The line went dead.
Kelvin stared at his phone, the image of Gabriella burned into his retinas.
Tubes.
Machines.
Marcus smiling like a wolf in sheep’s clothing.
‘Twenty-nine minutes.’ His body moved before his mind caught up.
He bolted out of his chair, nearly tripping over his own heels.
The hallway was empty.
Good.
He ran toward the elevator, his heart hammering so hard he could feel it in his throat.
His wig was slipping.
His dress was constricting.
Everything about this feminine costume felt like a cage, and he was clawing his way out of it.
The elevator doors opened.
He stepped inside and slammed the ground floor button.
The descent felt like it took forever.
Every second that ticked by was a second Marcus had his hands on Gabriella.
‘Twenty-seven minutes.’ The elevator chimed.
The doors opened.
Kelvin burst out into the lobby, scanning desperately for any sign of John or Alexander or anyone who might stop him.
The coast was clear.
He pushed through the glass doors and stumbled onto the street, gasping like a drowning man breaking the surface.
He hailed a cab.
“St.
Louis General Hospital,” he shouted, his voice too high, too frantic.
“Hurry.
Please.” The cab driver, an older man with graying temples, gave him a strange look but said nothing.
The car pulled into traffic.
Kelvin’s hands were shaking so badly he could barely hold his phone.
He kept checking the video Marcus had sent.
Gabriella.
Sleeping.
Unaware that a monster was sitting two feet away from her, waiting to end her life over a debt she had nothing to do with.
“It’s my fault,” he whispered, pressing his palm against his mouth.
“This is all my fault.” He thought about calling Alexander.
Begging for help.
But what would he say?
‘Hey, fake fiancée here, I actually owe a loan shark $150,000 and now he’s in my sister’s hospital room with a smile and a threat.
Can I borrow some money?’ Alexander would laugh.
Or worse, he would ‘use’ it.
Hold it over Kelvin’s head like an axe, dangling Gabriella’s life as leverage whenever Kelvin stepped out of line.
No.
He couldn’t tell Alexander.
He couldn’t tell anyone.
He had to fix this himself.
‘Twenty minutes.’ “Stop here,” Kelvin said suddenly, spotting a thrift store on the corner.
“Stop the car.” The driver pulled over.
Kelvin scrambled out, his heels clicking against the pavement.
He burst into the thrift store like a man possessed, ignoring the confused look from the cashier.
He grabbed the cheapest men’s clothes he could find—a plain black t-shirt and worn jeans—and threw a crumpled bill at the register.
“Keep the change.” He was back in the cab within two minutes.
“Go, go, go.” ‘Fifteen minutes.’ Kelvin ripped open the shopping bag and stared at the clothes.
He couldn’t change in the cab.
Not with the driver watching.
Not with traffic crawling around them.
He would have to do it at the hospital.
In the bathroom.
Under time pressure.
His hands wouldn’t stop shaking.
‘Ten minutes.’ The cab screeched to a halt in front of St.
Louis General Hospital.
Kelvin threw money at the driver and ran inside, clutching the thrift store bag like a lifeline.
He found the nearest public restroom, kicked open the door, and locked himself in a stall.
His fingers fumbled with the zipper of his dress.
It was stuck.
He pulled harder.
The fabric tore.
He didn’t care.
He ripped the dress off his body, tore off the wig, and grabbed a handful of paper towels.
He scrubbed his face raw—foundation, lipstick, eyeliner—all of it smearing across the rough brown paper until his skin was pink and stinging.
Then he pulled on the t-shirt.
The jeans.
Simple.
Familiar.
‘His.’ He looked at himself in the mirror.
Kelvin stared back.
Not Kelly.
Not the fake fiancée.
Just Kelvin.
Tired.
Terrified.
Desperate.
“I’m coming, Gabriella,” he breathed.
“Hold on.” He ran.
‘Five minutes.’ Room 407.
The door was slightly ajar.
Kelvin pushed it open, his chest heaving, his lungs burning.
Gabriella was still there.
Still sleeping.
Still breathing.
The machines beeped softly, a steady rhythm that sounded like a miracle.
And Marcus was still sitting in the visitor’s chair, smiling like he had all the time in the world.
“Right on time,” Marcus said, checking his watch.
“I appreciate punctuality, Kelvin.
It shows respect.” Kelvin took a step forward, his hands clenched into fists at his sides.
Every fiber of his being wanted to lunge at Marcus, to wrap his hands around that smiling throat and squeeze until the bastard couldn’t breathe.
But he couldn’t.
Not here.
Not with Gabriella lying helpless just feet away.
“I’m here,” Kelvin said, his voice low and shaking.
“I did what you asked.
Now leave her alone.” Marcus stood up slowly, deliberately, like a man who had all the time in the world.
He was tall—not as tall as Alexander, but built like someone who had spent years learning how to hurt people.
His suit was cheap but clean.
His shoes were polished.
His smile never reached his eyes.
“You know, Kelvin,” Marcus said, walking toward him, “I’ve been doing this for a long time.
And in all my years, I’ve never had someone dodge me for two whole months.
That takes ‘balls.'” He stopped in front of Kelvin, tilting his head.
“I respect that.
Really, I do.” Before Kelvin could react, Marcus’s fist connected with his face.
The impact sent Kelvin staggering backward.
His vision exploded with white lights.
His cheekbone screamed in agony.
He tasted blood—copper and salt flooding his mouth.
“That,” Marcus said, flexing his fingers, “is for thinking you could run from me.” Kelvin clutched his face, his eyes watering.
The pain was blinding.
But he didn’t fight back.
He couldn’t.
Not here.
Not with Gabriella in the room.
“Please,” Kelvin rasped, spitting blood onto the linoleum floor.
“Whatever you’re going to do to me—take it outside.
Not here.
She’s ‘sick.’ She doesn’t need to see this.” Marcus laughed.
A loud, barking sound that echoed off the sterile hospital walls.
“Oh, I love that.
The little mouse asking the cat to be polite.” He wiped a fake tear from his eye.
“Fine.
I’ll be nice.
For your sister’s sake.” He snapped his fingers.
Two men emerged from the hallway—Kelvin hadn’t even noticed them standing there.
Big men.
Broad shoulders.
Dead eyes.
They grabbed Kelvin by the arms before he could protest, their grips like iron vises.
“Don’t make a scene,” Marcus said cheerfully, walking past them.
“Let’s keep this civil.
We’re all adults here.” They dragged Kelvin out of the room.
Through the hallway.
Past the nurses’ station.
Past the waiting room filled with tired families.
Past the security guard who was too busy looking at his phone to notice a man being manhandled toward the exit.
Kelvin didn’t scream.
He didn’t struggle.
What would be the point?
The security guard wouldn’t help.
The nurses wouldn’t help.
They would just ask questions Kelvin couldn’t answer.
Questions that would unravel the fragile lie he had built around himself.
So he let them drag him out.
They crossed the lobby in silence, heading for the elevator that descended into the underground parking garage.
The moment the doors slid open, they stepped into a space washed in dull fluorescent light, where rows of empty parking bays stretched into the shadows.
Waiting near the far end was a black van, its side door already open as if it had been expecting them.
“Inside,” Marcus said, gesturing like a gentleman offering a lady a seat.
They shoved Kelvin into the van.
The door slammed shut.
Darkness swallowed him as the pulled a bag over his head.
The drive felt like an eternity.
Kelvin sat on the cold metal floor, his hands bound behind his back with zip ties so tight they cut into his wrists.
Every bump in the road sent a spike of pain through his body.
His face throbbed where Marcus had punched him.
His lip was split.
He could feel the blood drying on his chin.
He thought about Gabriella.
Alone in that hospital room.
Machines keeping her alive.
No one to protect her.
He thought about Alexander.
Sitting in his office, probably wondering where his fake fiancée had disappeared to.
He thought about the unknown texter.
Watching.
Always watching.
“What did I do to deserve this?” Kelvin whispered into the darkness.
No one answered.
The van stopped.
The doors slid open.
The bag over his head was taken off.
Fluorescent light flooded in, blinding him.
Rough hands grabbed him and pulled him out.
They were in an abandoned warehouse.
Concrete floors.
Broken windows.
The smell of rust and decay.
A single lightbulb hung from the ceiling, its weak glow leaving half the room swallowed in darkness.
All the windows and exits were closed.
Marcus was already there, leaning against a rusted pillar, a cigarette in his hand.
“Alright, boys,” he said, taking a long drag.
“Teach him some manners.” The beating was systematic.
Professional.
They knew exactly where to hit to cause maximum pain without permanent damage.
Ribs.
Stomach.
Kidneys.
Face—but not too much.
They wanted him conscious.
Kelvin curled into a ball on the concrete floor, his arms wrapped around his head as boots connected with his body again and again.
Each impact sent shockwaves of agony through his frame.
He bit down on his tongue to keep from screaming, tasting more blood, feeling his vision blur at the edges.
‘Don’t pass out.
Don’t pass out.
If you pass out, they might go back for Gabriella.’ The thought kept him anchored.
Kept him awake.
Kept him breathing.
To be continued…