My Honeymoon Stranger's Trap - Chapter 10: Chapter 10
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I squeezed my eyes shut, biting down on my lip until I tasted copper, praying silently for the cops to hurry the hell up.
"You won't get away with this!" My husband's raw shout still hung in the air when another crash shattered the tension.
My eyelids flew open to reveal Vincent Lombardi staggering backward, hands clutching his head in stunned disbelief. Behind him stood Tiffany Valentine, white-knuckling the jagged remains of a smashed liquor bottle like it was her last lifeline.
Crimson rivers poured down Vincent's face as his knees buckled. He hit the floor with a thud, his groan of pain morphing into a choked accusation: "Have you lost your goddamn mind?!"
Tiffany flung the bloodied glass aside, pressing her lips into a thin line to steady their trembling. "I just came for the money," she spat. "If you want to die, don't take me down with you!"
The door slammed behind her fleeing figure as police sirens crescendoed outside, surrounding the building like wolves circling prey. Every head jerked toward the sound.
My husband dragged his wounded body toward me, his arms forming a protective cage around my shaking frame. His voice dropped to a lethal whisper aimed at Vincent: "Hear that, you bastard? Nowhere left to run."
Vincent sprawled motionless on the hardwood, defeated—until a high-pitched, unhinged laugh erupted from his throat.
I clung to Ben, my fingers instantly slick and warm with his blood. Terror turned my veins to ice as hot tears carved paths down my cheeks. "Ben... talk to me. Please."
His smile was weak but steady as he brushed a thumb across my damp face. "Easy, sweetheart," he murmured. "Cops'll be through that door any second. You're safe now."
On cue, a swarm of officers burst in, flooding the demolished living room with shouted commands and drawn weapons.
"POLICE! HANDS WHERE WE CAN SEE THEM!"
The sob trapped in my chest flly broke free. I grabbed the nearest officer's sleeve, my voice raw with desperation: "Help him! He's losing too much blood—please!"
"Easy ma'am, EMS is right behind us. Just breathe." The cop's calm tone did little to slow my racing heart.
Within minutes, Vincent was frog-marched out in cuffs while paramedics rushed Ben to the trauma center.
After giving my statement through numb lips, I sped to the hospital where surgeons fought to save his leg. Hours later—after enough prayers to fill a cathedral—they stabilized him in ICU.
The case exploded across Thai headlines, turning Vincent into public enemy number one.
Though surgeons saved Ben's leg, the nerve damage was permanent. No more hiking trips. No more morning runs.
I hired Bangkok's most ruthless defense attorney and spent every non-visiting hour building an airtight case. Vincent wouldn't slip through the cracks—not on my watch.
When the judge's gavel flly fell on sentencing day, the sharp crack echoed through the silent courtroom. Every sleepless night, every tear, every ounce of fight had led to this moment.
Walking or wheelchair-bound, I'd never let go of his hand.
Later, in the quiet of our bedroom, his hesitant question hung between us: "Sweetheart... you don't... regret this, do you? Being tied to a broken man?"
"You won't get away with this!" My husband's raw shout still hung in the air when another crash shattered the tension.
My eyelids flew open to reveal Vincent Lombardi staggering backward, hands clutching his head in stunned disbelief. Behind him stood Tiffany Valentine, white-knuckling the jagged remains of a smashed liquor bottle like it was her last lifeline.
Crimson rivers poured down Vincent's face as his knees buckled. He hit the floor with a thud, his groan of pain morphing into a choked accusation: "Have you lost your goddamn mind?!"
Tiffany flung the bloodied glass aside, pressing her lips into a thin line to steady their trembling. "I just came for the money," she spat. "If you want to die, don't take me down with you!"
The door slammed behind her fleeing figure as police sirens crescendoed outside, surrounding the building like wolves circling prey. Every head jerked toward the sound.
My husband dragged his wounded body toward me, his arms forming a protective cage around my shaking frame. His voice dropped to a lethal whisper aimed at Vincent: "Hear that, you bastard? Nowhere left to run."
Vincent sprawled motionless on the hardwood, defeated—until a high-pitched, unhinged laugh erupted from his throat.
I clung to Ben, my fingers instantly slick and warm with his blood. Terror turned my veins to ice as hot tears carved paths down my cheeks. "Ben... talk to me. Please."
His smile was weak but steady as he brushed a thumb across my damp face. "Easy, sweetheart," he murmured. "Cops'll be through that door any second. You're safe now."
On cue, a swarm of officers burst in, flooding the demolished living room with shouted commands and drawn weapons.
"POLICE! HANDS WHERE WE CAN SEE THEM!"
The sob trapped in my chest flly broke free. I grabbed the nearest officer's sleeve, my voice raw with desperation: "Help him! He's losing too much blood—please!"
"Easy ma'am, EMS is right behind us. Just breathe." The cop's calm tone did little to slow my racing heart.
Within minutes, Vincent was frog-marched out in cuffs while paramedics rushed Ben to the trauma center.
After giving my statement through numb lips, I sped to the hospital where surgeons fought to save his leg. Hours later—after enough prayers to fill a cathedral—they stabilized him in ICU.
The case exploded across Thai headlines, turning Vincent into public enemy number one.
Though surgeons saved Ben's leg, the nerve damage was permanent. No more hiking trips. No more morning runs.
I hired Bangkok's most ruthless defense attorney and spent every non-visiting hour building an airtight case. Vincent wouldn't slip through the cracks—not on my watch.
When the judge's gavel flly fell on sentencing day, the sharp crack echoed through the silent courtroom. Every sleepless night, every tear, every ounce of fight had led to this moment.
Walking or wheelchair-bound, I'd never let go of his hand.
Later, in the quiet of our bedroom, his hesitant question hung between us: "Sweetheart... you don't... regret this, do you? Being tied to a broken man?"
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