MARRIED ACCIDENTALLY

Los Angeles

 

Ann’s POV

 

Help

 

This is pure deceit, but I couldn't care less. I watch the message tick sent before grabbing the bottle of vodka and gulping it all down, hoping it will help drown out all my thoughts.

 

Help

 

I send again, this time with desperation and frustration tugging at my heart.

 

When I watch the message go, my heart crashes against my chest at the realization.

 

He wouldn't reply to me. He would never reply.

 

He is probably somewhere with his bride-to-be, having the time of his life, while I am here, in nothing but a bathrobe, drowning myself in alcohol in a cheap hotel close to his apartment.

 

We were here once, when he claimed he had friends over at his apartment, three months ago. I was suspicious, but his sweet words overruled my suspicions.

 

When a hot tear slips through my cheek, I wipe it away quickly, remembering the vow I made.

 

I won't cry for him anymore. 

 

I won't beg him anymore. 

 

And I won't fight for us anymore.

 

He isn't worth it anyway.

 

But why do I keep feeling this burning sensation in my chest? Why does it feel like my lungs are short of air? Why do I find it difficult to forget him and all the joyful memories we've shared? Why do I keep hoping he will come back and apologize to me so I can take him back without hesitation?

 

He is not worth it.

 

Before grabbing the next bottle of alcohol, I dump the empty bottle on the stool in front of me.

 

The burning hits my throat, and I let out a whimper. It doesn't stop me from downing the liquid until I'm halfway through.

 

I slam the bottle on the stool and shoot to my feet.

 

I won't cry. I would rather sink myself in a bathtub or drown myself in alcohol until dawn than cry for that selfish, egoistic bastard.

 

I won't let him get to me. 

 

When I sway on my way to the bed, I realize I am drunk and my thoughts are messed up.

 

I laugh. Like a maniac.

 

When I sober up, I twirl around to grab the rest of the bottle so I can continue drinking while bathing, just in time to hear a knock at the door.

 

Ryan?

 

Is that you?

 

Hastily, I rush over to the door to see if he is there.

 

Pulling it open, I see no one at the doorway. I step forward and look down the hallway to see a man's back to me. He is wearing black pants and a sweater with a hoodie.

 

I can't see his face.

 

When he turns around, our eyes meet, and I realize he is covering every part of his face with a mask, leaving only his eyes.

 

I shake my head.

 

This isn't Ryan.

 

When he takes a step forward, terror slices through me, and I back away. Ryan doesn't wear black. Ryan wouldn't disguise. Ryan can't even be here.

 

Who is this? 

 

An intruder? A thief?

 

For a moment, I regret my impulsive decision to stay in a cheap hotel like this. There are no guards or cameras in sight.

 

This is probably a thief, going from door to door to see if he can get in and cart away some valuable possessions.

 

He continues to step closer, and I find myself turning around and rushing inside before slamming the door shut.

 

Panic courses through me, and my eyes widen in fear, my drunkenness gone in a flash, even though my steps are still flattered.

 

Ryan. I need you now.

 

Perhaps I shouldn't have pretended to be in need of his help. Now I need it, and I have no one to call for help.

 

With my hands full, I kick open the bathroom door, rush in, and securely lock it behind me.

 

I drop the bottle and begin to type furiously on my phone.

 

You jerk, I f**king need your help! I am in that cheap hotel close to Austin Avenue. There is an intruder in here. Just help this once, and I promise never to bother you again. Pick up the fucking call or come help me. Goddammit!”

 

Unable to continue with my inner rambling, I tap on the send button, and it successfully delivers. With raw hope, I watch the message tick and turn green.

 

I almost jump up in excitement when he reads the message. And I wait.

 

Stamping my feet and trying desperately to ignore the raw devastation streaming through me, I continue to wait for him to type back and send a reply.

 

I need someone to reassure me that everything is well.

 

Our lives were so beautiful and filled with happy moments, and we thought we were going to spend the rest of our lives together.

 

I believed he was meant to be mine, and I was meant to be his.

 

But he left. He left me for her. Because his parents wanted her. He left me.

 

Because I was extremely mad at him when he told me about his decision to marry that woman instead, I blocked him everywhere.

 

I blacklisted him.

 

He'd never be able to reach me, and I wouldn't either.

 

Until last night. 

I unblocked him and tried calling him, but to no avail. Which is why I am sending him these texts, just to get his attention.

 

When something crashes in the distance, I scoot backwards in fear.

 

My biggest fear is about to come to realization. 

 

Betrayed by the man I love more than life itself is not my biggest fear.

 

My biggest fear isn't about losing all the privileges of being in a relationship with a man who promised to get me the job of my dreams.

 

My biggest fear isn't about living life in misery.

 

My greatest fear is becoming a victim of sexual assault. Left broken and beyond repair. It awakens memories I thought I had long buried—my near-rape experience.

 

When a bang hits the bathroom door, I squat backward and fall on my buttocks with a scream piercing through my throat.

 

My breathing becomes hard as I watch the door being banged from outside. 

 

The stranger wants to get in. If he was here to steal, he wouldn't bother to come after me. And that explains only one thing.

 

He wants to take advantage of me or get rid of me.

 

Perhaps he thought I saw his face and that getting rid of me was the best course of action.

 

How did he even know I was in here?

 

Waving the silly thoughts running through my head away, I rise up again, determined to escape being raped or killed in a strange neighborhood. I glance around to find a weapon, or at least a shield.

 

I don't mind escaping him and running out onto the streets in nothing but my bathrobe. I just want to escape this.

 

My eyes catch the toilet brush, which is the only thing present I can use as a weapon.

 

I grab hold of it and almost begin to cry when it dawns on me that this can't hurt him.

 

I can't escape.

 

He would kill me.

 

I don't deserve this.

 

With horror and the brush still raised in my hand, the door finally breaks down, giving me a view of the stranger whose face is still hidden.

 

We stare at each other for a second before he stalks forward, and I summon up enough courage to hit him with the brush, a shout leaving my mouth.

 

He yanks at my hand, and the brush falls to the ground. He spins me around, causing a wave of dizziness to wash over me, and then he pushes me to the floor, revealing my thighs as my robe rolls upward.

 

His eyes leave mine and settle on the exposed thigh.

 

I am right. This man is a rapist.

 

Get up, Ann. Do something. Hit him in the groin and run out. Slap him hard on the face so you can get your pepper spray.

 

Suddenly, I remember the bottle of wine. It isn't empty but I can make do with it. I turn my face to see it is inches away from me.

I make an effort to stand up, but he strandles me, as though he could hear and read through me.

 

His hands pin mine to the floor as I continue to struggle with him. I can't raise any of my legs to hit him, either. He is very strong and determined to rape me.

 

“Get off me, you jerk! What do you want?!” I yell in frustration, wanting to try my luck at negotiating with him.

 

He lets out a sardonic chuckle and starts to rub his hands on my thighs.

 

I shut my eyes, shame coloring my face.

 

“Open your eyes,” he mutters, making me flutter my eyes open slowly. “Watch me.”

 

A low whimper leaves my mouth. I want to beg him. I want to tell him that I can give him every single gift that jerk gave me, just to make him think twice about raping me.

 

But I can't find my voice.

 

Suddenly, a surge of energy fills me up as he takes his hand off me, giving me the chance to lean up and kick his groin with my knee.

 

A groan leaves his mouth, and I hurry to my feet.

 

Just then, a gunshot rings out nearby, making me scoot backward as the rapist looks towards the living room, fear in his eyes.

 

When the shot rings again, my mind reels back to the text I sent to Ryan. Is he here to save me? Where did he get a gun from?

 

What is happening? 

 

As soon as I see him eyeing the door, I sprint towards it, determined to stop him.

 

Ryan could be here to assist me. To save me from this jerk.

 

I need to do my part.

 

He rushes at me, and I punch his face, making him stumble back, surprise in his eyes. I signal to him to come closer. And I ball my fist for another punch.

 

Pure rage fills his eyes.

 

When he takes a step forward, I attempt to strike him from a distance, but he pulls me closer to him before throwing to the ground.

 

I force back a wince.

With our hands interlocked, I yank him closer to me before shoving the mask off.

 

Horror mixed with disbelief slices through me when I see his face.

 

Carter.

 

Before I can process what I just saw and say something, he runs out, leaving me sprawled on the floor with tears rolling down my eyes.

 

Instead of sitting up, I start to cry until his hurried footsteps fade out.