Three Years After I Took The Fall, The Don Begged Me Back

The whole East Coast knew I'd gone after Victor.

I bought a newly discovered planet and had it named after him, then presented it to him at the most glamorous gala of the season. When his stomach was acting up and he missed a meeting, I dropped everything and showed up at his door with soup.

He was cold to me the whole time.

He told me he was in love with someone else, a girl with no family name, no connections. Sophia. The family stood in the way of them marrying, he said, but she was the only one he'd ever want.

It hurt, but I let him go. I wished him well and moved on.

His father, though, had other ideas. He wanted Victor to marry me, because I was the Moretti heiress, after all.

I'd almost forgotten Victor entirely when he showed up at my birthday party out of nowhere. That night he drank three bottles of XO, grabbed my arm, and kept asking: "Delora, Delora, do you still love me?"

Even drunk, that face of his did things to me.

When I hesitated, he got serious. He swore that he and Sophia were done, that he'd freed her, wished her well, and that my passion had moved him in ways he hadn't expected. I decided to give him one chance to prove it.

After that night, it all fell into place: dating, proposal, engagement, wedding. Clean and natural as anything. I put Sophia out of my mind entirely.

It didn't last.

On the first day of our honeymoon, just as the plane was about to take off, his phone played that song again. My Heart Will Go On.

He stared at the screen with his thumb hovering over the reject button and couldn't bring himself to press it.

A flight attendant came over to ask him to turn off his phone.

He agonized over it for a long moment. "It's Sophia. Can I take it?"

We were seconds from wheels up. "Turn it off," I said. "Deal with it after we land."

Victor pressed his lips together and declined the call.

But the moment we touched down, his phone started up again. The same song, over and over.

I was already irritated. "Just answer it. Tell her you're on your honeymoon."

But that call changed everything.

It turned out that right as we were boarding, Sophia had been assaulted. That call was her cry for help. Victor booked the next available flight back on the spot, and he left alone, without even asking if I wanted to come with him.

It rained hard that day in Las Vegas. I dragged three suitcases to the hotel by myself, and whatever excitement I'd had was gone.

Victor stayed at the hospital with Sophia for two straight weeks without a single word to me.

When we finally reunited, he shoved a medical report in my face, barely containing the guilt in his voice. "Sophia has severe depression. It's my fault. I should've answered the phone. I owe her this." Then he turned and looked at me, a shadow of resentment in his eyes. "You owe her too."

A chill went through me. "No one owes her anything except the man who attacked her," I said carefully. "Even if you'd answered, you couldn't have stopped it."

That was all it took. Victor exploded.

"It was you! You stopped me from answering! You let this happen to her and now you stand there like it's nothing! If I'd picked up, who would've dared touch her? Who?! You're so good at avoiding blame."

Right. Who was really avoiding blame here. The facts were obvious.

I couldn't keep fighting with someone who'd lost all reason, so I went to the bedroom alone. It wasn't until I closed the door behind me that I realized I was crying, shaking, silent, blindsided by how unfair it all was.

After that, Sophia overdosed on sleeping pills. Slashed her wrists. Multiple times. Every time, Victor was the one who rushed to her, stayed with her, took care of her. There was nothing I could do to stop him from going to "save a life," and everyone decided Sophia's breakdown was my fault.

Then one time he was gone for three days straight and missed a meeting my father had arranged. Because of him, I embarrassed the family.

That night I sat him down for a serious talk. "Victor, all nightmares must come to an end."

Victor smoked in his study all night. The next morning he told me: "I told her I'm done. I won't go back."

I nodded. "I can arrange a private doctor for her."

He laughed, cold. "Let's hope you actually mean that."

I held my tongue, swallowed my pride, and tried to prove something. Yet I failed again, for Sophia had lost control.