03

I could not believe this was really happening. My mother had always been mean and despicable, but this time she was surpassing herself.

"It is only for two days. So I can make sure you do not take a morning-after pill."

I watched her bewildered, with a mixture of hatred and accumulated hurt taking care of me. Tears threatened to well up in my eyes, but I held them back.

"You can't do this to me," I muttered, my voice thin.

"Do not talk like this is the end of the world. You'll sleep in my room for two more nights. The day after tomorrow, you will be free. Until then, I'll keep your cell phone and bring all your meals here. And not looking at me like I am a two-headed monster."

With that said, she unlocked the door and left, locking it again from the outside.

Alone, I stood there for a long moment, stunned, disbelieving, processing all the events, making sure they were real, that this was really happening, that this was not just a bad nightmare that would soon be over. 

Eventually, I convinced myself that it was all true, and my only chance of escaping all this madness was if this pregnancy had not happened. 

I would be ruined and scarred for the rest of my life, linked by unbreakable bonds to a stranger who, according to what they said, was as bad a character as the woman who brought me into the world.

Alone, I stood there for a long moment, disbelieving, processing all the events, making sure they were real, that this was really happening, that this was not just a bad nightmare that would soon be over.

Eventually, I convinced myself that it was all true, and my only chance of escaping all this madness was if this pregnancy had not happened.

Disconsolate, I threw myself face down on the bed and let the tears flow profusely, praying silently that I was not pregnant.

I would be ruined and scarred for the rest of my life...

**

I spent two days locked in my mother's room, without a cell phone, isolated from the world, crying most of the time, having her visit periodically. 

On the third day, after lunch, she let me out. It was late to go to school and early to go to the cafeteria where I worked, but I still put on my waitress uniform, took my bike, and left the house, feeling completely bewildered, aimless, lost. 

All I wanted was to get away from there. The desire to escape from everything has never been so alive inside me. If I could, I would buy a ticket right then and there as far away as possible and leave; I had been saving money for this for years. 

However, I was still a minor and would not be able to go very far. Surely my mother would come after me and bring me back.

The cafeteria where I worked was on the side of the highway that connected SaintClair City to other cities. In one direction was the capital, in the opposite direction the exit of the state. The place was as close as I could get to my freedom.

I liked spending the afternoons there, socializing, and meeting the travelers who stopped to fill up the car and have a snack. I worked from two in the afternoon to ten at night, after spending the whole morning at school, which ensured that I was at home as little time as possible.

There was still an hour left before the start of my shift; even so, I headed there, pedaling the bicycle in a hurry through the streets with little traffic.

I was so absorbed by the anguish that I forgot to look around before crossing the street, and when I realized it, the car was practically on top of me, the tires squealing on the asphalt, evidencing the driver's attempt to brake before running over me. 

He almost did it. 

Almost.

The touch of the bumper on my leg was softened by his attempt to stop, but sharp enough to throw me to the ground, to the other side, along with the bike. 

My body hit the hard asphalt with a thud so violent that I felt my skin tearing, especially around my elbow and knee, which I used to break my fall.

I lay there, motionless, scared, trying to decide if my injuries were serious, if I was hurt more than I was realizing, and wished fervently that the fall had been hard enough to at least induce an abortion if I was pregnant.

Around me, a few passersby stopped to observe the scene, but soon resumed their journeys, losing interest, wrinkling their noses when realizing that it was me lying on the ground. 

It did not matter to them that I was not part of my mother's schemes; being her daughter was enough for me to be hated and discriminated against by the entire city.

I still had not been able to get up when I heard the car door opening, and soon the driver entered my field of vision. 

I could not see his face or identify who it was due to being against the sunlight, the scorching rays dazzling my eyes. I just noticed that he was a very tall man, with an athletic build, well-cut hair, wearing a suit and tie.

I did not know anyone in SaintClair City who wore a suit and tie...

"Aren't you watching where you are going?" he roared, his voice booming, thick, and harsh, giving me another fright.

Irritated by his aggressiveness, I opened my mouth to respond in the same tone, but the voice did not come out. I was still in shock, trying to get up but unable to because of the incessant shaking that had taken over my body and my leg trapped under the bike.

I was still lying there on the asphalt when his big hand closed tightly around my upper arm and pulled me to my feet in one swift movement.

"Are you badly hurt? Need a hospital?" the man asked, impatience evident in his tone.

I pulled my arm out of his grasp, needing a little effort to balance myself on shaky legs and check my bruises. They were no big deal. Only the elbow and knee were scraped. 

Nothing to stop me from going to work.

"I am fine."

I turned to face him, and for the first time, my eyes clearly focused on his face. I shuddered from head to toe when I recognized him. 

It was Adriel Beaumont.

Although I had never seen him in person, only in photographs during my mother's research into his life, I would never forget those traits. His face was too striking, possessing an incomparable, masculine, almost aggressive beauty, which was even more evident up close. 

He was in his mid-thirties, with slightly tanned skin, a strong chin hidden by a short dark beard, a pointed nose, a well-shaped mouth. 

However, what really attracted attention were his eyes. Deep pearly blue, shadowed by thick, arched eyebrows, they reflected a coldness that was almost frightening. They looked like the eyes of a demon, set in the chiseled face of an angel.

“You are Adriel Beaumont,” I said, almost to myself.