His Cruel Love, My Broken Heart

For three years, I was Bradley Porter's bodyguard. And his substitute. Tonight, I took a bullet for him, the wound in my shoulder still fresh.

But he didn't care. His assistant pulled me out of the hospital, my wound infected and feverish, because the woman I was a substitute for, Kylie Tyson, was back.

At the private airport, he embraced her with a love I had never seen.

Kylie looked me up and down with disdain. "Bradley, make her carry my luggage."

He saw my pale face, the bandage peeking from my collar, but his voice was sharp. "What are you waiting for? Get the luggage."

There were five large suitcases.

Just moments before, Kylie had faked a sprained wrist, and he had examined it with panicked concern. When I took a bullet for him, he just glanced at me and told his men to "clean up the mess."

That night, I went home and added another black stone to the glass jar on my dresser.

I made a promise to myself: for every time he hurt me, I would add a stone.

When the jar was full, I would leave him forever.

Tonight was stone number three hundred and sixty-eight.

The jar was almost half full.