The Superstar's Runaway Wife With Triplets

The pain came in the dead of night, a sharp, twisting cramp deep in her abdomen. Chloe curled into a tight ball in the darkness, her teeth clenched against a gasp. Cold sweat beaded on her forehead. It was too soon for this. It was a warning. A punishment for the stress, the lies, the violence. Please, please be okay, she prayed silently to the three tiny lives inside her. Just hold on.

Heavy, unsteady footsteps echoed in the hallway outside. Her breath caught in her throat. The metallic scrape of a key in the lock was unnervingly loud in the silent mansion. The door creaked open, spilling a sliver of dim hallway light across the floor. Julian stood in the doorway, a glass of amber liquid in his hand. He was a dark, imposing shadow. He walked into the room, his movements unnaturally deliberate, and set the glass down on the nightstand with a heavy clink. The sharp, peaty scent of expensive whiskey filled the air, mingling with something else. That same sweet, sick perfume.

"Can't sleep?" he slurred, his voice thick with alcohol and malice. Chloe tried to push herself up, but another cramp seized her, and she winced, her hand pressing against her stomach. He saw the movement. A cruel smile twisted his lips. "What's the matter? Feeling some phantom pains? Missing the baby you scraped out of you?"

He loomed over the bed and, in one swift motion, ripped the duvet off her. The cool night air hit her skin, making her shiver. He leaned down, his face close to hers. The stench of whiskey was overpowering. It churned her already queasy stomach. She turned her head away, a wave of nausea rising in her throat. His fingers clamped around her chin, yanking her face back toward him. "Look at me when I'm talking to you."

His eyes were bloodshot, swimming with a terrifying mix of rage and something that looked like a twisted, possessive desire. "You took something from me, Chloe," he whispered, his voice a raw rasp. "You took my heir. So you're going to give me another one. Starting right now."

Horror, pure and undiluted, flooded her veins. She saw the intent in his eyes and her body went rigid. He tore at the neckline of her silk pajama top. A button popped off, skittering across the hardwood floor. "No, Julian, stop!" she cried, her hands flying up to push against his solid chest. It was like pushing against a brick wall. "I can't! I just had the... the procedure. The doctor said I need to heal."

For a fraction of a second, he paused. A flicker of something-hesitation? guilt?-crossed his face. But it was gone as quickly as it came, replaced by an even colder cruelty. "This is your punishment," he said, his voice flat and devoid of any emotion. "This is what you deserve."

He grabbed his cashmere sweater from the chair where he'd discarded it earlier and, before she could react, he twisted it into a makeshift rope and bound her wrists together, lashing them to the ornate headboard. Her ability to fight back was gone. Tears finally broke free, streaming down her temples and into her hair. "Please," she begged, her voice cracking. "Please, don't do this."

He ignored her tears as if they were invisible. His mouth crashed down on hers, a brutal, punishing kiss that tasted of whiskey and rage. She bit her lip to keep from crying out, the coppery taste of her own blood filling her mouth. As he violated her, Chloe's mind detached. She stared at a crack in the plaster on the ceiling, focusing on its jagged lines. She poured every ounce of her consciousness into her womb, creating a mental shield, a silent, desperate prayer. Stay strong. I'm sorry. Stay strong. She fought the urge to vomit, swallowing down the bile that rose in her throat. She couldn't let him see any sign of her pregnancy. She had to be a convincing liar, even now. Especially now.

When it was over, he pulled away from her, his breathing harsh in the silent room. He got off the bed without a word, pulling on his pants. He didn't look at her. He walked to the door, pausing only to untie the sweater from her raw wrists. "You're disgusting," he muttered, more to himself than to her. He left, and the lock clicked shut once more, sealing her in the dark with her shame and her terror.

For a long time, she lay there, a broken doll on a sea of tangled sheets. Then, slowly, painfully, she dragged her trembling body out of bed and stumbled to the bathroom. She turned the shower on as hot as she could stand it, scrubbing at her skin until it was red and raw, as if she could wash away his touch, his scent, his presence. The tears came then, silent, racking sobs that shook her entire frame.

When the tears ran dry, she leaned her forehead against the cool, wet tile, her hands cradling her belly. The cramping had stopped. She looked at her reflection in the fogged-up mirror. Her eyes were swollen, her lips bruised. But beneath the victim, she saw something else emerging. A survivor. A warrior.

"I will get you out of here," she whispered to the reflection, to the three souls nestled inside her. "I swear on my life, I will get you away from him. Whatever it takes."