I remembered things I didn’t want to remember. Him driving across the city at three in the morning because I said my bones hurt and I couldn’t sleep. Him showing up with greasy dumplings and acting like it was nothing. Him buying me shoes I only mentioned once, like it was a joke. Him kneeling under those stupid fireworks on my birthday, holding a ring with shaking hands.
“Marry me after you graduate,” he said back then. “I want forever with you.”
Everyone believed him.
Fredrinn Ashcroft. Mafia boss. Cold to the world. Soft only for me.
And when I got diagnosed six months ago, he didn’t let go of my hand. Not once. He cried like he was the one dying.
“If you quit, I quit,” he said. “Don’t leave me.”
He searched everywhere after that. Doctors. Black market contacts. Underground hospitals. He even tried to give his own blood, knowing damn well it wouldn’t work. I caught him writing a will once. He didn’t hide it. He wasn’t scared.
And yes, he paid her.
One hundred million.
I saw the transfer. Clean. Immediate. Mafia money moves fast. Money for her fashion dreams. For her freedom. For her loyalty.
But money wasn’t enough. She wanted him too.