Then the car window rolled up, and he sped away.
I was left there alone. Tears started flowing down my cheeks. The men didn’t hesitate.
One shoved me hard against the wall, and the sharp edge of a broken pipe tore into my arm. Blood was oozing out of it.
When they finally left, they left a message. "Tell Christopher this is just the beginning."
Then I dragged myself to the hospital, my body battered and my spirit broken. But the doctor’s words hit harder than any of the blows.
"You were about a month pregnant," he said softly, avoiding my eyes. "We couldn’t save the baby. The trauma… It was too much."
My eyes were fixed on the ceiling, numb.
Later that night, when I returned home, Christopher walked in with a bottle of expensive whiskey in one hand and a case in the other.
Most probably it contained cash or weapons from one of his deals.
Without delay, he tossed the case onto the table and loosened his tie. He barely glanced at me. The scent of smoke and blood clung to him. It was a constant reminder of the life he lived.
Meanwhile, I was sitting on the couch, my arm wrapped in bandages, my face pale. He didn’t even notice.
"Did you eat?" he asked sternly as he poured himself a drink.