My Best Friend's Camera Trap - Chapter 4: Chapter 4

Derek Hill's large hands were creeping up my thighs when a sudden realization hit me like a punch to the gut.
Something was off.
I couldn't pinpoint it exactly, but the past few days had felt... wrong. Like some invisible hand was shoving us all toward disaster.
"Stop!" I snapped, twisting away from Sophia's grip.
But she didn't listen. Her fingers dug into my arms, her body pinning me down, her knee wedged against my thigh to keep me from closing my legs.
"Derek, get your damn hands off me! I swear to God, I'm calling the cops!"
"Sophia, let me go!"
My voice was swallowed by her sobs—loud, frantic, drowning out everything else.
Derek didn't care. With Sophia holding me in place, I was trapped.
His fingers were inches from—
"Sweetheart! Your darling hubby is here—!"
My husband's booming voice exploded through the room, shattering the tension like glass.
Sophia jerked like she'd been electrocuted.
I shoved her off and grabbed my phone. That ridiculous custom ringtone—his goofy, over-the-top greeting—had saved me.
I used to roll my eyes at it. Tonight, I could've kissed him for it.
I fumbled to answer, but as I moved, my gaze caught on Sophia's skin in the moonlight.
Bruises. Dark, ugly, mottled.
My stomach twisted.
My husband's voice, warm and teasing, crackled through the phone:
"Heard you missed me?"
"Who told you that?"
"Doesn't matter. If you missed me, I'll come get you right now."
Smug bastard. Two weeks without me, and he'd probably been living it up. Now that he'd had his fun, he remembered I existed?
I almost said yes—until Sophia whimpered beside me.
I looked up.
Derek was still there.
And he wasn't done.
His gaze was locked on Sophia's body, hungry, predatory.
In the pale light, her skin wasn't just flushed—it was swollen. Bruises everywhere, hidden under clothes, in places no one should've been touching.
Not pleasure. Not rough play.
This was something darker.
I shot Derek a glare that could've melted steel. "Get out."
He hesitated, shifting like he might lunge.
I'd danced ballet for over a decade. Taught it for years. I wasn't some fragile doll.
And my husband was still on the line.
Derek must've seen the warning in my eyes. He backed off—slowly, resentfully.
Sophia let out a shaky breath.
"Huh? Was that crying?" My husband's tone sharpened. "Jasmine, what's going on? I'm coming up—"
"No!" I cut in. "It's just Sophia and her boyfriend had a fight. I've got it. Stay put."
Then I glanced at Derek, still hovering like a vulture.
My voice dropped. "Actually... stay awake tonight. Be ready."
A beat of silence. Then, firm: "Mm."
A pause. Then, lower: "I'm already downstairs. If anything happens, put me on speaker. I'll be there in five seconds."
My breath caught.
He was here?
That uneasy feeling coiled tighter.
But right now, I didn't care. Knowing he was close sent a rush of relief through me.
I tapped the speaker button—let Derek hear. Let him know my six-foot-one, ex-college-basketball-player husband was right downstairs.
Derek might've been built, but my husband wasn't some pushover. And in the time it'd take for a fight, Sophia and I could've dialed 911.
Derek's jaw clenched.
Then, with one last glare, he slunk back to Sophia's room.