My Fiancé Killed My Guide Dog for A Bitch

I never thought I'd be stupid enough to lend my eyes to someone else. But here I was, stumbling through the Bonds of Light sound stage with just my white cane, feeling like I'd voluntarily cut off my own limbs.

The absence of Stella's warm body beside me, her steady breathing, the gentle pressure of her harness against my palm—it was like trying to navigate the world with half my senses missing.

"Miss Sinclair, you sure you don't need assistance?" Tom, the sound engineer, asked, his voice tinged with the kind of pity that made my skin crawl.

"I'm fine," I lied, my cane tapping against equipment cases. I wasn't fine. I was here because my fiancé had convinced me that lending him my guide dog for his movie would be "meaningful" and "add authenticity." Because Stella coming from me—his blind producer fiancée—would be "a beautiful story for the press." Because I was an idiot who believed in love and art and supporting your partner's dreams.

Three months ago, Damon had said exactly that: "She's perfect for the role, Aria. And having her come from you... it adds such a personal touch. The press will love it—the blind heiress who literally gave her eyes to help her fiancé's art." It had sounded crazy, but I'd wanted to support his Oscar dreams. Now I regretted everything.

The memory hit me like a physical blow, transporting me back to that evening in our Malibu living room.

"Aria, baby, I need to ask you something," Damon had said, his voice filled with that careful excitement I'd come to recognize.

I'd turned from the piano, Stella immediately sensing my movement and walking over from her spot near the window. "What is it?"

"You know the dog character in Bonds of Light? The one that represents hope and healing?"

"Of course. It's the emotional core of the whole film."

"Well, casting has been a nightmare. We need a German Shepherd, but more than that, we need one with... presence. Intelligence. The kind of connection that makes audiences believe."

I'd felt the trap closing, but couldn't see it clearly yet. "And?"

"Stella would be perfect."

Silence. Stella's head had found my leg, and my hand automatically moved to stroke the soft fur behind her ears.

"Damon, she's not just any dog. She's my—"

"Your eyes, I know. But Aria, think about it. This could be huge for both of us. For the film, for your production company, for our future. And the story... 'Academy Award contender features real guide dog belonging to blind producer'... it's gold."

He'd made it sound so reasonable. Our story really was touching. And it was just filming—not something dangerous. I'd wanted to support him, to be part of his success rather than an obstacle.

"How long would filming take?"

"Six weeks, max. Professional animal trainers will be with her 24/7. She'll be treated like royalty."

I remembered hesitating for a long time. What had finally convinced me was what Damon said next: "Aria, you always said you believe in the power of storytelling to change hearts. This film could make people understand what guide dogs really mean. What they represent."

"Miss Sinclair?" Tom's voice pulled me back to the present. "The audio files are ready for review. Should I start with the dialogue tracks or the ambient sound?"

"Start with scene 47. The accident sequence."

I heard keyboard clicks, then speakers came alive with sound. The sharp screech of car tires against pavement, the crash of metal on metal, and then...

My blood turned to ice.

That was a dog's cry. But not just any dog's cry.

I had perfect pitch—a gift and a curse. I could identify the exact frequency of every sound, every subtle difference in tone. When you can't see, your other senses become hyperaware. This cry had a specific pitch: G-sharp 3, with a slight tremor, exactly 417 hertz. I knew this sound too well.

"Tom," I said, my voice steadier than I'd expected, "this impact sound at 01:47:23. Is it original recording or post-production?"

"Original, Miss Sinclair. Mr. Cruz insisted on authentic audio for maximum realism."

"And the dog's cry at 01:47:31?"

"Also original. Quite moving, isn't it? Really makes you feel the impact."

That wasn't impact. That was Stella. My Stella. I knew every sound she made. This cry... this cry was pain. Fear.

"Tom, can you replay that section? I need to analyze the audio quality."

On the second playback, I heard more details. Before the impact, there was the sound of tires accelerating. After the crash, sudden braking. Then Stella's cry—the kind I'd only heard once before, when she was a puppy and got hurt.

"Tom, I need to see the technical specs for this audio."

"Sure thing." More keyboard sounds. "Recorded on location, 48kHz/24-bit, minimal post-processing. Mr. Cruz was very specific about maintaining authenticity."

My hands started shaking. As a sound expert, I knew the difference between CGI sound effects and live recording. CGI had digital fingerprints, an overly perfect clarity. Live recording had ambient noise, imperfections, and... reality.

This recording was too real.

"Tom, do you know where this scene was filmed?"

"Downtown LA, near the arts district. I can get you the exact address if you need it."

I needed more information. But deep down, I already knew the truth. Professional equipment doesn't lie. My ears don't lie. This cry was Stella's, and she'd been in pain when it was recorded.

"Can you also pull up the metadata? I want to see the exact time and date stamp."

"Of course. Here we go... recorded on March 15th, 2:47 PM."

March 15th. The day Damon had told me Stella was just filming "simple training shots." He'd said she wouldn't even appear in the final cut.

I replayed the audio, this time focusing on what came after the impact. Besides Stella's cry, there was something else. A man's voice in the background, distant but audible when I turned up the volume:

"Cut! Perfect take. Print it."

Damon's voice.

"Perfect take." That meant they'd gotten what they wanted. That meant Stella's pain, her fear, her suffering... it was all part of their plan.

My chest felt like a stone had been placed on it. Breathing became difficult.

"Miss Sinclair? You okay? You look pale."

"I need to make a phone call," I said, my voice sounding like it came from far away. "Can you save this session? I'll need to review it again later."

"Of course. Should I continue with the other scenes?"

"No." I stood up, my white cane trembling in my hands. "That's enough for today."

I stood in the hallway outside the studio, my back against the wall, trying to control my breathing.

I pulled out my phone and dialed Damon's number. Straight to voicemail.

"Hi, you've reached Damon Cruz. I'm probably on set making movie magic. Leave a message."

I didn't leave a message. Instead, I played that audio segment again. The impact. Stella's cry. Then the terrible silence.

"No," I whispered to the empty hallway. "No, no, no."

My fiancé hadn't just borrowed my dog for his movie.

He had killed her for it.