"Ah—!"
No matter how hard I tried to endure, the scream tore from my throat as beads of sweat rolled down my forehead.
"What are you doing?!" Yves' voice cracked in shock.
"Didn't you say she isn't your wife?" The masked man pointed at Shontelle. "Your wife has three ropes binding her. For every rope I cut, I'll rip out one of this woman's nails."
"Are you insane?!" Yves' forehead bulged with veins. "Name your price—I'll pay it! Let them both go!"
"There's no such good deal." The man sneered, twirling the pliers in his hand. "Answer me again. Which one is your wife?"
He moved closer.
"No answer? Then neither of them walks out alive."
He strode toward Shontelle.
"Yves!" she screamed, her voice trembling with practiced fear.
And then came Yves' cruelest words, each one cutting me deeper than the pliers ever could.
"Shontelle! She's my wife!"
"Ahhh—!"
Even biting through my lip couldn't silence the shriek as another fingernail was torn away.
Ten fingers, tied to the heart—they ripped two from me already.
"There's still one more," the man reminded him coldly.
"Who the hell are you?!" Yves' eyes were bloodshot on the screen, his voice thunderous. "Pray I never find you—because if I do, I'll kill you!"
"Game is not over."
The third nail came free.
This time, I made no sound.
The man paused, even a little surprised, staring at me with something close to respect.
But my gaze had already gone dim.
So this was what it felt like—utter despair for someone you once gave your whole heart to.
Shontelle leaned closer, her lips curling in mock sympathy.
"Look at you now, Marichelle. I almost pity you. But it's not my fault that in Yves's eyes... His wife is me."
Her little game was complete, she left satisfied—satisfied enough to abandon me bleeding on the cold floor.
The ropes bit into my wrists. My fingers oozed blood, a constant reminder of what had just been done to me.
My lips were cracked, my body throbbed with pain. Exhaustion pulled my eyes shut.
—
Meanwhile, Yves threw on a coat and stormed toward the door. He didn't believe the kidnappers would actually release Marichelle and Shontelle.
As soon as he opened it, he nearly collided with Shontelle, who had returned.
Seeing him, she instantly morphed into a trembling rabbit, her eyes wide with fear.
"Yves, you don't know how scared I was just now. I thought I was going to die—that I'd never see you again..."
"Where is Marichelle?" Yves pushed her out of his arms, demanding an answer.
For a split second, displeasure flashed across her face, but she quickly masked it with teary grievance.
"Marichelle... she..."
"What about her?"
"She... she sold herself to the kidnappers to survive. They took her away. I wanted to ask where they were going, but I was too terrified... so I ran back to find you."
"Yves, what should we do now?"
Yves' chest tightened with irritation. That pitiful, fragile act of hers—the one he once adored—suddenly grated on him.
But there was no time to dwell on it. Finding Marichelle was all that mattered.
—
When I opened my eyes again, everything was white.
My hands were carefully bandaged, and on the bedside table sat a plate of fresh strawberries—my favorite.
"Dad..."
The man standing guard turned at once. His weathered face softened with both pain and relief.
"My precious girl," he choked out, taking my hand. "Tell me—who did this to you? I'll make them pay, ten times, a hundred times over!"
I lifted my trembling hand to clasp his broad palm. Taking a deep breath, I spoke calmly.
"Dad... get me a death certificate."
The death certificate was mailed alongside the divorce papers to Yves' company.
I didn't know when—or if he would even open them.
But I knew this much: I was leaving.
Leaving for a city a thousand miles away—to start anew with the people I love, and the ones who truly love me.
