Chapter 5
“You’re such a fucking slut, Isla. Was last night not enough for you?”
Julian’s voice snapped through the air like a whip. His eyes were wild, his grip iron as he reached for the zipper on my dress.
“Stop! Don’t touch me!” I screamed, twisting away from him.
I didn’t want it like this—not when he was angry, not when I felt like just another outlet for his rage.
I fought him with everything I had, nails scratching, legs kicking. But it was like trying to push down a freight train. Useless.
When I realized I couldn’t stop him, something in me just… broke.
I stopped fighting. And I cried.
“Julian, why can’t you just be kind to me for once… just once.”
My voice cracked, ugly with tears. The sound of it must’ve finally reached whatever was left of his conscience, because his whole body went rigid.
He stared at me, like he was waking up from some blackout. Then his arms came around me fast, tight. Too tight.
“I’m sorry. Fuck. I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean it, I just…”
He kept whispering apologies into my hair, but my pain was already flooding out of me—hot, raw, unstoppable.
I shoved at him, sobbing, my voice shaking from the weight of everything I’d been holding back.
“You asshole! You bastard! How could you do this to me!”
Every word made him flinch. He held me tighter, like that could fix it.
“I’m sorry. It’s my fault. It’s all my fault.”
I don’t know how long I cried. Long enough to be empty. Long enough to have nothing left.
When my sobs finally faded, I just curled into his chest, too tired to move. He kissed the top of my head like it meant something.
“Please don’t be mad anymore.”
He fell asleep holding me that night. Something that hadn’t happened in what felt like forever.
And for a moment, I almost believed things were okay again.
But then I saw it—the glowing red numbers.
[Death Countdown: 1 Day, 23 Hours, 39 Minutes, 37 Seconds.]
He made me breakfast the next morning.
A steaming bowl of herbal oatmeal, the kind he used to have his chef make when I was sick.
He placed it in front of me like a peace offering. “I remade the tonic. Next time, don’t be so dramatic about it.”
I forced a smile. “Okay.”
I picked up the spoon. Took one bite.
And bolted for the bathroom.
I hit the floor, vomiting so hard I thought my insides would come out. Nothing but bile and pain.
Julian stormed in after me. “What the hell is going on with you, Isla?”
He stopped cold when he saw me hunched over the sink, my bones sharper than they should be, skin pale and shaking.
His voice softened. “You’ve lost weight. You’re not keeping anything down. We’re going to the hospital.”
I wiped my mouth and looked up, smiling faintly. “I hate hospitals.”
He rubbed my back. “You’ve got me. What’s there to be scared of?”
I didn’t bother arguing. “Maybe later.”
There wasn’t going to be a later. Not for me.
Julian frowned like he didn’t believe me, opened his mouth to say something—
And then his phone rang.
“Mr. Carter, it’s urgent—your mother’s in the hospital.”
We dropped everything. Packed up and left the coast.
Julian glanced over at me during the drive, guilt in his eyes. “I’ll make it up to you, okay? Double next time.”
I shook my head. “It’s fine. Family comes first.”
But what I really wanted wasn’t a beach or a wedding or a promise.
I just wanted him.
We rushed into the hospital expecting chaos.
Instead, we found Julian’s mother sipping tea at the side of a hospital bed.
And in that bed, smiling and perfectly healthy, was Rachel Carter.
Julian’s supposed secretary.
Mrs. Carter looked up, calm and smug, and handed me a white envelope.
“I think it’s time you stepped aside, Isla. A barren wife has no place in the Carter family.”
And just like that, she dismissed me—like I was defective goods past the return window.
