After being discharged, I received a call from my father.
He said he was about to board his flight and would arrive in five hours.
When the call ended, I took a deep breath and looked up at the vast blue sky.
Before I left, I had to settle things here.
I had just mailed the finalized divorce papers to Yves' company when my studio assistant called in a panic.
"Miss Marichelle, something is wrong! Please come quickly!"
Her terrified voice made my stomach sink. Without another word, I rushed to the studio.
When I arrived, the sight nearly stopped my heart.
The place I had poured my soul into—every corner designed by my own hands—was in ruins.
Tables and chairs lay overturned.
My painstakingly drawn design sketches were scattered on the ground, trampled into filth.
And at the center of it all was Shontelle.
She was toying with one of the delicate necklaces from the counter, her lips curling into a smug smile as she looked at me.
"Marichelle, don't glare at me like that. It was Yves. I just mentioned that I liked your studio, and guess what? He handed it over to me as a gift!"
She tossed the necklace onto the ground and ground her heel into it.
"So, Marichelle, remember your place. As long as I want it, the position of Mrs. Perez will be mine anytime."
"Mrs. Perez? Who would even want that? What I see is you destroying my store! I've tolerated you again and again—did you really think I was so easy to bully?"
I grabbed Shontelle by the hair and slammed her head toward the counter.
"Help me!"
Before her face could smash into the surface, I was yanked back and hurled to the ground, my ribs hitting the corner of a table with a jolt of pain.
Right—I'd forgotten. She didn't come alone.
The bodyguards pinned me down, tying me to a chair. Shontelle stepped forward and slapped me hard across the face.
"That's for acting tough! You dared to touch me? Before, I was polite because Yves was around. But now? Who's going to protect you?"
I licked the blood off my lip, smiled at her through the sting.
"All this, for a man? If you want him so badly, he's yours."
Another smack landed across my cheek.
But it wasn't enough for her. Shontelle's eyes gleamed with malice as she turned to the bodyguards, her smile grew twisted.
"You—teach her a lesson. Make it the kind that doesn't leave marks."
They untied me, only to kick me down. Blows rained down. Through the haze of pain, I caught sight of Shontelle filming everything.
The next time I opened my eyes, I saw her again—her face smeared with fake blood, hands bound just like mine.
"Did you get it? Send it to Yves!" she ordered.
One of the masked men handed her a phone. Her ropes were clearly just for show.
"Marichelle, let's play a game. Let's see who Yves really thinks his wife is."
My stomach clenched. I didn't know what trick she was pulling this time—until the video call was connected.
On the screen, Yves appeared. His eyes frantic, voice sharp with command.
"Who are you? Who gave you the guts to kidnap my wife? Let her go, now!"
The man in the mask shifted the camera between the two of us.
"Which one is your wife? I'll release her."
"The one in pink! She's my wife. Don't hurt her! Whatever you want, I'll pay!"
Pink...
I never wore pink.
Shontelle lowered her head, barely able to hide her glee, trembling just enough to look convincingly frightened.
"Yves, I'm scared..." she whimpered.
"Don't be afraid. I won't let them touch you!"
Even though I had already stopped loving him, hearing my husband of five years choose her without a flicker of doubt tore open a wound in my already-dead heart.
"I need proof," the masked man said coldly. He picked up a pair of pliers and moved behind Shontelle.
"What are you doing? She's my wife! Would I mistake her? Would I lie about this?" Yves' roar nearly cracked the speakers.
"Are you certain she's your wife?" the man pressed.
"I'm certain!" His voice was firm, unhesitating.
Snip—one rope on Shontelle's wrist fell loose.
Two left.
Then the masked man turned toward me.
A chill crept down my spine. My scalp prickled as an ominous dread filled me.
The sharp sting didn't register until it was too late—he had ripped one of my fingernails clean off.
