Whenever someone asked who I was, Milford would glance back at me—nervous, guilty—and say with a tight smile:
“She’s our housemaid. My wife thought she could use some new clothes.”
The store clerks always swooned, their admiration as thick as honey.
“Mr. and Mrs. Wright,” one of them gushed, “You both look like a match made in heaven and you’ve got such kind hearts. Even treating your housemaid like family? That’s real love—may your marriage last a lifetime.”
I bit my tongue and smiled politely, even as every word sliced through me.
Then, fate had other plans for our ride home.
Halfway there, our car was suddenly surrounded—at least a dozen bikers in masks and helmets blocked the road, roaring up on motorcycles like a storm rolling in. They forced the driver to stop, shattered the windows with crowbars and swarmed us. This wasn’t a random robbery—they were here for Milford.
Their leader leaned in through the broken glass, voice rough and unapologetic. “Fifteen million dollars. In cash. Now.”