The Don's Obsession

I stood at the altar, one hand pressed over my stomach. My baby bump was there now, almost visible. “Miss Vallorie, do you take Mr. Charles to be your lawful wedded husband?” The priest’s voice echoed. My throat was dry. “Yes, I—” The church doors burst open. He didn’t walk. He charged down the aisle like a predator hunting prey. Heavy boots hit the marble. Before I could blink, a hand grabbed my wrist and yanked me back. Hard. My bouquet hit the floor. White petals scattered across the blood-red carpet. Pain shot up my arm. I gasped. I stared at the man in front of me. Tall. Broad. Mask pushed up on his forehead. Face carved with scars. I didn’t know him. “How dare you disrupt a holy marriage!” the priest shouted, face red. “She’s carrying my child,” the man snarled. “She’s leaving with me. Now.” His grip was like iron. He didn’t care that it hurt. My father sat in the front row and didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Charles, the man my father sold me to for ten million, stepped back like I had a disease. I didn’t understand. _How does he know about the baby?_ He dragged me down the aisle. No one stopped him. Outside, the sky was black. Clouds swallowed the sun. He threw me against a black SUV. “Get her inside,” he barked to the men behind him. I screamed. I fought. It didn’t matter. My phone was in my hand. I hit 9-1-1. He slapped it away. It shattered on the ground. “Let me go!” I shouted, clawing at him. “Let me go! You’re trapping me!” He grabbed my throat. Not to choke. Just to show he could. He leaned in, voice low and ice-cold: “I don’t care about you. Whether you live or die means nothing to me. I only want my child. If I could cut him out of you and throw you away, I would. So don’t fight me. Once the baby is born, you can leave.” My blood went cold. _His child? What does he mean?_ He shoved me into the back seat. The door locked. The car sped off before I could breathe. I pulled at my dress. My hands came away wet. Blood. Red on white. He saw it in the mirror. Didn’t slow down. “Who are you?” I shouted, hitting the window. “My father will kill you for this!” He laughed. It wasn’t a real laugh. It was ugly. “Your father sold you to Charles for ten million. I’m just taking what’s mine.” He threw a folder into my lap. My name was on it. _Ultrasound Report_ _Patient: Vallorie Smith_ _Gestation: 8 weeks 2 days_ _Heartbeat detected._ My hands shook. A black-and-white picture. A baby. Mine. I stared at it. Something about it tugged at me. The angle. The grainy smudge that looked like a heartbeat. _Familiar._ Then it came back, slow and sickening. Two months ago. I was drowning in debt and shame after my father lost everything. I drank until the world blurred at that underground bar. A man in a mask found me there. Tall. Broad. Voice rough like gravel. I didn’t ask his name. He didn’t ask mine. We ended up in a hotel room. No lights. No face. Just the weight of him, and the way he made me forget everything for one night. When I woke up, he was gone. Only a bruise on my wrist where he’d held me too tight. I tried to forget it. I did. Until six weeks later. My father dragged me to Dr. Evans’ office, his fingers digging into my arm. I’d been throwing up every morning, and he didn’t trust me. “You’re late. You’re getting fatter,” he hissed, yanking me through the door. After the test, Dr. Evans came out. He didn’t meet my eyes. “Eight weeks pregnant, Mr. Smith.” The image he’d handed me was right here. Same blurry black-and-white. Same date. How did this man have it? My breath hitched. He’d been watching me. Watching my father. Watching the hospital. He was the man from that night. Hatred burned in my chest.