His Dirty Massage Secret - Chapter 10: Chapter 10
You are reading His Dirty Massage Secret, Chapter 10: Chapter 10. Read more chapters of His Dirty Massage Secret.
I bolted from the police station straight to the hospital, my heart pounding until I finally laid eyes on my daughter again. There she was—the little girl I'd ached for every waking moment.
Seeing her small frame curled up in that hospital bed made my throat tighten. Then she heard me, turned her head, and lit up like sunshine, those tiny arms reaching out for me.
I didn't hesitate. I swept her into my arms, and the dam broke—tears I'd held back for so long spilled over, hot and unstoppable.
That same day, I stopped by the dermatology department to have my scarred face examined. The doctor said surgery could restore about eighty percent of it. Relief washed over me. Let's be honest—what woman doesn't care about her appearance? I'm no saint.
Two weeks later, Gwendolyn Ashcroft—Vincent Lowell's cousin's wife—had the audacity to track me down.
She waltzed in with two flimsy plastic bags of fruit, her smile stretching wide the second she spotted me, fake as a three-dollar bill.
"Figured you couldn't afford this kind of thing normally," she said, chin tilted up like she was handing me gold. "Take it."
I didn't even blink. "Keep your charity. I buy my own fruit."
Her eyes flashed, but she choked back whatever venom she wanted to spit out. Instead, she switched to this sickly sweet tone.
"Look, we never wanted to hurt you. But you brought it on yourself—you were just so... difficult. We had no choice."
Then, like it was nothing: "Go tell the police it was all voluntary—that we never locked you up, never laid a hand on you. Once my cousin's shop reopens, you can even come back."
I actually laughed. The sheer nerve of it.
"Not happening," I said flatly.
Her voice screeched up an octave. "You ungrateful little—! I'm offering you a way out, and you're throwing it in my face? Fine! You'll regret this!"
Honestly, I couldn't fathom how she still had the gall to act like she held any power.
Thankfully, the court didn't buy their lies. Vincent Lowell got ten years for unlawful confinement and attempted murder. His cousin, Damian Royston, landed six for attempted rape and unlawful confinement. Justice served.
But I should've known Gwendolyn wouldn't take it lying down.
She started lurking near my place like some deranged stalker. The second she saw me, she lunged—eyes wild, nails out, swinging like a woman possessed.
I dug my fingers hard into her waist. The second she yelped and loosened her grip, I twisted free and ran.
Now, let's be real—with her 200-pound frame, she wasn't catching me. But I made sure to keep my pace just slow enough to stay ahead, letting her think she had a chance.
"Get back here, you bitch!"
Her shriek was music to my ears.
When the sound of her wheezing pursuit finally faded, I didn't glance back. I just kept running—straight home, where I belonged.
Seeing her small frame curled up in that hospital bed made my throat tighten. Then she heard me, turned her head, and lit up like sunshine, those tiny arms reaching out for me.
I didn't hesitate. I swept her into my arms, and the dam broke—tears I'd held back for so long spilled over, hot and unstoppable.
That same day, I stopped by the dermatology department to have my scarred face examined. The doctor said surgery could restore about eighty percent of it. Relief washed over me. Let's be honest—what woman doesn't care about her appearance? I'm no saint.
Two weeks later, Gwendolyn Ashcroft—Vincent Lowell's cousin's wife—had the audacity to track me down.
She waltzed in with two flimsy plastic bags of fruit, her smile stretching wide the second she spotted me, fake as a three-dollar bill.
"Figured you couldn't afford this kind of thing normally," she said, chin tilted up like she was handing me gold. "Take it."
I didn't even blink. "Keep your charity. I buy my own fruit."
Her eyes flashed, but she choked back whatever venom she wanted to spit out. Instead, she switched to this sickly sweet tone.
"Look, we never wanted to hurt you. But you brought it on yourself—you were just so... difficult. We had no choice."
Then, like it was nothing: "Go tell the police it was all voluntary—that we never locked you up, never laid a hand on you. Once my cousin's shop reopens, you can even come back."
I actually laughed. The sheer nerve of it.
"Not happening," I said flatly.
Her voice screeched up an octave. "You ungrateful little—! I'm offering you a way out, and you're throwing it in my face? Fine! You'll regret this!"
Honestly, I couldn't fathom how she still had the gall to act like she held any power.
Thankfully, the court didn't buy their lies. Vincent Lowell got ten years for unlawful confinement and attempted murder. His cousin, Damian Royston, landed six for attempted rape and unlawful confinement. Justice served.
But I should've known Gwendolyn wouldn't take it lying down.
She started lurking near my place like some deranged stalker. The second she saw me, she lunged—eyes wild, nails out, swinging like a woman possessed.
I dug my fingers hard into her waist. The second she yelped and loosened her grip, I twisted free and ran.
Now, let's be real—with her 200-pound frame, she wasn't catching me. But I made sure to keep my pace just slow enough to stay ahead, letting her think she had a chance.
"Get back here, you bitch!"
Her shriek was music to my ears.
When the sound of her wheezing pursuit finally faded, I didn't glance back. I just kept running—straight home, where I belonged.
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