As darkness fell, a series of thunderous knocks jolted me from my thoughts.

I opened the door to find Bruce standing there in an immaculate tuxedo. The scent of expensive women's perfume clung to him—clearly, he'd come straight from the gala.


Bruce shouldered his way inside, reaching for my wrist. I immediately backpedaled, desperate to maintain distance between us.

I eyed him warily, one hand protectively over my stomach. "What do you want? I'm not well enough for your games."

Bruce's jaw clenched tight. "I'm taking you home." Not asking—telling.


"I told you! Our arrangement is over!"

Bruce slammed the door with such force the walls shook. His eyes blazed crimson. "Elara! Just tell me what you want! Name your price! You've stuck around this long—isn't it because you want something? More money? Power? Your own company? I can give you anything!"


My ears rang with his words, and any lingering hope I might have harbored for our relationship evaporated instantly.

Before I could respond, Bruce lunged forward. He scooped me up and threw me onto the bed like I weighed nothing.

I was shocked as he tore off his tie and shirt, revealing his tight, muscular chest and abdomen. He pressed down on me, trying to remove my clothes.

Thinking of the life in my belly and what he was about to do, I fearfully kicked him hard in the groin.

"Argh!" He doubled over, momentarily incapacitated by pain.

I seized my chance, scrambling off the bed and dashing to the kitchenette. I grabbed the first weapon I could find—a small paring knife—and pointed it at Bruce with shaking hands. "Get out! Get the hell out of here!"

Bruce recovered from the pain, looked at me, and his face darkened. "You're pointing a knife at me too?"

My entire body trembled, but I held his gaze defiantly. Then, in one swift motion, I grabbed a fistful of my golden hair—the hair he'd always admired—and sliced through it with the knife.

Golden strands floated to the floor like autumn leaves.

The blood drained from Bruce's face.

I raised the knife to my throat, the blade catching the light. "Get out. If you don't leave right now, I'll destroy this body!"

Bruce extended his hands but didn't dare move rashly. "Elara, I won't touch you. Just calm down."

At that moment, Bruce's phone rang. I caught a glimpse of the screen—Katherine calling.

Bruce snatched up the phone and rejected the call with an impatient swipe.

I laughed coldly, suppressing the heart-wrenching pain, and said word by word: "Bruce, I don't care about anything you've given me. From the beginning, all I ever wanted was your love. Now, I don't need your love either."

Bruce stared at me with genuine shock, and for the first time, I saw something like helplessness in his eyes.

I met Bruce's gaze—those dark eyes that had once made my heart race—and said with deadly calm, "Get out, Bruce Castillo."

Bruce opened his mouth to speak, but his phone lit up again with Katherine's name flashing on the screen.

Bruce glanced at the phone, then back at me, caught in an impossible choice. Finally, he snatched up the phone with a growl: "This isn't over." With that, he stormed out.

The moment the door slammed behind him, my legs gave out. I crumpled to the floor, the knife clattering beside me.

I placed a protective hand over my belly, making a silent vow: I would leave this toxic cycle behind. I would become strong—not just for myself, but for the innocent life growing inside me.