The clock was ticking, a silent scream in her mind: *Run, before it’s too late…*
Every girl dreams of grand, all-consuming love—the kind that leaves you breathless, dizzy with stolen kisses, giddy with whispered promises. And the proposal—oh, it must be spectacular, something people talk about for years. A fairytale wedding, the groom dashing in a sharp suit, and beside him, she—delicate, radiant, floating in lace and satin. Every little girl imagines it, almost from the cradle. Emma was no exception.
Midway through the school year, a new boy joined Year 9—Daniel Carter. Of course, he was swarmed at break time, peppered with questions: *Where from? Why now?*
“My dad’s military,” Daniel explained. “Got a new posting. So, here we are.”
“Know how to shoot?” someone asked.
“Had to learn.”
“What kind?”
“Service pistol.” The questions flew from all sides.
But Daniel only had eyes for Emma. She stood apart, feigning indifference as if he were no concern of hers. After school, he walked her home—she lived his way, as it turned out. She told him about the school, the teachers; he talked about bases, new towns, the life of an army brat.
On her birthday, he brought a single rose to class, presenting it in front of everyone. Another boy might have been mocked—*cheesy, pathetic*—but something in Daniel’s quiet confidence earned him respect. The girls watched, envious.
Emma took the rose as though receiving flowers were routine. Her smirk said it all: *See this? He’s mine. Jealous? Just you wait.* She treated him carelessly, though she liked him well enough.
Then, just before exams, she met someone else—an older man, an athlete. The national rowing championships were on, and she’d stopped to watch with a friend.
“Hey, girls—better view over here!” a handsome stranger called.
“Are you competing?” Emma asked, slipping through the crowd toward him.
“Nah, wrestling’s my game. That’s my mate out there—second boat.” He nodded toward the water, but his gaze never left Emma, singling her out between her friends.
Victor—his name was Victor—walked her home that night.
“Know what my name means?”
She did, but suddenly her mind was blank.
“Winner. That’s me. Born to win.”
He unnerved her. Excited her. The way he spoke, the way he *looked* at her—it tangled her thoughts until Daniel might as well have been a ghost. Victor Royce was in a league of his own. The whole walk, she wondered—*Will he kiss me? What do I do if he does?* But at her door, he simply wished her goodnight and left. The disappointment stung.
Next morning, as she stepped through the school gates, Victor emerged from a sleek car idling at the kerb. He swung the passenger door open. Before getting in, Emma glanced back—did her friends see? They stood frozen on the steps, mouths agape, while Daniel watched nearby, his brow dark. She slid inside, triumphant.
But once the car pulled away, fear coiled in her gut. *Where is he taking me?*
Victor just drove her around town, boasting of cities he’d seen, tournaments abroad. His attention flattered her. He never crossed lines—just gifts from his travels: perfume, jewellery. A single rose paled in comparison. Her friends gasped over the trinkets, green with envy. Daniel? Forgotten.
After school, she enrolled at university. Most days, Victor collected her in his car.
“Where’s your Romeo?” the girls teased when she walked home alone.
“Training camp,” she’d reply, smiling.
His proposal came out of nowhere—a knee on the cobblestones of Trafalgar Square, a velvet box, a modest diamond. Like something from the movies.
A patrol car pulled up—they nearly got arrested for causing a scene. Emma’s only regret? That none of her friends saw it. No way to rewind, replay the moment for witnesses.
At the registry office, she stood in her lace and satin, glowing. Beside her, Victor—broad-shouldered, golden, *winning*. What more could she want?
From the reception, he took her straight to his flat.
A month later, she realised she was pregnant. *Bad timing. What about uni?*
“Think about our *son*,” Victor said. “You can finish later—if you still care to. Stay home. I earn enough.”
“What if it’s a girl?”
“It won’t be.” His grin was sharp. “I’m a winner, remember?”
She had a boy. The congratulations faded. Victor trained, competed; she stayed home. Friends vanished. Her mother called less—her son-in-law made it clear: *No interference.*
Not that Emma *minded*. But happiness felt hollow without an audience. Isolation settled like a shroud. Slowly, she woke from the dream.
When their son grew older, things eased. She took him to football, swimming lessons. Chatted with other mums. Yet Victor’s presence lingered—even in his absence. On walks, she glanced over her shoulder. *Someone’s watching.*
She mentioned it once.
“Paranoia,” Victor snapped. “I’ve better things to do than stalk you.”
“Vic… I want to work. Finish my degree.”
His glare could have burned holes through steel. “Thousands of women *dream* of your life. You’d rather flirt while I break my back?”
She never brought it up again.
Then, while their son played outside, she visited an old friend. Over tea, Emma confessed: *I’m suffocating.*
“You’re *mad*,” the friend laughed. “No boss, no early mornings—everything handed to you, and you’re *whinging*?”
“Where were you?” Victor roared when she returned.
“At Sarah’s—just tea—”
He backhanded her so hard, her vision flashed white.
“Bored at home?” he sneered, shoving her onto the bed. “Have a *girl* next time.”
After that, she barely left. Fear took root. *Who is this man?*
One afternoon, she and her son passed a market stall.
“Mum, can we?” her boy begged, pointing at watermelons.
The vendor—dark-eyed, grinning—picked the largest one.
“It’s too heavy,” Emma fretted.
“Very sweet, though,” he said, offering to carry it home.
That night, her son chattered about the kind man. Emma’s stomach dropped—she hadn’t told him *not* to mention it.
“Go to your room,” Victor ordered.
The moment the door closed, he struck. She blacked out, woke on the tiles. Victor sat at the table, spitting seeds onto the floor.
“Pathetic. Next time, I’ll kill you.”
Next day, the stall was run by a sullen old man. She knew—*he got rid of him.*
Her face was swollen, one eye shut. Sunglasses and a scarf hid the worst. At the playground, an old classmate spotted her.
“We’ve just moved nearby,” Sienna said. Then, nodding at Emma’s bruises: “*Him?*”
“Just a toothache—”
“Usually, women say they walked into a door.” Sienna’s gaze was too knowing. “Come for coffee.”
Emma refused.
“Scared? Jealous type? Tracks your every move?” Sienna leaned in. “*Run.* It only gets worse.”
“He loves me,” Emma whispered—but the words rang hollow.
“Here.” Sienna pressed a number into her hand. “Call if you need help.”
She didn’t call. Not at first.
Victor’s rages worsened. Bruises spread where no one saw. The mirror reflected a ghost—pale, hollow-eyed.
Finally, she phoned Sienna.
“He’ll kill you,” Sienna said bluntly. “Ready to leave? I’ll arrange it. No calls—he might be listening.”
“How, then?”
“The toy box. Leave notes in your son’s cubby. I’ll reply there.”
Like spies.
Emma packed a bag, hid it. For days, Victor was calm. Maybe she’d panicked—
Then, one evening, he noticed her shaking.
“*Nervous*?” His fingers dug into her wrist. “Why?”
“Nothing—I’m fine—”
He kissed her. Then drove his fist into her stomach.
That sealed it.
Next morning, as soon as Victor left for training, she woke her son. A car waited. They drove for hours—a forgotten village, an ageing cottage. Strangers eyed them but asked no questions.
Weeks passed. No sign of Victor. Her boy grew tan, carefree.
Then, one morning, nausea gripped her. *Pregnant. Again.*
And *then* she saw *him*—Daniel, at the market.
“Hey. What brings you here?”
“Just… a break. You?”
“”Checking on my gran,” he said, holding up a bucket of fish, and in that moment, Emma felt the first fragile flicker of hope—until the night Victor came for her, crushing it to dust.
