CHAPTER-1

In the late night, when people sleep in their cozy houses,. I was also supposed to be in bed, reading one of my favorite romance novels with a glass of my favorite wine, but here I am driving from the most famous club in the city, due to my now-onward ex-best friend, because she is the culprit who dragged me into this. If she hadn't dragged me there, I wouldn't have been here in front of my so-called papers' husband.

Hell, I wouldn't even drive him home and ignore him for the rest of his life like he ignores me, but due to some reason I can't; that is, he is injured right now, and my morals are to help an injured person even if he doesn't deserve it. 

It is weirder because he is giving a direction to his home, which I have never visited since the time we married. I have a wonderful life. Note the sarcasm.

Weider hasn't spoken a word yet—not even thanks for saving his life, just direction with his Antarctic voice. The atmosphere in the car is suffocating, and the stench of blood is stronger than I have ever smelled. He didn't tell me how deep his wounds are; by the amount of blood, I can tell it's deeper than I thought. We must be on our way to the hospital, but he put pressure on not going to the hospital, so I let it go.

He maybe got hit in the head too.

Worse, he had ammenesia, or short-term memory loss.

That will justify his reason for abandoning me, because I am not going to take another excuse. After his wounds are stitched up, we are going to have a talk. Serious talking.

'Lena, he is your husband; take care of him, not make fun of him. You are expected to be with him, and you must have taken those knives for him. Bad Lena, you are such a disgrace to the family'. That generous word will definitely be delivered to me by my more generous father when he hears of his precious son-in-law's accident. After all, his only dream is to fall into the category of family members of his son-in-law, and in the process, dying doesn't matter to him. They should be thankful I didn't leave him there to bleed out.

After awhile, I cannot stand this silence; the night is already cold, and the open refrigerator, aka my loving, warmth-filled husband beside me, is worsening my mood.

"By the way, how do you get injured, and why is nobody with you? Aren't you supposed to have a bodyguard?" "I tried to talk as a human who just should help another, you know, for things like humanity, not out of curiosity to know why my husband was there and stabbed those thugs in the middle of the night.

"Hey? Are you awake? You are not dead, right?" I tried again.

"Stop talking, just drive," he replied in his cold Antarctic breeze-like voice. His voice sent shivers down my spine. Fear, maybe? Isn't he supposed to be more thankful to me? After all, I saved him.

"Yes," I said meekly.

What? What the hell happened to my self-esteem? Aren't I supposed to yell at him for abandoning me after our marriage? And here I become weak from his words and his voice, which sound like his words are absolute orders. I hate that kind of man who thinks everyone is beneath him. Where is my vow that I will never live a life of pathetically?

I continue to drive, cursing my fate for marrying him. He is looking ahead on the roads we are driving by. His eyes are sharp, and frowns are on his face. He is stabbed in his guts and also bleeding from his nose; it must be broken now, but he is looking emotionless, with not a hint of pain in his face. What kind of psycho is he? He should have been lying on the back seat, but he is sitting on the passenger seat, one hand clenched on his lap, another clutching to my cashmere white jacket, which is around his wounds to stop bleeding. His white dress shirt is almost red in color, and his jaw line has blood smeared on it. My heart throbs. Looking at him gives me the feeling that I'm concerned for him.

No, Lena, what the hell? You shouldn't be concerned for him; remember he abandoned you. You should be more worried about the jacket I bought after saving three months of salary. 

But he is wounded right now. I should be worrying, right?

And of course, if he dies, I will be free from this marriage. That will be a bonus point for me. May be I slow down a little bit and that will work?

Just stop thinking; you are not a murderer, Lena. Bad idea. 

"Hey you," he said in his monotone voice. He is looking straight at me, like he is trying to find some type of answer. It's like he is reading me, seeing through my soul like a transparent glass. His is literally open from the stabbing he got, but his eyes are so clear. Those gray eyes, like stormy clouds, are frozen before they get a chance to storm; they don't have pain in them. His jaw is so prominent; his face is well crafted; and his body is too muscular but also lean. It's just inhuman how well-crafted he is.

Darn, my husband is hot. If we had met in different circumstances, I would have preferred to date him.

Reality is so harsh.

"Hey, you, what's your name?" "Is he talking to me?" Me?" I tried to confirm.

"I really don't appreciate repeating myself," he said again, more harshly than before. I gaped at him. "You don't know my name?"

"You are someone famous I should be aware of? Influencer?" He is looking at me like strange bacteria under a microscope.

"I am not famous, nor am I an influencer." I blink at him.

"People don't ask your name more often, I see."

No. Maybe I am like this because, as you know, you should know my name considering I am your wife.

Before I answered him, he told me to "turn left at the next cut." Well, whatever, I just want to get over this soon and be on my way. I sigh and lean my head against the car seat. I don't have the energy to fight with him.

I should have stayed at home tonight.

******

Hours ago,

After hearing the safety of the clicking of the gun behind me, I heard a crack. I look behind Alarik, who is holding the mask thug's hand at a very odd angle; the crack must be his arm being broken.

"Hurry woman!" Alarik shouts at me.

I quickly open the door and grab my gun from the dash board. Turning around, I see Alarik is fighting two thugs, which means there will be more to come.

Raising my hand, I shot that one mask thug who pointed a gun at me in the stomach. He will not die, but it will hurt like hell. I shot the other one in the knee. Thankfully, none of them had a gun on hand right now.

Alarik got in the passenger seat of the car, and I was driving. I am trying to start my car, but the car I have been driving for five years just won't start.

Listening to gunfire, more mask men are starting to come; one is already in my side window, and he has a gun. Before I can react, he is shot dead in the head.

Looking at Alarik, he has a new gun in hand; it must have been taken from the previous ones I shot.

Fortunately, my car started working just in time as a few more mask thugs arrived. I quickly drive past a lot of them, and in a few minutes we are out of the club's parking lot.

I slow down when I confirm that we are a few miles away and no one is following us. After all of that, when my heartbeat is becoming normal again, I look toward Alarik.

"Oh my God!" I yell.

He is not just bleeding; he has a small knife in his side of the abdomen. Which he is covering with my $5,000 cashmere jacket. My jacket.

What did I just get myself into? My life just never lets me rest.