The killer of her best friend wants her. What happens when the lines between hatred and desire begin to blur?
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╰┈⫸ 𝑺 𝒀 𝑵 𝑶 𝑷 𝑺 𝑰 𝑺:
𝐐𝐮𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐚 𝐑𝐨𝐬𝐬𝐢'𝐬 life takes a harrowing turn on her best friend's wedding day whe...
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This is the last thing I want to deal with. Really, fucking, really.
My hands are already full with my too-tempting wife running her smart mouth and continuously sending me over the moon. The little minx is enough of a distraction, a distraction I like, nonetheless.
But this? God, no.
Who told Dad to stay at the bungalow in the countryside and leave this huge mansion for me? Only to have her keep a watch on me afterwards.
I mean, I know that maybe the little stunt I pulled succeeded in getting him riled up again, but the punishment he declared for me is too much.
What happily married man wants an outsider woman lurking in his house when all he wants is to spend some alone time with his brand new wife? No one.
I could justify Rosabelle's visit, given she was guilty and all. But Viviana? My ex-friend? A woman I had a huge crush on when I was fifteen, and she decided it'd be cool to flip me off by fucking my elder brother? What's more ironic was that my brother, even until now, doesn't know her. He never knew she was the friend I always talked about.
It was a one-time thing. But did it hurt? Yes, it did. Back then, it hurt like a bitch.
But now it seems like only a funny story.
Anyway, back to the topic.
Back to where my dear Dad thought it'd be nice to keep me under Viviana's watch for a while. I mean, he isn't aware of our shared history, but still. Why her?
There are more bodyguards surrounding the mansion than there are rats in New York City. Hell, I could strangle that tiny woman to death and not a soul would find out. If she does disturb me, or my wife, I could execute the plan. Because I do not need a babysitter. At all.
With all of this shit going on, Romario decides to ghost me since he kidnapped my ex-bride last night. I've been trying to reach the bastard since morning, and this call will mark the ninth time I've called him.
I sighed in frustration before throwing the phone across the couch in the dark room, wincing when it fell on the floor instead, the single noise a bane to my ears.
God, I was depressed. I needed a good shower, a good drink, and then maybe, a good apology to Queen. The urge to hurt her was vague, in fact, non-existent. However, every time I'm reminded of the scene where she stood there with a gun in her hand and my sister's lifeless body laying at her feet, I feel angry. So angry.
Not at her, but at myself. For the fact that, I failed to save the only person who'd saved me from death.
