story is not your typical romance, by any means. It is, however, a story that most of you can relate to—whether you want to or not. It’s my hope that you take from this story a lesson that you will apply to your life. We all deserve happiness. Circumstance may push us to go about it in ways we didn’t plan or expect, but we all deserve it.
ONE
ONE MORE STEP would mean certain death. It could very well be the end. The end of my life, of my story, of a love that never really had the chance to start. Never would I have imagined an invitation from him would take shape as a threat to my existence.
As I stare down the barrel of a stainless-steel firearm, I feel the floor beneath me caving in. Fear courses through me like a carp through a river, paralyzing me and grounding me to this spot. I can’t move a single muscle—not even to scream. My mind can’t process what’s happening, but I know I have to remain calm. No sudden moves, no loud voices. No signs of resistance.
When my emotions resume a semi-normal state, I take a few paces back and then lift my palms—my gaze adhered to the weapon pointing directly at me.
“Well, well, well,” she starts.
I look up at the petite dark-haired woman—instantly recognizing who she is.
“We finally meet,” she says.
She looks older in person—much older. The Instagram filters enhanced her appearance, erasing all signs of her age. I suppose I would describe her as nice-looking but nothing to write home about. Her hair is cocoa brown and hangs down past her shoulders, bangs frame small brown eyes, and she’s even skinnier now than on her last post. Small boobs, no curves—just straight up and down. So not sexy.
“Hmph,” she murmurs as she orbits me.
Despite repeated warnings from my friend Josh, I never considered Maricel Caballero a threat. Not really. Based on what I knew of her, why would I? She was a weak, shallow person whose only concern was for herself. Well, herself and that Yorkshire Terrier of hers. What’s its name? Chloe? Yeah, that’s it. Those were the only posts she ever made—those of herself, her dog, pricey clothes and flashy junk she wasted money on. Everything was all about her—something that became increasingly evident with each of her Instagram posts. There were never any photos of Gil. Well, there was that one from several years ago, but other than that, it was the Maricel Caballero show—all day, every day.
I suddenly realize I hate her. Women like Maricel think women like me are the problem, but no. It’s women like her who neglect their husbands for years and still expect love and loyalty. They are the fucking problem. If she wasn’t holding that gun, I’d kick her skinny ass all over this apartment.
Given the circumstances, I can’t show the slightest sign of hostility. And it’s equally important that she not see the fear her volatility evokes. But my breathing accelerates, eliminating any chance of achieving that goal. Failing to reach the desired level of calm, panic sets in and my heart does quite the number in my chest—thumping so loudly it threatens to escape my breastbone. I tell myself to keep at it, to take deep, cleansing breaths—that although I’m scared shitless, I must display a perfectly composed demeanor. Yes, I know it’s crazy to think that’s possible, but remaining calm in this situation is key to my getting the upper hand.
As we appraise each other, I expect her to say more, but she doesn’t. She simply continues to circle me, getting closer with each round. Is this supposed to be an intimidation tactic? To stalk me like her prey? Slowly approaching to decrease chase distance and time? There’s no need for that. I may have been crazy enough to get involved with Gil, but that stupidity stopped when a whack job waved a gun at me. No way will I move from this spot, regardless of how loud the fight-or-flight instinct screams I should.
“Nia, right?” she asks and finally comes to a stop in front of me.
As if this bitch doesn’t know my name. She knew enough to be here waiting on me, so she certainly knows who I am.
“Nothing to say?” she asks. “You sure had a lot to say when you were texting my husband. You know—the man who claims to love you more than he’s ever loved me.”
I lock eyes with the wife of