Marry The Billionaire Again

"Who are you?" Michelle Harris gasped, yanking back on pure instinct. But before she could make another move, a stranger pressed a chloroform-soaked cloth hard over her nose and mouth.

"Help…" The word barely slipped past her lips before the world dissolved into blackness. When light finally pricked her eyelids again, she jolted awake, her brain spinning and disoriented.

The endless clicking of a camera echoed through the small room, shutter after shutter snapping photos of her. A man loomed over her, his greasy hands roaming where they shouldn’t. Adrenaline exploded through her veins. Michelle recoiled and shoved him away as hard as she could. "Get off me! Don’t you fucking touch me!"

Ignoring the searing pain shooting from the cuts on her body, she scrambled for the discarded clothes scattered at her side and yanked them on fast. Just as she finished, the door creaked open. "You done? Mr. Harris is waiting."

Michelle froze, cold dread creeping up her spine. Logan Harris?

"It’s finished. You can go now," the photographer said, to her shock.

Confusion and shock crashed over Michelle in waves. Had they only come here to take photos? Panic screamed at her to get dressed and run—who knew what worse things they had planned next. She didn’t need to be told twice.

Meanwhile, the man who’d assaulted her dialed a number. "Ms. Perkins? It’s done."

Josephine Perkins’ laughter trickled through the line, cold and sharp as a knife. "Excellent. Make sure those photos get delivered to her grandmother."

"Will do."

By the time Michelle had run blocks away, her legs burned enough to slow her down. That’s when her phone rang. She fumbled it out of her pocket and answered, breathless. It was Mrs. Wilson, her neighbor, her voice tight with worry. "Michelle, it’s Mrs. Wilson from next door. I heard strange noises coming from your house earlier, but when I knocked, your grandmother never answered. I have a bad feeling about this. You need to come home right now."

Ice shot through Michelle’s entire body. She mumbled a rushed reply and bolted for home, her heart hammering against her ribs. Frantic, she dialed her grandmother over and over again, but every call went straight to voicemail. A heavy, sickening dread settled deep in her gut.

Please, Grandma, be okay. Please be okay.

When Michelle burst through her front door, she found her grandmother lying motionless on the living room floor. "Grandma!" She sprinted to her side, fumbling for her phone to call an ambulance, that’s when she spotted it—a crumpled photo clutched tight in her grandmother’s limp hand. Michelle’s heart dropped straight through her feet. It was one of the photos from the attack.

The ambulance arrived minutes later. Her grandmother was raced straight to the ER, but it wasn’t long before a doctor stepped out, his expression soft and sorry. "I’m so sorry. We did everything we could…"

The words hit Michelle like a punch to the chest. She stumbled backward as her grandmother, covered head to toe in a plain white sheet, was wheeled out past her. She lunged forward, sobs tearing out of her throat. "Grandma, I didn’t do those things. Those photos are fake. Wake up. I need you. Please don’t leave me…"

Michelle’s cries were raw, tearing her throat apart, and the whole hospital corridor echoed with her heartbreak. Grief and shock crashed over her all at once. Her vision blurred at the edges, and she crumpled to the cold tile floor, unconscious before she even hit it.