My Racing Star Chose His Mistress Over Our Baby

Deacon came home at two in the morning. I heard his keys in the lock. I was sitting on the couch in the dark with my suitcase beside me. Half-packed. Hidden in plain sight.

He turned on the light. He looked at me. His face was hard.

'We need to talk,' he said.

I did not answer. I just looked at him.

He threw his jacket on the chair. 'You're being childish. You know that? Aleyna nearly died out there and you can't manage basic human decency.'

I folded my hands in my lap. I counted my breaths. In for four. Out for four.

'She's scared, Autumn. She's actually scared. And you—you just sit here like none of it matters. Like she's not a real person.'

I thought about the bracelet. The kiss. The word boring in his mouth like it was nothing.

'Are you even listening to me?'

I looked up at him. I did not blink. 'I'm listening.'

'Then say something.'

'What do you want me to say.'

He laughed. It was not a kind sound. 'An apology would be a start. To her. To me. To everyone who's watching you act like a selfish—'

He stopped. He ran his hand through his hair. He looked at the ceiling.

'I don't know what happened to you,' he said quietly. 'You used to be sweet. You used to care.'

I stood up. Slowly. I looked at him for a long moment. Long enough that he shifted his weight. Long enough that something in his face changed.

Then I turned and walked to the bedroom. I closed the door. I did not slam it. I just closed it. Soft as a breath.

I heard him say my name once. Then nothing.

I sat on the edge of the bed. I looked at my hands. They were very still.

I had three more days. Three more days and I would be gone. I just had to last three more days.

I opened the closet. I pulled out another small bag. I filled it with things he would not notice. A sweater. Two pairs of socks. The small leather journal I kept in the back of the drawer.

I zipped it closed. I slid it under the bed.

Three more days.

***

The next afternoon I went to the corner market. I needed milk. I needed bread. I needed to be out of the apartment.

I was walking back with the bag in my arms when I heard footsteps behind me. Fast. Too fast.

I turned.

Three women. Young. Early twenties maybe. They were wearing black hoodies. One of them had her phone out.

'Autumn Ellis?' the tall one said.

I stopped. 'Yes?'

'You're a real piece of work, you know that?'

I took a step back. 'I'm sorry?'

'Aleyna almost died because of you.'

My stomach dropped. I looked around. The street was empty. It was the middle of the day but no one was there.

'I don't—'

'Shut up,' the tall one said.

The other two moved closer. One of them grabbed my arm. The grocery bag fell. Milk spilled across the pavement.

'Wait—'

They pulled me toward a van parked at the curb. I tried to twist away but there were three of them and my shoulder screamed when I pulled too hard.

'Stop—please—'

No one came. No one saw.

They shoved me into the back of the van. One of them climbed in after me. The doors slammed. The engine started.

I tried to breathe. I could not breathe.

'Where are you taking me,' I said. My voice was shaking now. The trained smoothness was gone.

The tall one looked back from the passenger seat. She smiled.

'Somewhere quiet,' she said.

***

The warehouse smelled like rust and old rain. They dragged me inside and chained my wrists to a metal beam. My arms were pulled up over my head. I could barely touch the floor with my toes.

'Please,' I said. 'Please don't—'

One of them pulled out a leather bullwhip. Long. Heavy. The kind you see in old movies.

'This is for Aleyna,' she said.

She pulled her arm back.

The first strike tore through my shirt. I screamed. I could not help it. The sound ripped out of me.

The second strike split the skin. I felt the blood before I felt the pain.

The third strike—

I do not remember the third strike.

I remember the phone. One of them was filming. I remember the light. I remember the sound of my own voice begging and then not begging anymore because I could not make words.

I remember my father's face. The sketchbooks. The candle in my palm.

I remember Deacon's voice in the corridor. *Kind of boring.*

I remember nothing.

***

Somewhere far away, Deacon was sitting in a hotel restaurant with Aleyna. She was laughing. He was smiling. His phone was on the table but he was not looking at it.

He did not see the missed calls. He did not see the messages.

He ordered another drink.

He did not call me once.