My Death Was My Revenge, His Regret Came Too Late

Everybody knew what that meant. Not a single person who entered George Vale’s estate ever walked out whole.

I looked at Westley.

Just one word, I thought. Just say no. Just once.

“I’ll pick her up in a month,” he said coldly.

That was it. No hesitation. No argument. Just one sentence.

…

That month was the darkest time of my life. George didn’t even touch me the way people expected. Turns out he couldn’t. But that didn’t stop him from enjoying the sound of people breaking.

The first week he strapped me to a chair and slowly crushed my fingers one by one with a metal press used for cracking bones. Not enough to destroy them completely. Just enough to hear them crack.

“You’re famous, Amelia,” he said, leaning close. “I expected you to scream louder.”

“I’m not in the mood to entertain you,” I muttered through blood in my mouth.

He laughed like I told a joke.

Another day he locked me in a freezer room used for storing meat. No coat. No shoes. Just a thin shirt and the cold chewing into my skin for hours until my body stopped shaking and started going numb.

He came in sometimes just to watch.

“Still alive?” he asked casually one night.

“Unfortunately for you,” I whispered.

He grinned and slammed the door again.

But the worst day was near the end.

They tied my arms down and forced my hands into a bucket filled with acid diluted just enough not to melt everything instantly.

I remember the smell first.

Then the pain.

It felt like my bones were burning inside my skin. I bit down so hard I cracked one of my teeth.

George crouched in front of me, fascinated.

“Say it hurts,” he said. “Just once. That’s all I want.”

I didn’t say a word.

By the time they pulled my hands out, strips of skin were gone and my knuckles looked like something dragged out of a horror movie.

I woke up later staring at my fingers wrapped in dirty bandages. I could still see patches of white bone underneath.

The night before they sent me back, George grabbed my chin and forced me to look at him.

“You know what I find funny?” he said softly. “Westley Grimshaw traded his most loyal bodyguard for a girl. That must be some serious love.”

He tilted his head, smiling like a devil.

“Tell me something, Amelia. How much does he love that sister of yours?”

I stayed silent.

What was I supposed to say?

That the man I loved sold me like damaged property?

That every scream I swallowed in that place was because of him?

By the time the month ended, something inside me had already died.

The fire I carried for 11 years slowly went out in that house.

Westley owned my life. I signed that deal long ago. My loyalty, my body, everything. I was just a weapon in his hands.

Weapons don’t get choices.

Unless they break.

Unless they die.

That was when the idea of faking my death first started forming in my head.

When George’s men dumped me back at Westley’s mansion, the sun was already going down. My body felt like broken glass and every step hurt.

But the moment I stepped inside the gate, Natalia was already waiting.

She stood there with several maids around her, wearing a pale yellow dress that probably cost more than my entire life. She looked beautiful. Untouched. Safe.

She smiled when she saw me.

“Sister,” she said sweetly. “You’re finally back.”

Her eyes moved slowly over my body. My bandaged hands. The dried blood on my clothes.

“You must’ve worked really hard for my antidote,” she continued softly. “A whole month with George Vale… that sounds awful.”

I said nothing.

She covered her mouth like she was thinking. “But you know… people say he likes to play with his victims before killing them. I wonder what he did to you.”

One of the maids beside her laughed quietly.

Natalia sighed like she suddenly remembered something.

“Oh right. You must be filthy.”

She clapped her hands lightly.

“Girls, help my sister clean up. She smells like a slaughterhouse.”

Before I could react, one of the maids threw a bucket of boiling water straight at me.

The water hit my chest and shoulders and burned through my skin instantly.

My body jerked but I didn’t move.

Did it hurt?

Of course it did.

But compared to the acid eating through my hands while George watched… this felt like nothing.

Natalia watched quietly for a moment. My clothes were soaked and my skin was turning red and blistered.

“You’re not even reacting?” she said with a small pout. “That’s boring.” She stepped closer and tilted her head, studying me. “Well,” she said with a bright smile, “I guess you’re clean now.”

Then she waved toward the mansion.

“Come inside, Amelia. Don’t just stand there like a stray dog.”

…

I dragged my broken body back to the small backyard behind the mansion. That place had always been mine. Quiet, hidden, far from the rest of Westley’s world. My legs felt like they were made of glass and every step hurt.

I swallowed the fake death pill before I pushed the door open and leaned against the wall for a moment. My clothes were still wet from the boiling water and my hands burned under the bandages. I started pulling off my jacket so I could clean the wounds.

The door suddenly opened again.

I froze.

Westley stood there in the doorway, the light from the hallway behind him. Tall, sharp, perfectly dressed like always. Black suit, expensive watch, calm face like nothing in the world could shake him.

Eleven years.

And stupidly, my heart still reacted when I saw him.

What was wrong with me?

“You’re back,” he said and walked inside like he owned the air in the room.

Of course he did.

His eyes moved over my body quickly. The torn clothes. The blood. The burns.

“Turn around,” he said. “Let me see your injuries.”

I didn’t argue. I slowly turned my back to him.

My shirt slid down enough to reveal the mess George left on my body. Cuts, bruises, deep scars that still hadn’t healed.

Westley stepped closer and I felt his fingers lightly touch a long scar across my back.

His voice lowered. “What did this?”

“George’s whip,” I answered quietly. “Steel wire inside it.”

His fingers moved to another mark on my shoulder. A round scar.

“And this?”

“Branding iron.”

He paused for a second.

Then his hand moved again, stopping at the fresh burn across my shoulder and neck. The skin there was still red and blistered.

His voice changed slightly. “What about this one?”

“Natalia had someone throw boiling water on me,” I said calmly.

His hand stopped moving.

“What did you say?”

I turned my head slightly so I could look at him. “I said Natalia told a maid to pour boiling water on me,” I repeated. “Said I was dirty.”

For a moment the room went completely silent.

Then his face turned cold.