My Kept Husbands Fatal Mistake Chapter 2

I looked into her wild eyes, opening my mouth to explain, but I only managed a single syllable.

Crack.

Her palm struck my face with explosive force. White stars burst across my vision, my head snapping to the side. Before I could even draw a breath, a backhand caught me on the other cheek.

The blinding pain wiped every rational thought from my mind.

The blonde friend pointed a finger at me, practically spitting as she yelled, "You’re young, you’re pretty, and you chose to be a home-wrecking whore! You seduce married men for a living. If we don't teach you a lesson, you'll think you can walk all over us!" She looked around the apartment, her eyes gleaming with malice. "Harrison really spares no expense for you, does he?"

I had been sheltered and pampered my entire life. I had never known physical violence. But trapped under their heels, I could only swallow the blood in my mouth and try to reason with them.

"I bought this apartment myself," I gasped, holding my ribs. "It has nothing to do with Harrison. Yes, Harrison is married. But he married into my family three years ago. You’ve been lied to."

I had to tell the truth to stop the beating.

I thought the revelation would make Vera pause. Instead, she threw her head back and let out a piercing, hysterical laugh.

"A kept man? A trophy husband? Harrison's company is worth hundreds of millions! Do you think I'm a fucking idiot?!"

Her friends immediately chimed in.

"Mr. Harrison runs that company with an iron fist. A kept man? Yeah, right."

"I've never heard of an heiress letting her trophy husband run an empire by himself."

"Look at her trying to spin the story and call Vera the mistress. This bitch is pathological!"

I swallowed the rising bile in my throat. "If you don't believe me, call him right now. Ask him."

"Spit it out," Vera snarled. "You just want me to call him so he can rush over here and save you. Do I look stupid to you? Harrison is only with you because you're a shiny new toy. The first thing he did when his startup took off was call me. I am the only woman he actually loves."

Vera's voice grew shrill. She stood up, her eyes darting around the apartment. A flash of madness crossed her face, quickly replaced by raw, ugly jealousy.

This apartment was just my midday retreat, but I had designed it myself. Every inch of molding, every piece of custom Italian furniture, every vintage vase was hand-selected. It breathed quiet, old-money luxury.

Vera kicked me hard in the chest, knocking the wind out of me. She turned to her friends, her voice lethal.

"Trash the place. Take whatever you want. Consider it a bonus for coming with me today."

The women descended like vultures. At first, they were just tearing into my closet, grabbing my Birkins and Chanel bags. Then, the frenzy took over. They began smashing lamps, ripping the silk curtains, pulling drawers out and dumping them. Whatever they couldn't fit in their bags, they shattered against the walls.

The sanctuary I had built was reduced to a war zone in minutes. My chest ached with a deep, suffocating sadness.

Suddenly, I saw Vera grab a heavy pair of fabric scissors from my desk. She was eyeing the small silver locket resting on my nightstand.

Panic, cold and sharp, pierced through the physical pain. "Don't touch that," I choked out.

I scrambled to my knees, reaching out frantically. "Give it back to me!"

That locket was not just jewelry. It was a St. Christopher medal, custom-made and blessed. My mother had bought it with her life.

When I was nine, I contracted a severe strain of meningitis. I was in a coma for weeks. The doctors had gently told my parents to make funeral arrangements. My mother, broken and desperate, refused to accept it. She drove to a remote mountain sanctuary. To prove her devotion, she walked the final three miles up the mountain in a freezing, twenty-degree blizzard. She slipped on the ice, her knees bleeding, her hands frostbitten, just to reach the chapel and have that silver amulet blessed for my protection.

Whether it was a medical anomaly or a miracle, I woke up.

But the exposure and exhaustion destroyed my mother's lungs. She developed severe pneumonia and never recovered. Before she died, she pressed the cold silver into my small hand, making me promise to never take it off.

It was my anchor. It was the last piece of my mother's soul in this world. I never let anyone touch it.

"You want it so bad?" Vera sneered, holding it up by the delicate chain. "Then I definitely have to break it."

"No!"

Before I could reach her, Vera yanked the chain with both hands. The silver links snapped. She threw the pendant to the floor and crushed it beneath her designer heel, grinding the silver into the hardwood.

I stopped breathing. The world went perfectly, terrifyingly silent.

My mother's life.

"You are an animal," I whispered. And then, fueled by a grief so primal it blinded me, I lunged upward and slapped Vera across the face with everything I had.

"You dare hit me?!" Vera shrieked, clutching her cheek. "Beat this bitch until she can't breathe!"

The women swarmed me. I was kicked back down, curling into a fetal position as designer heels stomped into my spine, my stomach, my head. They grabbed whatever wasn't bolted down—books, glass paperweights, picture frames—and hurled them at my body.

Within minutes, I was a broken, bloody mess. I could barely keep my eyes open, the edges of my vision turning black.

Breathing in ragged gasps, I looked up at Vera through the blood matting my eyelashes. "Vera," I whispered hoarsely. "You are going to regret this for the rest of your life."

Vera sneered, pressing the sharp heel of her shoe directly into the back of my hand, twisting it until I cried out.

"Still running your mouth? I don't know about my regrets, but I know you're about to experience yours." She looked at her friends. "Drag her out."

The women grabbed my arms and legs, hauling me out of my beautiful, ruined apartment, and dragged me toward the elevator.