Page 63 of Forced Innocent Bratva Bride

I caught them and opened the driver's door. “Not really. I've got this.” The car's cabin enveloped me as I sat behind the wheel and shut the door.

The engine roared to life, revving for a moment before I drove away.

Chapter 24 – Lorena

The car's tires screeched to a halt as I pulled over outside Bryce's apartment, my heart pounding in my chest. All I could do was hope that I wasn't too late. With the keys jingling in my hand, I exited the vehicle and rushed toward the entrance.

Luckily, the door was unlocked, so I barged inside just in time to see him standing on a stool with a rope, which extended from the ceiling, around his neck.

“Bryce…” I began, slowing down my pace at the unpleasant sight, my voice low and cautious. Both hands were held up in front of me as I took gentle steps forward. “Bryce, listen to me. Let's talk this out, okay?” I held his gaze, my attention fully focused on him.

“What's there to talk about, Smurfette?” he questioned, his face sweaty and pale and his eyes dim, devoid of hope. “Life is meaningless without you.” He whimpered, fingers gripping the ropes tighter. “I might as well just end it all now.” He tugged the knotted area of the rope down to his neck.

“No, wait!” I exclaimed, stretching out my hands, eyes widening in fear.

“Why?” he thundered amidst sobs. “Why shouldn't I end the pain and misery? Give me one good reason!” His eyes, burning with agony and defeat, stared deeply into mine.

At that moment, I was speechless, unable to think like a rational human being. This was a delicate situation, and my choice of words would determine the outcome of this conversation.

I stepped with caution toward him, still holding his gaze. “Please, Bryce, just…just get off the stool,” I begged, pleading with my eyes. “We can settle this like adults. No one has to die.”

He stared at me in silence, the stool unstable beneath him. One wrong move, and he'd hang. His neck would snap like a twig.

Tears welled my eyes as I struggled to shove back the gruesome images forming in my head. I wouldn't be able to live with myself if I watched him die like that. It would mess with my sanity for life.

I didn't think I'd ever be able to forgive myself or get over the trauma.

My eyes misted, my heart pounding heavily as I approached him. “Bryce, please, I'm begging you…get off the stool.” The slight pause came when my gaze dropped to the unstable furniture he was standing on.

The four legs of the stool seemed weak and were rocking back and forth in a treacherous manner. If just one leg should break, it would be bye, bye, Bryce, but I wouldn't have that. No.

My gaze swept across the interior for anything to improvise with—anything at all. From where I stood, if his legs were to slip off that stool and he hanged, my only hope would be to go for the rope—to cut it. But to do that, I'd need something sharp.

That was when I spotted a knife on the table beside two half-eaten oranges just to my right. Would I be fast enough to grab it and use it if Bryce was clumsy enough to kick the stool?

My gaze rapidly shifted across the man ready to die and the object that seemed like the only hope should my words fail.

“Bryce,” I called softly, tears stinging my eyes, “if you ever truly cared about me—”

He shook his head. “Don't do that. Don't try to manipulate me, Smurfette,” he said, his voice breaking.

I ignored him and continued regardless, “…if you ever truly loved me, you'll get off that stool…please….”

His throat wobbled, swallowing hard. “But you hate me—”

I cut him off, my voice trembling, eyes glancing at the knife, “No, I don't–”

“You said it yourself; you never wanna see me again,” he said, buttressing his point, his body rocking to the movement of the unstable stool.

“Yes, but I didn't mean that you should kill yourself,” I replied, calculating how fast I'd have to run to grab that knife and cut the rope before he did anything stupid.

He went silent for a moment as though he was reconsidering his decision, and I could hear the sound of my own heart racing with anticipation. I hoped that he got off the stool, safe and unharmed.

However, the opposite happened, stealing my breath and hitting me with a dose of adrenaline.

Bryce's legs slipped off the stool as I'd thought, and with the flash of fear in his eyes, I could tell that this hadn’t been his intention. Maybe it was a mistake. He’d probably made up his mind to get down but missed a step.

The stool fell off, and he hanged immediately, both hands flying to frantically slip his fingers between his neck and the rope.

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