The parking garage loomed before me, a concrete tomb of shadows and echoing silence. My soaked dress clung to my skin as I shivered, each step sending water squelching from my ruined heels. Level 3, Melissa had said. Someone who believed me. Someone who might help me understand what was happening to my life, my marriage.
The elevator doors slid open with a hollow ding that reverberated through the nearly empty structure. A single flickering fluorescent light buzzed overhead, casting strange, shifting shadows across the concrete floor. My heart hammered against my ribs as I stepped out, scanning for Melissa's familiar face.
"Hello?" My voice sounded small, swallowed by the vastness of the garage. "Melissa?"
The sound of footsteps echoed from somewhere behind a concrete pillar. Relief flooded through me. "Melissa, thank you for—"
The words died in my throat as three men emerged from the shadows. Their faces were obscured by black ski masks, their eyes cold and predatory as they moved toward me with deliberate purpose. One of them held up a phone, its camera lens glinting in the dim light.
"That's her," the tallest one said, his voice muffled behind his mask. "Reya said not to leave any evidence she can use."
Reya. The name hit me like a physical blow. This wasn't a coincidence. This wasn't random.
I backed away, my wet shoes slipping on the concrete. "Stay away from me," I warned, though my voice trembled. "Security cameras are everywhere in this garage."
The shortest one laughed, the sound chilling my blood. "Not on this level. Maintenance issue. Convenient, isn't it?"
I turned to run, but my legs betrayed me. I slipped on the wet concrete, my knee striking the ground hard enough to tear my skin. Before I could scramble to my feet, rough hands grabbed me, dragging me deeper into the shadows between two parked cars.
"Please," I begged, my voice breaking. "I have a child. Please don't do this."
"Your husband doesn't seem too concerned about that," said the one with the phone, adjusting it to capture everything. "He knows exactly where you are right now."
Kylan knows. The realization crushed what little fight remained in me. My husband—the man I'd loved for ten years, married for eight, the father of my child—had allowed this to happen.
"She needs to understand what happens when you try to embarrass people like us," the tall one said, his hand closing around my throat.
I screamed then, a desperate, primal sound that echoed through the garage. I fought with everything I had, clawing, kicking, biting. But they were stronger, and there were three of them, and no one came when I screamed.
The phone recorded everything, its red light blinking steadily like an unfeeling eye as they took turns. My dress tore. My skin bruised. My dignity shattered.
"Make sure you get her face," one of them said. "Reya wants proof it's done."
Time lost meaning. I retreated somewhere deep inside myself as they broke me, piece by piece. When they finally finished, they left me curled on the cold concrete, the tall one pausing only to say, "Consider this a warning. Next time will be worse."
I don't know how long I lay there, my consciousness floating in and out. The garage lights buzzed overhead, indifferent to what had happened beneath them. Eventually, footsteps approached—cautious, hesitant.
"Oh my God! Ma'am? Ma'am, can you hear me?"
A security guard knelt beside me, his radio crackling as he called for an ambulance. His face swam in and out of focus as darkness threatened to claim me.
"Kylan," I whispered, though I wasn't sure why I called for the architect of my destruction. "Kylan knew..."
"Don't try to talk," the guard said, draping his jacket over me. "Help is coming."
The hospital lights were harsh, clinical. Nurses moved around me with gentle efficiency, their faces blurring together as they documented my injuries, collected evidence, asked questions I couldn't bear to answer.
"Your husband is here," one of them said eventually.
And then Kylan was there, his face a perfect mask of concern. He held my hand as cameras flashed from the doorway, murmuring how worried he'd been, how he'd searched everywhere for me.
"What happened, Brooklyn?" he asked, his voice breaking convincingly. "Who did this to you?"
But when the reporters were ushered away and the nurses stepped out, his mask slipped. His eyes went cold, his grip on my hand tightening painfully.
"This is unfortunate," he said quietly, reaching for his phone. His thumbs moved quickly across the screen as he texted someone. "But maybe now you understand your place."
I watched through half-closed eyes as he typed: *She's stable. Doctors say no permanent damage. Still meeting at 9?*
The reply came almost instantly: *Perfect. Wear the blue tie. I'll bring champagne.*
Reya. He was texting Reya while standing beside my hospital bed. Planning their next meeting while I lay broken by the violence they had orchestrated together.
Something hardened inside me then—a seed of rage taking root where love had once grown. This wasn't over. This was just beginning.
