Chapter 3
1044 Words
The thugs in the alley were all bark and no bite. Marion took them down with practiced ease, fists flying, sending the men scrambling into the shadows like rats.
He didn't chase them. Instead, he turned straight to Verena and pulled her trembling frame into his arms, voice taut with panic. "Rena, it's okay. You're safe now."
Verena buried her face in his chest, sobbing into his shirt. She tilted her head up a moment later, revealing a faint red mark on her ankle.
Her lower lip trembled. "Marion... my foot. It hurts so bad..."
Without a second's hesitation, Marion crouched down and swept her into his arms.
Only then did he seem to remember Kirsten. He turned and glanced back.
Kirsten was sitting against the wall. Blood dripped steadily down her temple, catching the sunlight like a crimson ribbon.
A flicker of something—guilt, maybe—crossed Marion's eyes. But it vanished just as fast. Like it had never been there at all.
"You're hurt too?" His tone was flat. Distant. Like he was asking if she'd spilled coffee. "Want me to take you to the hospital?"
"No need," Kirsten replied coldly.
She pushed herself off the wall, her legs trembling beneath her, her vision swimming. But she stayed on her feet.
Marion opened his mouth to say more, but Verena let out a soft moan and slumped dramatically in his arms, feigning a faint.
"Rena!" Marion's voice cracked with panic. He forgot everything else. Holding her close, he rushed to the Bentley parked nearby.
He settled Verena gently into the passenger seat, buckling her seatbelt with meticulous care. Then the car door slammed shut.
The Bentley's engine roared to life, tires screeching against the pavement as it sped off.
From start to finish, Marion didn't spare Kirsten a single glance, as if she were a stranger who meant nothing at all.
Kirsten stood in place, frozen, watching the taillights disappear.
That car, once a symbol of love and pride, was now just another thing she'd been shut out of.
A cold smile curled her lips.
She touched the blood on her cheek, wiped it away with the back of her hand. This warm, sticky sensation just sharpened her resolve.
She made her way to a nearby community hospital. The wound was cleaned, stitched, and wrapped there.
The young doctor frowned as he examined the gash on her forehead. "How'd this happen? This hit could've been a lot worse. You sure you don't want someone with you? We should get a CT scan—just in case."
"I'm fine on my own," Kirsten said.
She signed the forms, paid the bill, and collected her meds.
As she left, her phone buzzed. It was Marion.
"Where are you? Get home. Now." His voice was cold and commanding, leaving no room for argument.
Kirsten let out a bitter laugh.
Fine. She'd go home. To collect her belongings and leave for good.
Moments later, she stepped into the villa she'd once believed was her sanctuary.
It greeted her with soft lighting and suffocating silence.
In the living room, Verena was curled up on the couch, one leg delicately propped across Marion's lap like a fragile princess.
And Marion was kneeling on the floor beside her, gently dabbing ointment onto her ankle with all the care of a seasoned caregiver.
This was the same man who tore corporate empires apart without blinking. Now reduced to playing nursemaid.
The sight made Kirsten's stomach turn.
She was supposed to be the lady of this house. But right now? She was just a shadow in the doorway.
Marion looked up as the door clicked shut. The second he saw her, the warmth and worry drained from his face, replaced by suspicion and icy disdain.
He gently set Verena's foot down and stood, towering over Kirsten, his eyes blazing with fury.
"Kirsten, I didn't think you'd stoop this low," he said, his voice like a blade of ice. "Why did you hire those thugs to hurt Rena?"
For a moment, Kirsten thought she'd misheard. Then she let out a short, humorless laugh—sharp as shattered glass.
"You must've hit your head harder than I did," she said coolly.
Her sarcasm only ignited his anger further.
But before he could explode, Verena tugged at his sleeve, her voice trembling with false gentleness. "Marion... don't blame Kirsten. Maybe she didn't mean it..."
Her eyes shimmered with crocodile tears. "It's just... someone sent me this screenshot. I don't know if it's real, but..."
She handed him her phone with a hesitant hand.
Marion snatched it, his eyes narrowing.
On the screen was a text exchange. The sender labeled simply "Kirsten", messaging someone who appeared to be one of the thugs from the alley.
The content was damning.
[How's it?]
[Don't worry, Ms. Clarke. We'll rough up that Verena girl like you asked. Just enough to scare her.]
[Money's been transferred. Make sure it's not too serious, just humiliate her a little.]
The screenshot was laughably fake and sloppy. They even conveniently cropped out the sender's number. But Marion just latched onto it like gospel.
The last shred of hesitation in his gaze vanished. All that remained was pure, righteous rage.
He slammed the phone down on the table. The crack echoed.
"What do you have to say for yourself?" he demanded. "Apologize to Rena. Now."
Kirsten looked at his contorted, furious face and let out a soft, chilling laugh.
She had given this man her entire youth. Her career. Her future. And now, a single doctored screenshot was all it took to turn her into the villain.
"Apologize?" she echoed, her eyes shifting to Verena.
Verena blinked innocently, but the gleam of triumph in her eyes didn't lie.
"Marion, it's okay," Verena said softly, playing the saint. "She doesn't need to apologize. I'm sure Kirsten didn't mean it."
Then she leaned back, her gaze drifting toward the exorbitantly priced liquor cabinet. Her delicate finger pointed to a bottle of amber-hued whiskey, a rare, collector's edition with a sixty percent alcohol content.
"I've heard Kirsten can hold her liquor," she said, tone sugar-sweet. "So how about this? If she drinks that bottle, we'll call it even. No more drama. What do you say?"
- Writer
