Chapter 3
I didn’t want to waste another second in her presence. I just wanted to leave and never look back. But of course, Dalia wouldn’t let me.
“Stop right there.”
Her voice was sharp, slicing through the drizzle like a blade.
“You think you can steal from me and just walk away?” With no audience around, the sweet facade she wore around others dropped instantly. Her voice turned cold, venomous.
I turned to face her. “I didn’t steal anything. Don’t you dare accuse me of that.”
She sneered. “Really? Isn’t that ring on your finger something my husband bought? Which makes it mine. So go ahead, tell me again how you’re not a thief.”
Only then did I realize I was still wearing the silver band he once gave me. In my rush to leave that godforsaken house, I hadn’t thought about returning it.
Fine.
Without hesitation, I slipped the ring off and extended it to her.
But she didn’t take it.
Instead, she gripped it from my hand, letting it clatter onto the pavement. Then, with a sinister little smile, she gasped dramatically and threw herself to the ground.
“Ow!”
The scream echoed just as the front door opened behind us.
Perfect.
Within seconds, Dante’s mother stormed outside, eyes locking on the scene with terrifying speed. Before I could explain, she raised her hand and slapped me so hard across the face, my ears rang.
“You nasty little bitch! How dare you lay a hand on Dalia!”
I stumbled back, stunned, clutching my cheek.
Dalia curled on the ground like some tragic heroine, voice weak and trembling. “Mom, please don’t blame her. It was my fault… I shouldn’t have asked for the ring back. It’s the one Dante bought for her after all…”
Then the crocodile tears came, soft sobs shaking her body. She didn’t miss a beat.
Dante rushed to her side, glaring at me with disgust. “Mireya, she just wanted to take back what rightfully belongs to her! If you didn’t want to return it, fine—but did you really have to hurt her?”
“Apologize to her. Now!”
When I didn’t move, still too stunned to comprehend what was happening, my mother-in-law lost what little sanity she had left.
“If you won’t apologize,” she growled, “then I’ll make you.”
She kicked me, hard. I dropped to the wet ground, pain erupting in my abdomen like fire. Something wasn’t right.
Warmth gushed between my thighs.
Panic exploded in my chest.
I reached for my phone call to help, but she was faster. She grabbed it and yanked it from my hand.
“You think you’re still playing the victim here?” she spat. “You’re not getting this phone until you crawl over there and beg for her forgiveness.”
The pain intensified with every passing second. My vision blurred, and the rain began to fall harder, soaking my clothes, my hair, blood.
But I wanted to live.
I had no other choice.
So, I forced myself to my knees, knuckles scraping the concrete as I bowed before Dalia.
“I’m sorry,” I choked out, barely able to breathe.
She smiled sweetly and turned her head into Dante’s chest like a cherished doll.
“I’m not mad anymore,” she murmured. “Let’s go inside, okay?”
He carried her into the house.
My mother-in-law finally tossed the phone back at me with a sneer. “Pathetic,” she muttered, then turned and followed them in.
My hands trembled as I punched in the emergency number.
The last thing I saw before the darkness took me was the scarlet pool beneath me—blood and rain mixing into something that looked like grief.
Love isn’t supposed to hurt this much.
And yet even after it died, it still did.
When I woke up, the white ceiling above me was unfamiliar. A nurse adjusted the IV bag beside me.
“You’re lucky,” the doctor said. “The trauma caused significant bleeding, but the paramedics got to you just in time. You’ll need to stay a few days for observation, but you’re stable now.”
Alive.
Barely.
As I lay in that cold hospital bed, the news played softly on the mounted TV screen: The Ashbourne family announces a lavish wedding for their only son, Dante Ashbourne, and fiancée Dalia Monroe.
I stared at the screen. My fingers curled into tight fists beneath the sheets.
They think they’ve won.
They think they can destroy me and walk away without a scratch.
I reached for my phone with trembling fingers and dialed a number I hadn’t used in years. The voice on the other end answered after one ring.
“I need your help,” I said. “Someone messed with me, and I want blood. I want to expose him—publicly. I want his damn test report. I want to make a scene so big the world stops and watches.”
A pause.
Then, a low chuckle. “Now that’s the Mireya Quinn I remember.”
