The Nightingale Will Not Sing at Dawn

Pinned to the floor by the stranger, I could see my “blind” fiancé mopping the ground less than three meters away, headphones sealed over his ears.

He couldn’t hear my struggle, couldn’t “see” my humiliation—a faint smile still playing on his lips.

Just before the thug pulled up his pants and left, he leaned close to threaten me. “Keep your mouth shut, or your blind fiancé is dead.”

I believed him. Clenching my jaw against the agony, I hid everything, clinging to the thought that he was a victim, just like me.

But late that night, I overheard him on the balcony, phone pressed to his ear.

“I told you to dirty her up—all to vent Mila’s anger.”

“She was violated right in front of me. With the debt of gratitude I earned taking a knife for her, the Brooklyn family heirloom will have to be mine.”

“Mila loves that antique jade box so much. I have to give it to her.”

So he could see. My suffering was his design. His blindness was an act. Every tender word, a lie.

Eyes shut tight against the pain, I turned and sent a message to someone else.

I need your help.

…

“Make a sound, and your blind fiancé is dead.”

The man’s rough hand clamped over my mouth, the greasy sweat and tobacco stench slithering into my nostrils like poison.

I struggled desperately, my nails carving bloody tracks into his arm, but he only restrained me more violently.

In despair, I wrenched my head to the side. My gaze slipped past his broad shoulder and landed on the familiar figure in the center of the living room.

Kenneth.

My fiancé.

He wore the white loungewear I’d bought him, noise-canceling headphones on, pushing a brand-new floor scrubber as he meticulously cleaned the floors of our future home.

The machine droned loudly—loud enough to drown out everything.

He couldn’t see. Couldn’t hear.

He didn’t know the woman he’d sworn to protect was being dragged into an abyss by a stranger, a demon, less than three meters away.

Tears of shame blurred my vision.

I watched him push the scrubber, coming closer, then drifting away.

His movements were graceful, focused. A faint smile even touched his lips, as if he were savoring a moment of peace.

It was the smile I loved most—clean, warm, once the only light in my dim world.

Now it felt like a poisoned blade, flaying my heart to pulp.

“Your man’s good to you, huh? Still so diligent even blind,” the assailant panted in my ear, his voice thick with mockery.

My body trembled violently—not from fear, but from a bone-deep chill spreading from my marrow.

I don’t know how long it lasted before the demon finally left, satisfied.

The door clicked softly shut.

Almost at once, the floor scrubber fell silent.

Kenneth took off his headphones and “looked” toward me with perfect accuracy, his face etched with just the right amount of concern.

“Brooklyn, was that the door just now? I thought I heard something.”

I lay curled on the cold floor like a broken doll, clothes disheveled, skin mottled with bruises.

I stared at him—at those eyes covered in special-effects scars, utterly lifeless. My throat felt stuffed with cotton and ground glass. I couldn’t speak.

He “groped” his way toward me, stumbling, nearly tripping over the coffee table.

“Brooklyn? What’s wrong? Why aren’t you saying anything?”

His hand finally found my arm. The warmth of his fingertips brushed my skin, and I jerked back as if branded.

He froze, concern deepening. “You’re so cold. Are you sick? Brooklyn, please, don’t scare me.”

Looking at his frantic expression, hearing his gentle, trembling voice, my stomach turned.

I wanted to scream. Why, Kenneth? Why would you do this to me?

But the thug’s threat still hissed in my ears.

I couldn’t call the police. Couldn’t tell a soul. Or Kenneth would be in danger.

That’s what the bastard had whispered, over and over.

And I, pitifully, had believed him.

Battling nausea, I pushed myself up from the floor, my voice a stranger’s rasp. “It’s nothing. I’m… just tired.”

“Are you sure?” He reached out, trying to touch my cheek.

I flinched away. “I need to shower.”

Then I fled to the bathroom.

Hot water cascaded over me. I scrubbed until my skin burned, but the filth buried deep in my bones wouldn’t wash away.

The person in the mirror had hollow eyes, bloodless lips, a body mapped with shame.

I covered my mouth, sobbing silently.

I thought this was my private hell.

That if I pretended nothing happened, if I buried the secret, life could return to normal.

I still believed, naively, that he was a victim like me—kept in the dark.