My Heart, His Spare Part

Kianna Johnson POV:

A wave of nausea washed over me. The image of Grant spoon-feeding Dariana, of her sweet, triumphant smile, played on an endless loop in my mind. It was like a needle, jabbing into an open wound, twisting each time. I felt an overwhelming urge to run, to escape the suffocating air of this house, this elaborate lie.

I needed to breathe, to scream, to break something. In the past, when the weight of the world became too much, I used to drive. Fast. To the seediest, loudest places I could find. The anonymity, the raw energy, it was a release. A distorted sense of safety in the chaos.

I pressed a hand to my chest, trying to calm the frantic beating of my heart. The memory of Dariana's eyes underwater, the cold calculation, was a fresh horror. I straightened my spine, forcing down the lump in my throat. "Grant," I said, my voice sharp, cutting through the silence. "Get the car. We're going out."

He appeared from the kitchen doorway, his expression unreadable. "Kianna? Are you feeling alright? You look pale." He took a step towards me, concern etched on his face.

"I said, get the car," I repeated, my voice colder now. "And don't bother with questions. Just do your job."

His jaw tightened, a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes, but he merely nodded. "Right away." He turned and walked out, his footsteps echoing in the large house.

We ended up in a dive bar, a place throbbing with loud music and the scent of stale beer and cheap perfume. I walked straight to the bar, ignoring the leering glances, and ordered a line of the strongest shots they had. I intended to drink until I couldn't feel anything anymore.

Grant stood a few feet behind me, a silent, imposing shadow. He was out of place in his sharp suit, but his presence was a shield, keeping others at bay. I just wished it could shield me from myself.

I threw back shot after shot, the burning liquid doing little to numb the icy ache in my soul. My head began to spin, the music a dull throb in my ears. Everything was a blur, a chaotic mess, just like my life.

Then, a hand landed on my lower back. "Hey there, pretty lady," a slurred voice breathed next to my ear. "Why are you all alone?"

I flinched, pulling away with a grimace. "Go away," I muttered, my voice thick with alcohol and disgust.

He chuckled, undeterred. His hand reached for my arm, his fingers tightening. "Come on, don't be shy. Let's have some fun."

My eyes darted to Grant. He was still there, watching. He always did. In the past, a single look from him would have sent a man like this scurrying. My heart, in its foolish, broken way, still expected him to intervene. To be my protector.

But he didn't move. He stood there, a stone statue, his gaze fixed on me, yet strangely distant.

The man's grip tightened, pulling me closer. "Don't you ignore me, sweetheart." His voice was rougher now, impatient.

"Let go of me!" I snapped, my anger finally breaking through the haze of alcohol.

His face contorted in a sneer. "Feisty, aren't we? I like that." He yanked me harder, his fingers digging into my flesh.

My stomach churned. The bile I' d felt earlier now threatened to erupt. "Grant!" I gasped, a raw, desperate cry tearing from my throat.

The word hung in the air, unfinished. Because in that exact moment, a high-pitched shriek sliced through the throbbing music.

"Help! Grant! Help me!"

My head snapped around. Across the crowded, smoky room, I saw her. Dariana. She was surrounded by a group of rough-looking men, her face stark white with terror, her fragile frame trembling. When had she even gotten here?

And then, Grant moved.

He didn't hesitate. Didn't glance at me, not even for a flicker. His eyes, suddenly wild with a primal fear I had never seen, locked onto Dariana. He was a blur, a force of nature, tearing through the crowd, his powerful body an unstoppable arrow aimed directly at her.

He was gone. Left me. Just like that.

His every instinct, every fiber of his being, was solely focused on her. My "protector" had abandoned me without a second thought. The realization was a devastating blow, far worse than any physical pain. It was a cold, hard truth, finally laid bare.