Page 3 of Papers Don't Lie

She doesn’t need to tell me twice.I’m running the next second, not once looking back.

My parents can survive two of their daughters not marrying. They did it once; they can do it again.

Which ishow I ended up on the New York streets, looking behind me at every step of the way.

Carter, the man waiting for me at the altar, has been a constant shadow in my life, snapping at me for any small mistake, breathing down the back of my neck, and guiding me into being a good, obedient puppy so the day he’ll get to have me, I’ll be his perfect possession with no flaw. He wants me as a porcelain puppet with perfect looks and the best manners, one he can put wherever he wants with no repercussions.

Maybe if Carter weren’t like that, I would’ve married him with no protest like each one of my sisters did. After all, we’ve known each other since I was eight years old—right before Naveah got married—which should have made living with him as my husband easy, considering my sisters didn't have the luckof knowing the men they were going to spend the rest of their lives with as I did.

My feet hurt like a motherfucker, so I stop in place, allowing them to rest a bit as I remove the strap while keeping the heels I’m wearing in one piece. The dress is so damn huge that I have to hoist it, pushing my tongue out in concentration while I struggle to set my feet free.

"Come on,” I mutter, glancing behind me to make sure no one has followed.

There’s a sweet moment of relief after I get rid of my shoes, but that is replaced quickly when a burst of pain shoots through my entire body. Something slams into my left side with so much force that it steals the ground from under my feet, the hit causing a high ringing in my ears and my vision blurring until I collapse.

“Fuck,” a deep voice curses before my body turns completely numb and I lose consciousness.

TWO

ESMERAY

"Let’s go over it once again, Mr. Stone, shall we?” I ask the man who’s sitting on the couch next to the bed I’m lying on.

As soon as I fluttered my eyes open and took in my surroundings, he mounted on his feet in a soldier position and introduced himself as Kendrick Stone, the employee of the man who "brought me to the hospital.” I wanted to give him shit for tiptoeing around the bush, but I let it slip because I didn’t really know him or what he was capable of.

What I know about Mr. Stone is nothing more than what his appearance reveals: the man is as tall as the Eiffel Tower, with massive shoulders filling the coat he’s wearing, holding an unshaken expression accompanied by dark, lowered eyebrows and a tightly locked jaw, and he’s probably in his mid-twenties.

With squinted eyes, I continue, “Your boss ran over me with his car, brought me here, and left?”

The man, dressed in a luxurious dark suit straightens his already stiff back, and gives me a quick nod. “That’s exactly what I said.”

My head tilts to the side. “Huh.”

The hospital space looks modern enough that if Mr. Stone didn’t tell me where I am, I would’ve thought I was inside a hotelroom or a guest in somebody’s home. Whoever brought me here has more money than he can count.

I take a deep breath and raise a palm to my aching head, hoping to dim the pain.

When the assistant came to explain about a small injury on my head and how I should avoid sitting up too fast or doing sudden movements for a while, she also mentioned the man responsible for it and that I was lucky he was driving at a low speed. The cops took care of it last night, but since I wasn’t awake, they couldn’t accuse him of any charges.

The man in question, Kai Graves, made Mr. Stone stay with me through the entire night, and his sorry ass left with no remorse.

When I woke up and realized the gravity of what happened, the first question I asked him was if anyone knew I was here. Thankfully, they waited for my answer before reaching out to someone, and I’m sure they didn’t do that out of kindness but because a specific person paid them to do so.

“Now, can I escort you home or call someone in your family?” he asks. “Mr. Graves wants you to be safe.”

Right. I bet he thought the same when he hit me.

The corner of my mouth twists upward in a snort, and I throw him a look as I drag myself to the edge of the bed. Does he actually believe himself when he says that?

My fingers curl around the margin of the mattress, looking for support, while a sense of nausea falls upon me. I blink a few times, trying to ease the feeling away. It does nothing but make it worse, the room spinning with me as my toes search for the ground.

Between the flutter of my eyelids, I see Mr. Stone hurrying to me. “May I?”

I ignore him and instead struggle for a few seconds until I’m sure I can’t do it on my own. It’s not that help isn’t welcome—because it is—it’s about asking for it when I don’t really need it. In this case, I do.

“Thank you,” I say.

“I’ll get you a wheelchair,” Mr. Stone tells me before he exits the room and comes back two seconds later, pushing the chair inside.

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