Page 17 of Portrait of a Protective Billionaire

I’ll be stranded.

I almost trick myself into thinking it isn’t real. It can’t be. It was all so sudden. He is merely saying words. Meaningless words, and soon, I’ll blink, and he’ll be gone—a nightmare directed by paranoia. My eyelids flutter.

“Okay, I’ll be back, baby,” he coos, kissing my forehead. If I weren't drained, I would take another attempt at his life. He leaves the room, the air still heavy with the memories of the past few hours. The faint jingle of my keys being toyed with reaches my ears, accompanied by a nursery rhyme melody whistled from his scheming lips, “Bye-bye,” he calls out.

Knock! Knock! Knock!

Is someone at the door? Considering the possibility of a sick joke, the apartment is rattled by another round of knocks.

Hurried footsteps approach the room. He enters, struggling to retrieve something from his pocket.

Thereissomeone at the door.

Screaming at the top of my lungs, I provoke a glowering response from him, complete with bared teeth, as he hurries to reapply the gag. Swiftly, I swing my legs to the side, launching a forceful kick at the bedside stand. It crashes to the floor with a resounding boom, toppling and causing the ceramic plate to shatter.

“Shh!” he gags and violently chokes me, silencing my screams for help. It's already too late. The knocks become more frantic, and a muffled voice speaks from the other side of the door, “I’m losing my patience,” he growls. With my hands held hostage and his weight on my legs, I'm forced to lie helplessly until he decides to ease his vice-like grip on my throat. Colors and stars spot my vision. The rag is stuffed farther back than before, the scratchy fabric brushing my tonsils. Nausea builds within me, and my breathing becomes increasingly labored.

The knocks stop.

“Dammit!” he curses under his breath and lets me go. Without changing my position or inhaling a breath, I opt for stillness, hoping to evade detection, although I am aware that such an outcome is unlikely. The hysterical man storms around the place, gathering his things. He freezes and glances at me. Eyes cold and glaring. He leaves wordlessly.

Is he…gone?

The apartment door slams closed. There's no more shuffling or whistling. No more knocking. That can’t be…can it? Minutes pass. Dust floats through the beams of light peeking past the curtains. Performing an experimental tug on the rope, I wonder how I will get out of this. The door creaks open once more, and I strain to listen.

Is he back?

“Hello?” it's a woman’s voice. I try to respond, but my mouth is still gagged. She hears my tired groan. Seconds later, the property manager and two men join her. A security guard, and Evan Blackburn. An emotion I’d never seen on his face before overtook his expression. His eyes are wide with concern.

Shame is the last thing I should be feeling, but I feel insecure, exposed, and embarrassed. I didn’t want anyone, let aloneBlackburn,to see me in this broken state.

“Oh my God!” the woman clutches her heart, pulling out her phone to call the cops, and the security guard works on cutting me loose. When my hands are free, I don’t move immediately. Speech is beyond me. My only desire is to cry and cleanse myself, feeling utterly repulsed. The police are frustrated with my selective muteness but try their best to be patient. The whole time, I sense everyone’s pitying eyes on me. Wondering. Theorizing.

Who did this to me? What happened? Was it their fault? Or was it mine?

I'm not confident I can answer that. Eventually, I force myself to talk once I'm in a private room at the hospital. It isn’t a long story. It shouldn’t be. A story takes a long time when a shaking,

sobbing, stuttering mess tells it.

After the ordeal with doctors and police, with endless statements and checking my health, exhaustion creeps over me like a thick fog. They give me a number and promises of protection, but the idea of returning home sends shivers down my spine.

Outside, the world seems blurry, the bustling streets of New York both comforting and terrifying. I press my back against the cool, rough surface of the hospital's wall, contemplating the grim prospect of a night spent on the cold, unforgiving sidewalks.

"You okay?"

Startled, I turn to find Evan leaning against the building a few steps away. His suit is slightly disheveled as if he's been there for a while. The concern is evident in his eyes, softening their usual intensity.

"I've been better," I admit, my voice quivering.

He shifts uncomfortably, clearly affected by my condition. "I’m sorry…about...everything. I'm really sorry, Isabella."

Our shared history of unspoken feelings and intimate moments comes flooding back. Despite the circumstances, his presence is oddly comforting. We stand in silence for a moment, sharing the space and finding a surprisingly comforting awkwardness in the situation.

Breaking the silence, Evan finally says, "Look, you don’t have to answer if you don’t want to, but...where will you go now?"

The weight of my situation presses down on me again. "Um... don't know."

“Do you need somewhere to stay?”

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