Chapter 4: Blood, Betrayal, and No Escape

In the next couple of days, Turner’s company was holding a big event to promote their new tours.

The event was all over social media—slick ads, fancy invitations, the whole nine yards. It was the perfect opportunity. I could get close without raising suspicion.

This was it. My shot at revenge.

I rehearsed what I’d say, how I’d act. My hands shook with anticipation, but I forced myself to stay calm. This was it—the moment I’d been waiting for.

At the end of the event, I claimed I had over a hundred people interested in joining a tour group. Turner met with me in private.

He was all smiles, thinking he’d landed a huge deal. He led me into his office, offered me a drink, talking up his company like he was on Shark Tank. I played along, biding my time.

His grip was firm, his accent thicker than ever. He had no idea what was coming. I looked him dead in the eye, letting my anger simmer just below the surface.

The moment I grabbed his hand, I yanked him forward and kicked his leg out from under him. He lost his balance and crashed hard to the floor.

The sound of his body hitting the carpet was oddly satisfying. For a split second, he looked up at me, shocked, before the fear set in.

I clenched my fist and punched him in the face—hard. I let all my rage pour out. Every bit of it.

The first punch landed with a sickening crunch. I didn’t hold back. Years of frustration, heartbreak, and fury poured out in those blows.

After a few blows, his eyes were bruised, blood streaming from his nose. He spat, "What is this—some kind of American bar brawl?"

He spat blood onto the carpet, trying to sound tough, but his voice wavered. I didn’t care. I wanted him to hurt.

"Why are you hitting me? Weren’t we supposed to talk business?"

He scrambled backward, looking for an escape. I could see the panic in his eyes. He tried to reason with me, but I was beyond reason.

Screw that bastard—I didn’t even listen. I grabbed him by the neck, slammed his head down on the floor, hard.

He struggled, kicking and clawing, but I held him down. The rage inside me was a tidal wave, unstoppable.

He howled in pain, his face twisted up, mouth open, eyes wild.

His cries echoed off the office walls. I barely heard them, lost in my own fury.

When I was done, I stood up, panting. "Do you remember Emily?"

I wiped sweat from my brow, my chest heaving. I wanted him to know exactly why he was suffering.

Turner clutched his head and squirmed on the floor. "Of course, Mr. Morgan. She’s your wife—real pretty."

His words dripped with arrogance, even as he bled on the carpet. I wanted to hit him again.

"We had a hell of a night together. I still think about it all the time!"

The smug grin on his face was too much. My fists itched to wipe it away. I could barely see straight, my vision swimming with rage.

That was it—I completely lost it. He was begging for it!

I rolled up my sleeves, ready to give him more, but he quickly scooted back against the wall and struggled to his feet, wiping blood from his mouth.

He stumbled, grabbing the edge of the desk for support. His eyes darted to the door, calculating his next move.

While I was distracted, he bolted out the door. For a second I froze, then snapped back to reality.

I panicked and chased after him, but he was too fast and vanished into the crowd.

People turned to stare as I pushed through the lobby, but Turner was already gone. I cursed under my breath, frustration boiling over.

I ducked out a side exit, pulling my baseball cap low over my eyes. My heart pounded in my chest. I knew I’d gone too far, but I didn’t care. Not yet.