Chapter 4The Vanishing Stocking

Vincent’s gentleness, his thoughtfulness—it all vanished the second I crossed a line.

He yanked me so hard I stumbled.

I fell against the edge of the bed. Ignoring the sharp pain in my abdomen, I scrambled up and slapped him across the face.

His already swollen face grew darker.

He stared at the phone in my hand.

“Give it to me.”

I didn’t move.

He lunged for it.

He grabbed my hand, prying my fingers off one by one.

There was a sickening crack as my knuckles twisted at an unnatural angle. He wrenched the phone from my grasp as I cried out in pain.

“You can’t unsend it, Vincent. It’s too late.”

I started laughing.

It was a wild, unhinged sound.

“I called her a homewrecker. A slut. Does that hurt your feelings?”

“Erin is a…”

CRACK.

I was thrown back onto the bed.

The slap knocked the words right out of my throat.

They tumbled down into my stomach, twisting into pain, into nausea, into thorny vines that grew and tore me apart from the inside out.

My eye throbbed, swollen and hot.

I wondered if it had burst. Why else would it be leaking so much warmth? It couldn’t be tears. It had to be blood.

“Do you have any idea how much you’re hurting her?!” Vincent roared. “Chloe, you’re going to drive her to suicide!”

“Will you only be happy when she’s dead?!”

My voice was a raw whisper.

“Yes.”

“I hope you all die.”

Vincent went to the kitchen and came back with a knife. He forced it into my hand and held it to his own throat.

His eyes were crazed, ready to take us both down.

“Go on. Kill me.”

“If you have the guts, then do it!”

“Chloe, I never said I wouldn’t marry you. I just can’t deal with Erin’s situation and you at the same time.”