Chapter Three: June

The warmth of the blanket weighed heavily on me, its softness doing little to soothe the aches radiating from my body. Bruises, cuts—each one a puzzle piece in the blurred horror of the past few days. My mind felt like a shattered mirror, reflecting fragments of fear, panic, and fleeting memories I wasn’t ready to confront.

The dim light of the room tugged at familiarity I wasn’t sure I wanted. Cam’s room. No—our room. A sour taste rose in my throat. Why was I here? After everything, why was he acting like I mattered again?

I shifted slightly, a small gasp escaping me as pain shot through my ribs. That’s when I noticed him. He was sitting on the edge of the bed, his broad shoulders stooped, his dark hair disheveled, and his hand—warm, steady—wrapped around mine.

It was unsettling. The Cam Watson I knew never faltered, never showed vulnerability. Yet here he was, his thumb gently brushing my knuckles in a way that felt... tender. But tenderness wasn’t something I trusted from him anymore.

“Ahem.” His voice was low, unsteady—another first. “Do you know what happened to you, Ms. Luper?”

Ms. Luper. The formal address cut through the haze of my thoughts like a blade. I tried to answer, but my throat burned, dry and raw, as if I’d been screaming for hours. My lips moved, but the words refused to come.

He leaned closer, the concern in his gaze almost convincing. “June, don’t,” he murmured when I instinctively pulled my hand away from his. “I’m trying to help you.”

Help. Now? The word echoed bitterly in my mind. Where was this man when I needed him the most? When I was dragged into a nightmare I barely escaped from?

Flashes of what happened began to resurface—an argument with someone I shouldn’t have trusted, the coldness of strangers' hands, the leering faces, the smell of antiseptic mixed with fear. My stomach churned, and I shook my head, tears burning at the corners of my eyes.

“I…” My voice cracked, barely audible, and I turned away from him.

“June.” His voice softened, almost pleading now. “I need to know what happened. Please.”

The word “please” from his lips was as foreign as this moment, but I couldn’t look at him. His guilt, his desperation—it felt like a cruel joke.

_

_______________________________________

Two days earlier

"To hell with you, Mr. Jonson, and to hell with your marriage proposal! As I’ve already said, I am married," I snapped, punctuating my words with a sharp slap across his face. His smug expression didn’t waver as he stepped closer, his breath reeking of entitlement.

"I know you're not married," he sneered, his voice dripping with mockery.

"Stay where you are, or this will end badly for you," I warned, my heels clacking as I backed up slightly. But Jonson was an idiot—the kind of man who thought a “no” was just a step toward a “yes.”

"What will you do? Kick me out? Try it," he taunted. "I'll just tell the CEO that you tried to seduce me and then acted out when I said no." His grin widened as if he’d just delivered a checkmate.

"You already have a story prepared?" I asked, my voice calm, though my blood boiled.

"Smart girl," he said, inching closer. "Now, come sit on my lap and be the good girl I know you are."

I felt bile rise in my throat. "Have you looked in the mirror? My husband is a hundred times more handsome than you." That seemed to hit a nerve because his expression darkened.

"Oh, you're going to be a naughty one," he said, his voice thick with malice.

Then, to my horror, he began unbuckling his belt.

Without hesitation, I drove my heel into his crotch, twisting slightly for good measure. He crumpled to the floor with a pained yell, cursing me with every foul name he could muster.

"Bitch, you just wait," he spat.

Not waiting to see what he might try next, I grabbed his belt off the floor and used it to tie his hands behind his back. His struggles only made me tighten the makeshift restraint.

"Security!" I called out. Within seconds, two guards arrived.

"Please remove him from the building," I instructed, my voice firm. The guards dragged him out as he continued to hurl threats. I didn’t care to hear the rest.

As soon as he was gone, I leaned against the doorframe, taking a deep breath. My day had started badly with an argument with Mr. Watson, and now this? I was barely holding it together.

Back in my office, I tried to collect myself, sitting in my chair and running through a mental checklist. Just as I debated whether to finish my work or leave for the day, there was a knock at the door.

"Come in," I said, pinching the bridge of my nose.

Julia, my secretary, entered hesitantly, clutching a stack of papers.

"Ma’am, I’m so sorry," she began, trembling. "I thought you were single, and Mr. Jonson said he was deeply in love with you. He asked to see you, so I let him in without asking. I’m so sorry, ma’am."

I sighed, waving her off. It wasn’t her fault. I’d kept my marriage a secret from everyone, after all. "It’s fine this time, Julia. But going forward, please verify with me before letting anyone in. Now, handle this: inform Mr. Jonson that we will no longer be dealing with his company. I’m going home for the day. Mail me anything urgent."

Julia nodded quickly, her face still pale, as I reviewed and signed the papers she handed me. Once she left, I gathered my things and prepared to leave, but my office phone rang.

"Yes?" I answered, distractedly shuffling papers.

"Ma’am, it’s your husband. He’s been trying to reach you and is very worried. Should I connect him?" Julia’s voice was cautious.

I froze, glancing at my phone buried under paperwork. Thirty missed calls from him, two from my mom, and three from his mom stared back at me. My chest tightened as I cleared my throat.

"Yes, put him through," I said. My heart raced as his deep voice filled the line. The phone connected as soon as I found my phone, but he didn't seem to know that it connected; he was talking to someone. Every time I hear his deep voice, it feels like I am drowning into him. “Su voz es suficiente para hacerme quererlo” (his voice is enough to make me want him), I murmur, believing that he doesn’t understand Spanish because if did, he would have already killed me by now because I have said so many things, so I refrained from interrupting his conversation.

Instead, I checked my phone and discovered thirty missed calls from Mr. Watson, two from my mother, and three from his mother.

"Miss Luper," he said, his tone clipped. The way he said my name always made my stomach flip.

"Dios mío," I whispered under my breath.

"It’s not polite to eavesdrop," he continued, his voice sharp.

"I wasn’t eavesdropping," I defended quickly. "I was busy and didn’t realize the line connected. What’s wrong?"

"You weren’t answering your phone," he said. "I thought you’d dropped dead."

"I was working," I replied, trying to keep my voice steady.

“I was so caught up in work that I didn't see my phone until now," I explained as I typed messages to Mom and Mother. Hello Mom, I'm sorry for not returning your call; I was preoccupied with work. (sent to Mom), Hi Mother, I apologize for not returning your phone because I was at work. Please know that I am fine and that I did remember to bring cake back home. To Mother (Send). As today is our first anniversary, she kept asking me to bring her cake in the morning.

I was too preoccupied to realize I was on the phone. He kept saying my name, so I quickly replied, "Sí, I'm here. "What's wrong with you right now?” he asks in an agitated tone. To find out when he planned to drop by, I just said, "Well, it's nothing. Mother wants us back soon and with a cake to celebrate our first anniversary, and I hope you do remember that correctly, Mr. Watson." "Oh, right, our anniversary is today," he murmured cautiously. I didn't answer since I understood why he wouldn't recall such a trivial matter given that our marriage is a fake and today is our last dinner together.

I paused. "Yes, of course. I’ll grab the cake on my way. Let’s leave together—just text me when you’re leaving the office."

He agreed, and I hung up quickly, feeling the weight of the day press down on me. The phone buzzed on my desk, interrupting the quiet hum of my thoughts. Mr. Adam. Again. I could already guess the reason for his call. How many times had he been sent by Mr. Watson to remind me of the divorce paperwork? Five? Ten? It was like clockwork.

“Good day, Mr. Adam,” I greeted him, putting the phone on speaker and shuffling the stack of files I had been working on. “Yes, I know what today’s date is. No, you don’t have to worry. I’ll leave the house tomorrow, first thing. Yes, I’ll handle telling our parents. Yes, I’ll make them believe me.”

The practiced ease in my tone surprised even me, but his incessant nagging had left me immune to any emotional charge these conversations once carried. He launched into yet another attempt to confirm details. I cut him off. “No, I don’t want the money. Honestly, donate it. An orphanage, a foundation—anywhere but my bank account.”

Even as I said it, I couldn’t help but feel a flicker of disbelief at myself. Twelve million dollars. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t think about how it could change my life. But this wasn’t about money—it was about freedom. I slapped my cheeks lightly, bringing myself back to reality. Work. Focus on work.

Fifteen minutes later, my tasks were done, and I called Julia over to handle the courier files. Poor girl. She still looked like she expected me to yell at her. I’d reassured her that the mistake she made this morning wasn’t a big deal, but she was trembling like a leaf.

“Julia,” I said, softening my tone, “Here’s the data. Make sure the labeled one goes out first thing tomorrow. And these,” I handed her an extra stack, “are for the sales team.” She nodded so quickly I thought her neck might snap.