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On the day of my parents’ anniversary, our penthouse turned into hell.
Glass exploded, bullets tore through the air. My father stepped in front of us, but a gunshot split his chest and he crumpled in blood.
‘Dad!” I screamed-then rough hands dragged me back.
My mother was beaten to the ground, bones snapping under the bat’s swing, her cries piercing the chaos.
And me-pinned, clothes ripped, their laughter drowning my screams until I prayed for death.
And then-Donald, my husband arrived with my uncle and armed men, firing shots until the
attackers scattered.
“Kira!” Donald pulled me into his arms, stroking my hair as I sobbed into his chest. “It’s over. You’re safe now. I’ve got you.”
I clung to him, shaking, believing he had saved me.
When I woke up again, I was in a hospital bed. My body ached, my veins cold with the drip of medicine.
But then I heard familiar voices outside my door. It was Donald, my husband.
“We can’t let Kira leave this hospital, Troy. Not after everything we’ve done.”
The air froze in my lungs.
