𝗙𝗿𝗼𝗺 𝗧𝗵𝗲 𝗕𝗹𝗼𝗼𝗱 𝗩𝗲𝗻𝗱𝗲𝘁𝘁𝗮 𝗨𝗻𝗶𝘃𝗲𝗿𝘀𝗲.
I never thought my world would crumble at the hands of a man like Alessandro Rossi-a 𝘮𝘰𝘯𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘳 draped in silk suits and ruthlessness. One moment, I was Yasenia Fraga, daughter of the...
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Self-loathing—yeah, the feeling I thought I'd finally escaped—had me in its chokehold again, and there was no escaping it this time. The disgust in her eyes tore me up, twisting my guts and feeding that self-hatred, all because of my own fucking choices. I'd played it smart, calculated, but instead of feeling satisfied, I was hollow. Because instead of pushing her out of my system, she was deeper than ever, like she was in my veins and I couldn't shake her no matter what I did.
Part of me wanted to chase after her, stop her, admit that cheating was a big mistake—but I couldn't. She was better off hating me.
I was still standing in the middle of the living room when I heard the elevator ding again. Hope flickered pathetically somewhere in the hollowness of my chest, as if maybe she'd come back.
But it wasn't her. Fico stepped out of the elevator, scanning the room with cautious eyes. "Boss, you called for me?" he asked.
"What the hell are you doing here, Fico? I didn't call you," I shot back, my irritation spiking. And then it hit me—Yasenia. "Where is she?" I demanded, already heading for the elevator.
"Shit," Fico muttered, and that rare slip told me everything. She'd tricked him again and bolted.
I stormed out of the building, Fico scrambling to keep up, but the car was already gone.
"Fuck!" I swore, fighting the urge to smash my phone right there. Then I remembered the GPS tracker in the car. I quickly opened the app, pinpointed her location, and barked, "Fico, get the fucking car!"
Guilt was tearing me up from the inside out. She shouldn't be out there alone, not with that bastard Liam Bailey waiting for any chance to get his hands on her. If anything happened to her, it was on me.
Fico rushed to the underground parking lot and brought the car around. I jumped in without waiting for him and took off, speeding toward her last known location. My fingers fumbled as I dialed Andrea's number, but the line just kept going dead. I tried again and again—still nothing. Andrea always answered. My gut was screaming something was wrong, really fucking wrong.
I reached her car in under half an hour. The black Range Rover was parked along some deserted stretch on State Route 22. I leapt out, rushed to her car. Driver's side door wide open, the car completely empty. Her phone lay on the floor—every sign screamed that she'd been taken. My wife was gone, and it was my fucking fault. A roar tore out of me, pure rage mixed with that sick self-loathing I knew too well.
This wasn't Miguel Castillo—he wouldn't dare. He knew the consequences. No, this was Liam Bailey. That son of a bitch had been waiting for his chance, and I'd handed it to him on a silver fucking platter. My fist hit the side window, shattering the glass. Shards cut into my skin, blood dripped down my knuckles as I stood there, helpless, praying I wasn't too late.
I sprinted back to my car, dialing Andrea for the fifth damn time. Still no answer. What the fuck was this—karma? I knew I was a cruel monster, unworthy of a shred of peace, but even this felt like overkill. I couldn't lose my best friend and my wife.
