Oscar's Cruel Choices

The city lights sparkled beneath us like fallen stars as Oscar led me to the edge of the rooftop restaurant. My heart fluttered against my ribs—something about tonight felt different, more meaningful than our usual dinner dates.

"Ariel," Oscar said, his voice carrying that familiar authoritative tone that had first attracted me to him. "These past three years have been the most fulfilling of my life."

I smiled, taking in his perfectly tailored suit, the way his dark eyes reflected the candlelight between us. "Mine too."

He reached across the table, taking my hand in his. His thumb traced gentle circles on my palm—a gesture that always made me feel safe, protected.

"I've built an empire," he continued, "but it means nothing without someone to share it with."

My breath caught as he slid from his chair onto one knee beside our table. The other diners noticed, their conversations quieting as they turned to watch.

"Ariel Anderson," Oscar said, producing a small velvet box from his pocket. "Would you do me the honor of becoming my wife?"

The diamond caught the light, sending prisms dancing across his face. It was exquisite—elegant and understated, yet unmistakably expensive. Just like everything Oscar touched.

"Yes," I whispered, tears blurring my vision. "Yes, of course."

He slipped the ring onto my finger, then rose to kiss me. The restaurant erupted in applause, champagne appeared at our table, and for a moment, I believed I had found perfection.

"I'll make you happy," Oscar murmured against my lips. "For the rest of our lives."

---

The engagement party was everything Oscar's status demanded—opulent, exclusive, impeccable. Crystal chandeliers cast golden light over the ballroom filled with business associates, social elites, and the carefully curated guest list Oscar had approved.

"You look stunning," he whispered, his hand warm against the small of my back as we greeted guests. "Everyone's eyes are on you."

I smoothed the silk of my champagne-colored gown, still not quite believing this was my life now. "I feel like I'm dreaming."

"It's just the beginning," he promised, kissing my temple.

The evening progressed perfectly—until a commotion near the entrance caught my attention. Security guards were arguing with someone, their voices rising above the elegant background music.

"Let me through!" a woman's voice demanded. "Oscar! OSCAR!"

The crowd parted as a slender figure pushed forward. She moved with jerky, unpredictable movements, her eyes wild as they locked onto Oscar.

"Salma?" Oscar's voice changed instantly, concern replacing the confidence that usually filled it.

I watched, confused, as this disheveled woman approached us. Her clothes were wrinkled, her hair tangled, but her eyes burned with an intensity that made me step back instinctively.

"You're getting married?" she asked, her voice trembling. "To her?"

"Salma, this isn't the time or place," Oscar said firmly. "We'll talk later."

"There's nothing to talk about!" she screamed, her face contorting. "You promised! You promised we'd be together!"

Before anyone could react, she lunged forward—and I saw the flash of metal in her hand.

Pain exploded through my abdomen. Once, twice, three times—each impact stealing my breath, my thoughts, my future.

"She took everything from me!" Salma's voice echoed as warm wetness spread across my stomach.

I looked down in horror at the crimson blooming across my silk dress. The diamond on my finger caught the light as I raised trembling hands to the wounds.

Thirteen times. I counted each burst of agony as she stabbed me, the kitchen knife tearing through skin, muscle, organs.

Oscar's roar of rage was the last thing I heard before darkness claimed me.

---

Beeping machines pulled me back to consciousness. The antiseptic smell of hospital surrounded me, mingling with the metallic scent of blood—my blood.

"She's waking up," someone said.

I tried to speak, but my throat felt raw, as if I'd swallowed broken glass.

"Don't try to talk," a nurse advised, checking monitors beside my bed.

Through blurred vision, I could make out Oscar's silhouette by the window, his back to me as he spoke in hushed tones on his phone.

"The liver damage is extensive," a doctor was saying to someone. "We've managed to repair most of the damage, but she'll need ongoing care. The colostomy bag is temporary, but..."

I closed my eyes against the wave of nausea that accompanied the words. Colostomy bag. The phrase echoed in my mind, another scar I would carry.

When I opened my eyes again, Oscar was beside me, his face drawn with worry and something else—guilt?

"Salma," I whispered, the name burning my lips.

Oscar's expression shifted, pain flashing across his features. "She's... she's not well, Ariel. What happened to her—being trafficked for ten years—it broke something in her."

"She tried to kill me," I managed.

"I know." He took my hand, careful to avoid the IV line. "I'll make sure she gets help."

As he spoke, a small figure appeared in the doorway—a thin woman with haunted eyes who watched me with a mixture of fear and something that looked disturbingly like satisfaction.

"Oscar," she called softly. "They're ready for me downstairs."

Our eyes met across the room, and in that moment, I knew with terrifying clarity that this was far from over.