|18+| ❛𝒕𝒂𝒌𝒆 𝒊𝒕 𝒍𝒊𝒌𝒆 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒈𝒐𝒐𝒅 𝒈𝒊𝒓𝒍 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒂𝒓𝒆 𝒎𝒊 𝒂𝒎𝒐𝒓𝒆 ❜
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Dark mysterious eyes.
Fierce blazing eyes.
Two enemies under one roof under the binds of an arranged marriage.
While trying their best to ign...
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The constant beep of the machine seemed to get on my nerves.
And the way my assistant seemed to pace every minute annoyed me more than I let on.
This people are so dramatic.
Yes, I got into an accident, but that wasn't what mattered. My driver was unconscious, I was barely grazed, just my arm having a scratch. The media ate it up like I broke my neck and I'm undergoing surgery right now.
"I'm going to try my best to stop the rumors and get everything under control." My assistant says shakily while I just place my head in my arms.
My phone rings again and I ignore it again. All I want right now, is to go to my house and eat the food my husband cooks for me, then sleep in his arms. That's what I want. I just want to go home.
My thoughts didn't even scare me no more. Thinking of my fake husband — who specifically pointed it out that nothing would ever happen between us — as my home is beyond crazy.
But when I woke up, in his arms, I felt safe. Waking up in his chest, his arms wrapped around me protectively. I remember tilting my head and admiring the curve of his lips, his lashes and his soft labored breaths as he seemed to hold me like I'm his most beloved treasure.
I sigh, looking around the closed curtains, my phone was still ringing, different reporters flooding my line with messages and calls.
The smell of the antiseptic clouds my brain, choking me from inside out. I feel beads of sweat forming on my brow s betraying my calm facade as my heart raced.
Memories of my childhood slips into my thoughts, the one time of my life I never wanted myself more than dead. I was just a kid. I was just ten.
I look around the small space, my claustrophobia coming in strong as I try to clutch unto the neckline of my cloth before realizing that it has a low neckline.
I breathe out shakily, head snapping up when someone slide open the curtain, closing it after them.
The nurse gives me a small smile but it does nothing to ease the panic crawling up my throat. I smile back, trying to act like I'm not about to have a panic attack.
She says something I couldn't process, I fidget with the hem of my shirt, my fingers tugging nervously at the fabric as I struggle to breathe.
The sound of the car crash and the smell of petrol and the screeching of the tires on the road, the explosion when the paramedics pulled me out of the car, making them unable to save my mother.
Why is it so difficult to see now? Am I crying?
I sniffle, watching the nurse look up at me pitifully, cleaning my wounds. "How's my driver?"
