrived, I was barely conscious, my body a roadmap of bruises and breaks. I heard shouting, gunfire, then blessed silence. When Braxton's face appeared above me, tears streaming down his cheeks, I tried to smile despite my swollen lips.

"I'm sorry," I whispered. "I couldn't protect you better."

"Don't talk," he said, his voice breaking. "You're going to be okay. We're going to be okay."

But as the paramedics loaded me into the ambulance, I caught fragments of conversation that made my blood turn to ice.

"...hired by someone named Claire Evans..."

"...specifically requested the woman be the primary target..."

"...paid extra to make sure she suffered..."

Claire Evans. Braxton's first love, the woman he'd never quite stopped talking about even after we got engaged. The woman who'd apparently orchestrated my hundred hours of hell.

As the ambulance pulled away, my broken body screaming with every bump in the road, one terrible truth crystallized in my mind: I hadn't been protecting Braxton from random kidnappers.

I'd been tortured by the woman who wanted to steal him back.