"I'll do as you say. I'll come back to take over the company, but you can't interfere with any of my decisions."
"Fine. As long as you come back, the company is yours to run," replied the person on the other end of the call.
My hand trembled as I ended the call. At that moment, my eyes stopped at the black stockings which I found at the bedside of my bedroom.
It was a mocking reminder of the chemistry my boyfriend of eight years, Christopher Wilson, had with his secretary, Scarlett Anderson.
I took a deep breath and reluctantly turned my orbs towards the gauze wrapped around my arm. I could see blood, it was slightly seeping through it.
Meanwhile, the events of the afternoon played on a loop in my mind. I was walking through the alley near the market.
A black SUV halted in front of me. Before I could comprehend the situation, a few men carrying a gun came out.
Their cold eyes and matching tattoos told me they belonged to the Russo Mafia Group, one of Christopher’s fiercest rivals.
"You thought you could run from us?" one of them shouted at the top of their lungs. When I didn't say anything, he slapped me hard. The sudden action was enough to make me stagger into the wall.
"I don’t know what you’re talking about!" I mumbled, taking a deep breath. Then my hand subconsciously cradled my stomach.
But they didn’t care.
One of them grabbed my wrist and twisted it painfully. Meanwhile, another one pushed me to the ground.
Within seconds, my groceries scattered across the ground. As I tried to push myself up, the barrel of a gun pressed against my temple.
“This is what happens when Christopher Wilson doesn't keep his promises. If he won't stop, you’ll pay,” the man growled.
It was then I spotted the familiar black SUV car pulling into the street. Christopher was inside his secretary in the passenger seat. I screamed, my voice hoarse and desperate.
"Help me!"
Although Christopher glanced at me for a brief moment through the window. His expression didn’t change.
Instead, he turned to his secretary and covered her ears, as if he was trying to shield her from danger.
"Don’t listen, don’t look, or you’ll have nightmares tonight," he said coolly.
Then the car window rolled up, and he sped away.
I was left there alone. Tears started flowing down my cheeks. The men didn’t hesitate.
One shoved me hard against the wall, and the sharp edge of a broken pipe tore into my arm. Blood was oozing out of it.
When they finally left, they left a message. "Tell Christopher this is just the beginning."
Then I dragged myself to the hospital, my body battered and my spirit broken. But the doctor’s words hit harder than any of the blows.
"You were about a month pregnant," he said softly, avoiding my eyes. "We couldn’t save the baby. The trauma… It was too much."
My eyes were fixed on the ceiling, numb.
Later that night, when I returned home, Christopher walked in with a bottle of expensive whiskey in one hand and a case in the other.
Most probably it contained cash or weapons from one of his deals.
Without delay, he tossed the case onto the table and loosened his tie. He barely glanced at me. The scent of smoke and blood clung to him. It was a constant reminder of the life he lived.
Meanwhile, I was sitting on the couch, my arm wrapped in bandages, my face pale. He didn’t even notice.
"Did you eat?" he asked sternly as he poured himself a drink.
I raised my bandaged hand and showed him the stitches. "The doctor said I need to avoid certain foods."
He knitted his eyebrows slightly. His gaze flickered to the bandage but didn't stop. "Then make something that suits you."
I nodded my head in agreement, taking out my phone to order something.
Seeing me act so detached, Christopher paused. At that moment, his glass was hovering mid-air. "Is your next check-up in three days? Do you need someone to go with you?"
