"Good girl. From now on, call me 'husband.' Don't worry. Your husband will only ever love you and protect you."
If I hadn't seen those messages, I think I would have been moved.
But now, all I tasted was bitterness.
When I was eight, my parents died in an earthquake, crushed under rubble while saving Darren's life.
The Farleys took me in out of gratitude and raised me as their own.
And Darren had held me like something precious, promising he'd protect me forever.
But he hadn't just broken that promise. He'd woven this nightmare around me with his own hands.
After breakfast, I drove to my dessert shop.
I loved baking, and I'd never wanted to be a freeloader under the Farleys' roof. So after college, I'd used the money my parents left me to open this place.
When I arrived, a crowd had gathered out front.
I walked closer, puzzled, and found seven or eight thugs grinning as they sprayed graffiti across the door and floor-to-ceiling windows.
Words like homewrecker and whore in neon paint.
I frowned, about to speak.
An entire bucket of red paint came crashing down over my head.
Kitty stood there with one hand on her hip, sneering at me.