Bound By A Borrowed Heart

GIANNA

The pain in my chest is a dull and rhythmic throb, it feels like a bruised fist squeezing my heart every few seconds. The things we do for love right?

I press my palm flat against the silk of my red dress and force a breath through my teeth. I cannot ruin tonight. I refuse to let my failing body ruin the one night that actually matters.

The dining room smells of rosemary and roasted garlic, the scent is thick and heavy in the air. I spent four hours in the kitchen, my legs shaking and my vision blurring at the edges, just to get the glaze on the lamb chops perfect.

The candles in the center of the table are burning low, the wax dripping down the sides in slow and clear tears. It is perfect. It has to be perfect because today is the day everything changes.

I walk to the mirror in the hallway and check my reflection. My skin is pale, almost translucent under the warm hallway light, but the red lipstick hides the blue tint of my lips. I look alive. I look like a wife who is ready to celebrate one year of marriage to the man she saved.

A smile tugs at the corner of my mouth. Ryan has been distant lately, he has been cold and absent, but I know he loves me. I remember the nights I sat by his bedside when the fever broke him down, I remember wiping the sweat from his forehead and feeding him broth when he was too weak to lift a spoon.

He looked at me with such adoration then and he promised me the world.

The sound of the front door unlocking echoes through the silent house. My heart gives a violent lurch, a flutter that makes me gasp and grab the edge of the console table for support. He is here.

"Ryan?" I call out, my voice sounding breathy and eager.

I push off the table and walk toward the foyer. The air suddenly feels colder, a draft sweeping in from the open door that chills the bare skin of my arms.

Ryan stands there. He’s wearing his charcoal suit, the one I bought him for his birthday, but his tie is loosened and hanging crookedly around his neck.

I rush forward to hug him, the relief washing over me like a warm tide. "Happy Anniversary, baby. I made dinner, I made the lamb and sauce you like."

I wrap my arms around his waist and press my face into his chest. I expect the smell of his musk, the scent of expensive tobacco and cedar that I love.

But No! I freeze.

The scent that fills my nose is floral. It is sickly sweet, like rotting jasmine and vanilla. It is a woman’s perfume. And it is strong.

I pull back, my hands trembling as they rest on his chest. Ryan isn’t looking at me. He is looking over my head, staring at the wall with a blank expression that makes the blood drain from my face. His eyes are dark, devoid of the warmth I was praying for.

"Ryan?" I whisper, the fear starting to coil in my stomach. "You smell like..."

He grabs my wrists. His grip is hard, bruising. He pulls my hands off his chest and shoves me back. I stumble, my heels catching on the rug, but I manage to stay upright.

"You look nice," he says, but his voice is flat. It sounds like he is reading a line from a script he hates. "Red suits you. It hides the flush of your sickness."

The cruelty in his words is a slap to the face. I blink, trying to process the shift. Maybe he had a bad day at the office, maybe the deal didn't go through. "I... I cooked," I stammer, gesturing vaguely toward the dining room. "The candles are lit. Ryan, please. It’s our anniversary."

A slow smirk spreads across his face. It doesn't reach his eyes. "I know what day it is, Gianna. Why do you think I came home early?"

He steps closer to me. The smell of that perfume is suffocating now, choking me. "Hey Gigi! I've a surprise for you. It's our anniversary today remember?"

The nickname sounds like a curse coming from his mouth. He never calls me that unless he wants something.

"A surprise?" I ask, a tiny spark of hope igniting in my chest despite the dread. Maybe I’m wrong, maybe the perfume is from a client, or maybe he bought me a gift to make up for the late nights and the silence.

"Come on," he says, grabbing my hand again.

He doesn't lead me to the dining room. He pulls me toward the living room, his pace fast and aggressive. I have to run to keep up, my heart hammering a frantic rhythm against my ribs. "Ryan, you're hurting me! Slow down!"

"Shut up," he snaps.

He drags me through the archway and flips the light switch. The sudden brightness blinds me for a second. I blink rapidly, trying to adjust.

When my vision clears, the scream tears out of my throat before I can stop it.

"DAD!"

My father is tied to one of the high-backed oak chairs in the center of the room. His head is lolling forward, his silver hair matted with dark, wet blood. His face is a ruin.

One eye is swollen shut, purple and bulbous, and there is a deep gash running down his cheekbone. His shirt, the crisp white button-down he always wears, is shredded and stained crimson.

"No, no, no!" I scream, trying to rush toward him.

Ryan yanks me back by my hair. The pain is sharp and hot, radiating down my scalp. He throws me onto the floor. I land hard on my hip, the impact jarring my bones.

"Stay there," Ryan commands. His voice is terrifyingly calm.

"Dad! Dad, please wake up!" I sob, crawling forward on my hands and knees. My father groans, a low and pained sound that breaks my heart into a million pieces. He lifts his head slowly, his good eye blinking open. It is filled with confusion and terror.

"Gianna?" he croaks, blood bubbling at the corner of his mouth. "Run... run, baby."

I look up at Ryan. My husband. The man I nursed back to health. The man I vowed to love forever. He is standing over us, watching the scene with a look of pure boredom. He reaches into his jacket pocket.

I expect a gun. I expect him to end it quickly. Instead, he pulls out a set of throwing knives, the metal glints under the chandelier light.

"What are you doing?" I scream, tears streaming down my face, blurring my vision. "Ryan, stop! Why are you doing this? We saved you! We treated you like family!"

"Family," Ryan spits the word out like it is poison. "Your family is a disease, Gianna. And I am the cure."

He flicks his wrist. It is a casual movement, effortless. The knife flies through the air.

THWACK.

It buries itself in my father’s shoulder.

"ARGH!" My father screams, his body thrashing against the ropes. The sound is raw, animalistic.

"NO!" I shriek. I try to scramble up, but the pain in my chest explodes. It feels like someone has reached inside my ribs and is crushing my heart with pliers. I clutch my chest, gasping for air, my lungs burning. "Stop... please... I'll do anything... Ryan..."

"Anything?" Ryan laughs. He walks over to the mini-bar and pours himself a drink, ignoring the man bleeding out in his living room. "You can't do anything, Gianna. You can't even walk up a flight of stairs without almost dying. You're useless."

He turns back, swirling the amber liquid in his glass. "I needed your father's signature on the transfer papers. He was being stubborn. So I thought... why not make it a party?"

He picks up another knife from the table.

"Please," I beg, my voice barely a whisper. I am dizzy. The room is spinning. "Don't hurt him anymore."

Ryan tilts his head, studying my father like a piece of meat. "He still has two good legs. Let's see if we can fix that."

He throws the second knife. It grazes my father’s cheek, slicing a thin line of red across his skin before embedding itself in the upholstery of the chair. My father sobs, his head hanging low, defeated.

"You're a monster!" I scream, hate replacing the fear for a second. "You're the devil!"

"I'm a businessman, Gigi," Ryan says, taking a sip of his drink. "And business is concluded."

He walks toward the front door, leaving the door wide open to the dark night. The wind howls outside, rattling the windows.

I crawl toward my father, my hands slippery with my own sweat. I need to untie him. I need to call the police. My fingers fumble with the thick ropes, but I am too weak.My strength is failing me.

"Gianna," my father whispers, tears mixing with the blood on his face. "Where... where is your mother?"

I freeze.

Mom. She was supposed to be at the care center today, but I brought her home for the anniversary dinner. She is in the guest room. She has Alzheimer's. She wanders if the doors aren't locked.

I whip my head around to look at Ryan. He is standing by the open front door, leaning against the frame, looking out into the street.

"Ryan," I say, my voice trembling. "Where is my mother? She was in the guest room."

Ryan turns to look at me. The smirk is back. It is wider now. Evil.

"Oh," he says, feigning innocence. "I forgot to mention. I accidentally left the front gate open when I came in. And the guest room door... well, it might have been unlocked."

My blood turns to ice. Our house is on a busy road. Trucks speed by at all hours. Mom doesn't know where she is. She walks toward lights. She walks toward the road.

"NO!"

I try to stand and I try to run.

But the screech sound of tires locking up on asphalt tears through the night. It is loud and ear-piercing, then comes the sound that will haunt me for the rest of my life.

THUD.

It is the sickening, heavy crunch of a body hitting metal at high speed. Then silence. Absolute, terrifying silence.

I stop. My breath catches in my throat, I can't breathe, I can't move, and my heart stops beating for a second.

Ryan looks at me. His eyes are gleaming with sadistic pleasure. He raises his glass in a mock toast. "Happy Anniversary, Gianna."