He Said I Love Him Enough to Let Him Marry Her and Kill Our Child Chapter 04

He Said I Love Him Enough to Let Him Marry Her and Kill Our Child Chapter 04

He kept hitting me, brutal, methodical blows, dumping every ounce of rage onto my body. When he finally tired out, Bianca’s friends swarmed.

They poured iced coffee over my head. Chucked garbage at my body. Circled me like sharks.

“You’re nothing but a desperate gold digger,” one of them spat. “You actually thought you had a shot with Tristan Shaw? Tristan runs in circles you can’t even breathe in. He’s tight with Mr. Grant. And you? You’re nobody.”

“And look around you. This is Belmont Manor. A broke, pathetic nobody like you couldn’t even get past the valet.”

It hit me then, a cold wash of déjà vu. I was right back in middle school. Back to those moments of being cornered, targeted, destroyed. Except this time, the boy who once defended me was the one leading the attack.

Suddenly, Bianca’s best friend held up her phone, her voice cutting through the noise. “Everyone, I have a video. It’s this slut’s abortion. You have to see this.”

They all crowded around the screen.

In the video, I was crying, begging for help. Not a single face showed an ounce of sympathy. Only disgust.

Some woman watched it and felt so righteous she kicked me in the ribs. “Filthy whore. And you thought you had a shot with Tristan Shaw?”

Another voice chimed in. “Post it. Put it online so everyone knows to stay clear of her.”

Panic slammed into me. I tried to grab the phone back, but someone kicked me again. Then hands were on my clothes, ripping and tearing. More phones came out, cameras flashing, recording everything.

The chant started up. “Homewrecker. Homewrecker.”

I somehow shoved my way through the mob and bolted for the hallway.

They caught me before I made it ten steps. The beating continued. Phones were shoved in my face. Through the gaps in the crowd, I saw Tristan. Standing there. Watching. His face completely blank.

Then, someone pushed through the chaos and pulled every last one of them off me.

The attackers erupted. “Mind your own damn business. You trying to be a hero? What, you screwing this slut too? You want some of this yourself?”

But Tristan’s face went pale.

He rushed forward, practically bowing. “Mr. Grant. Good evening. I’m Tristan Shaw.”

The man ignored him. His eyes were locked on me. Heartbreak pooled in them, and I watched a powerful man come within a breath of crying.

I forced a weak smile. “Dad,” I whispered. “You came.”