I’m Here to Bring You Home Chapter 2

I don't know how I got home.

Looking at the woman before him, with her messy hair, several band-aids on her face, and a gaping hole in her clothes, the security guard couldn’t believe I was Justin Vane's wife.

He hesitated, then called Justin.

Hearing Justin’s voice, I instinctively snatched the phone and threw it to the ground.

I turned to leave, but I was penniless.

When I heard Justin might be in trouble, I spent all my savings on a ridiculously expensive return ticket.

One and a half million dollars.

No hesitation.

My thought was simple: I wanted him back, safe and sound.

Tears streamed down my cheeks. My phone rang. My mother was calling.

“I just found out you went abroad to find Justin. You scared me to death! Are you both alright?”

My nose stung, but I tried to sound calm.

“Mom, I’m fine.”

“Thank heavens! And you, you’re not even three months pregnant, going to such a dangerous place. You worried me sick. Thank goodness you’re okay.”

I hung up the phone and gently touched my lower abdomen.

Justin still didn’t know that after his “business trip,” I found out I was pregnant.

My reckless journey abroad was, in truth, a desperate suicide mission.

No matter what, my family of three would be together.

A throbbing pain spread through my chest.

Looking up again, a pair of arms enveloped me. The familiar scent of tobacco.

It was Justin.

“Where have you been? Why do you look like this?”

Our eyes met. Justin’s were filled with genuine concern.

It was as if the man in the elevator, who had looked at me with such indifference, wasn’t him at all.

I forced a smile. “I stumbled, then I fell again trying to get up.”

Just like this marriage. I believed him once, and I was deceived again.

“The plane ticket back must have been expensive, right?”

Justin froze for a moment, then tenderly scooped me into his arms, a flicker of guilt crossing his eyes.

“It’s worth it. My wife was waiting for me to come home.”

He spoke with such sincerity, his eyes welling up with tears.

Justin knelt, and without a word, began applying antiseptic to my wounds.

Seeing the cuts and bruises on my body, his handsome brows furrowed in concern.

“Darling, I was wrong. I shouldn’t have left you alone at home.”

He was about to say more when his phone suddenly rang.

After answering it, Justin apologized to me.

“I have to go out for a bit. I’ll be home later.”

I said nothing, just watched him put on his jacket.

How many times had I sat by the door, silently waiting for him to come home? How many times had I reheated the dinner, over and over again?

My eyes reddened. The tension that had held my nerves taut for days suddenly snapped.

I abruptly stood up and pushed him away.

“Go. And don’t come back.”

Justin bent his head, intending to kiss me, but I turned away. He sighed.

“Don’t be angry. I’ll make it up to you tonight.”

He left in a hurry.

The exhaustion of recent days pulled me into bed, only for a nightmare to jolt me awake.

I dreamt of bombs falling around me. Waking, I saw the huge wedding photo on the wall.

I remembered the first time I found out about Justin’s infidelity. He and Cathy had pressed four wet handprints onto our wedding portrait.

I went insane and smashed everything in the house.

Justin had knelt and begged me, saying that a second wedding would be the rebirth of our love, a monument to our mended relationship.

Those vows still echoed in my ears. To this day, I still couldn’t understand.

Why would he choose to hurt me again?

Scrolling on my phone, I typed Cathy Evans’s name.

After Justin fired her, her reputation in the legal world was ruined. No one dared to hire her.

But surprisingly, she had become a popular social media influencer, with one of her casual videos getting tens of thousands of likes.

She never showed her face, only videos of her holding a man’s hand.

I clicked on each one.

The man’s fingers were long and slender, tracing, kneading, intertwining with hers.

Every video was like a knife.

One hand rested on her waist. The little finger had a faint scar.

An icy coldness spread through me.

That scar. He got it when he was eighteen. A punk had cornered me, demanding I be his girlfriend.

Justin had rushed over, shielding me. A beer bottle had grazed his head, splattering blood on my school uniform.

He had quickly covered his head with his hand, gasping in pain, but still comforting me.

“It’s okay. Even if I’m disfigured, you still have to keep me.”

I found the contact number in her profile bio.

I dialed it.

Justin’s clear, cool voice came through the receiver:

“Who is this?”