07
1653 Words
Katherine Harrington :
The voice kept bellowing through the speaker, each word slicing the air like broken glass.
“—AND IF YOU THINK YOU CAN HIDE FROM ME, YOU’RE f*****g DELUSIONAL! HELEN IS DYING BECAUSE OF YOU! YOU OWE HER THAT KIDNEY, KATHERINE! YOU ALWAYS OWED HER!”
My thumb moved on its own.
I slammed the red button so hard the screen flashed. The call cut off mid-scream.
Silence crashed back into the room.
I stared at the phone like it had grown fangs. The contact name still glowed at the top:
Hubby Love
My skin crawled.
I looked up at Luciano. He hadn’t moved. The knife in his hand had stopped peeling the apple. A thin curl of red skin hung from the blade, trembling.
“I don’t…” My voice cracked. “I don’t know that man.”
Luciano’s storm-gray eyes stayed locked on mine. No surprise. No pity. Just that same predator stillness.
“You’re married to him,” he said quietly. Not a question. A fact.
“According to the phone,” I whispered. My hands wouldn’t stop shaking. “But I don’t remember him. I don’t remember… anything. Why is he screaming at me like I’m supposed to carve out my own organs for some woman named Helen? Why does it say ‘Love of my life’ when he sounds like he hates me?”
Luciano set the apple and knife down with deliberate slowness. The movement was calm, but something dangerous rippled under his skin — I felt it in the air, like the moment before lightning.
He took one step closer.
“You almost died,” he said, voice low. “Two weeks ago. You took a blade meant for that woman. You bled out on the floor while he stood there and begged you to give your to his mistress, now wife”
My breath hitched.
“He divorced you ten times in five years,” Luciano continued, flat and merciless. “Every time that woman crooked her finger. And every time you let him crawl back. “
I felt the words hit my chest like stones, but they landed on empty ground. No pain. No heartbreak. Just… horror.
“That’s not me,” I said, voice small but certain. “I don’t know who that Katherine was. But she’s gone. I woke up with nothing inside my head, and the first thing I felt when I saw you was—” I stopped, cheeks burning. “Warm. Safe. Like I already knew you.”
Luciano’s jaw flexed. For the first time, something cracked in that granite face — not softness, but hunger.
The phone buzzed again.
Another message flashed across the screen:
Love of my life:
YOU BETTER ANSWER ME RIGHT NOW OR I SWEAR I’LL FIND YOU AND DRAG YOU BACK TO THAT HOSPITAL MYSELF.
I didn’t even think.
I opened the chat, thumbs flying despite how weak they were.
Me:
I don’t know you.
Stop messaging this number.
If you come near me, I will call the police.
Then I blocked the contact.
The second I hit “Block”, something inside my chest loosened — like a chain I didn’t even know was there had finally snapped.
I dropped the phone onto the sheets like it was burning me.
“I’m not going back,” I said, looking straight at Luciano. My voice was hoarse but steady for the first time since waking. “I don’t care what that phone says. I don’t care who I used to be. That life is dead. I died with it.”
Luciano stared at me for a long second.
Then the corner of his mouth lifted — the smallest, coldest smile I had ever seen.
“Good,” he murmured, voice rough as gravel. “Because you’re not leaving this house, Katherine. Not until every last piece of that bastard is erased from your life. And not until you remember why your body already knows mine.”
I don’t know what made me do it.
Maybe the emptiness in my head left too much room for instinct. Maybe the warmth still humming under my skin from his touch refused to be ignored.
One second I was sitting on the edge of the bed, the next I was moving—legs shaky, bare feet cold on the stone floor—straight into his arms.
I wrapped myself around him, hugging tight, face pressed to the hard plane of his chest.
He smelled like pine and smoke and something darker, something that made my pulse steady even as my hands trembled against his back.
“Please,” I whispered into his shirt, voice muffled and small. “You have to save me. I don’t want to give my kidney to some mistress… neither do I want to marry a loser.”
His arms came around me slowly—careful, like he was afraid of breaking something fragile. But once they settled, they didn’t waver. Solid. Unyielding.
“Not like I would let that happen,” he said, low and final, lips brushing the top of my head.
The words vibrated through his chest into mine.
He held me like that for a long moment—long enough that the shaking in my limbs eased, long enough that the room stopped spinning.
Then he eased back just enough to look down at me.
“Back to bed,” he ordered softly. “You’re still healing.”
I didn’t argue.
He scooped me up without warning—effortless, like I weighed nothing—and carried me the few steps to the mattress. Laid me down gently. Tucked the blanket around me with the same deliberate care he’d used to peel that apple earlier.
The rest of the day passed in quiet fragments.
He didn’t leave the room for long.
A tray appeared—warm broth, soft bread, sliced fruit. He sat in the chair and watched me eat, only speaking when I hesitated over a spoonful.
“Small bites. Your stomach’s forgotten how to work.”
When I finished, he took the tray himself. No servants. Just him.
Night fell.
The fire had burned low.
I lay in the dark, staring at the carved ceiling beams, tracing shadows with my eyes.
Who was I before?
Why would that version of me—Katherine—give so much? A blade for his mistress. A kidney on demand. Ten divorces in five years, and still she stayed?
The thought made something hot and sharp coil in my chest. Not sadness. Anger. Clean, bright anger.
I curled my fingers into the sheets.
*Never again.*
This blank slate, this second chance—it wasn’t going to waste on a deadbeat who treated me like a spare part.
I promised myself, right there in the quiet: I would make this life count. Whatever “this life” turned out to be.
Morning came softer.
I felt… better. Not strong, but steadier. The headache had dulled to a background hum. My legs didn’t shake quite as badly when I stood.
Breakfast waited on a small table by the window—eggs, toast, fresh juice. No Luciano, though.
A note in sharp, slanted handwriting:
*Handling business. Stay inside. Eat. Rest. — L*
I smiled despite myself.
Bossy. But… nice.
After bathing—slowly, carefully, marveling again at the heated stone floors and the faint scar across my abdomen—I dressed in soft clothes left folded on the chair (someone’s thoughtfulness, probably his) and ventured downstairs.
The grand staircase opened into a cavernous hall—dark wood, high ceilings, tapestries that looked centuries old.
French doors led to a stone terrace overlooking manicured gardens and distant forest.
Fresh air. Finally.
I stepped outside, phone in hand, and sank onto a cushioned bench.
The screen woke under my thumb.
I scrolled through contacts—hoping for something, anything. A friend. A sister. A lifeline.
Nothing.
Just two names.
*Hubby Love*
*Mother-in-law*
I scoffed. Rolled my eyes so hard it almost hurt.
“Nonsense,” I muttered. “I wonder who this scumbag is.”
Gravel crunched.
A black SUV rolled through the gates, slow and deliberate.
Tinted windows. No plates visible from here.
My heart gave a stupid little jump.
I stood without thinking.
The driver’s door opened.
Luciano stepped out—tall, broad, black coat open over a dark shirt.
Tattoos crawled up the side of his neck, disappearing under his collar.
A thin scar sliced through his left eyebrow and down to the corner of his eye, giving the gray iris a permanent, predatory glint.
Dangerous.
Very.
He saw me immediately.
Our eyes locked across the distance.
And damn it—I was delighted.
My chest warmed, that same vibration stirring low and insistent.
My body didn’t care about the scars or the ink or the cold edge in his stare.
It just knew: safe.
Wanted.
He crossed the gravel in long strides, never breaking eye contact.
When he reached the terrace steps, he stopped one below me—so we were almost eye-level.
“You’re up,” he said. Voice rough, but softer than before.
“I felt better,” I admitted. Then, quieter: “I missed you.”
The admission slipped out before I could catch it.
His gaze darkened—not with anger. Something hungrier. Warmer.
He climbed the last step.
Close enough that I had to tilt my head back.
“Good,” he murmured. “Because I’m not going anywhere.”
His hand lifted—slow, giving me time to pull away.
I didn’t.
Fingertips brushed my cheek, tracing the line of my jaw.
The touch sent sparks down my spine.
“Remember that promise you made last night?” he asked, voice barely above a whisper.
I nodded.
He leaned in, forehead resting lightly against mine.
“Then let me help you keep it.”
- Writer
