Auctioned While Pregnant: 99 Nights Of My Husband’s Betrayal Chapter 11
Julian didn’t look at them. He gave his men a single glance.
Both women were dragged toward the basement door. Their screams bounced off the walls of the stairwell as they disappeared below.
“Julian! Julian, what are you doing?!” Claire’s voice broke apart as the door closed behind her.
Julian lit a cigar. The flame reflected in his eyes—steady, dead.
“Whatever you told my men to do to Lena,” he said, his voice carrying down the stairs, “they’re going to do to you. Exactly the same.”
“What? No—NO! PLEASE—”
Five hours.
For five hours, the sounds came up through the floor. Muffled. Wet. Rhythmic in a way that made my skin crawl.
When the basement door opened again, Claire couldn’t walk.
They carried her out. Her eyes were open but there was nothing behind them. Her body hung limp—a ragdoll with its stuffing pulled out.
She’d lost the baby.
In the days that followed, I heard she alternated between complete catatonia and violent episodes triggered by any sudden sound or touch.
“This is the U.S. You’re not worried about consequences?”
Julian crushed the cigar out in the ashtray.
He turned to me and smiled. A real smile. The kind he used to give me before everything went wrong.
“For you, anything is worth it.”
I stepped forward. Leaned in close.
His breath hitched. His pupils dilated. For a fraction of a second, hope moved across his face like light through a crack.
“Julian.”
I patted his cheek. Twice. Softly.
“You’re disgusting.”
The light in his eyes went out.
The day I signed the divorce papers, Julian asked me one question.
“You’re sure?”
My suitcase was already by the door. Packed. Zipped. Ready.
“You can refuse to sign. I’m still leaving. This is a notification, not a negotiation.”
His face did something I’d never seen before. Something that looked like he had been torn open and left to dry.
He’d spent his entire life being the one who refused. The one who walked away. The one who ended things.
This was new for him.
I took the handle of my suitcase and turned toward the door.
“Lena.”
The sound of metal. A click.
I turned back.
A gun in his hand. Matte black. His finger resting on the trigger guard.
“You’re going to kill me?”
He smiled. It was the worst smile I’d ever seen on a human face.
“How could I?”
He raised the barrel. Placed it under his own chin. The steel dimpled the soft skin there.
“Three blanks. Three live rounds. Every step you take toward that door, I pull the trigger.”
Three steps. After three steps, he was guaranteed dead.
I looked at him. At the gun. At the door.
I took the first step.
Click.
Empty.
The second step.
Click.
Empty.
The third step.
Click.
Empty.
I looked at him. The gun still under his chin. His hand steady. His eyes not.
I took the fourth step.
He didn’t pull the trigger.
His arm dropped. The gun hung at his side.
I smiled.
“See? Your love. What a joke.”
I walked out of the villa.
I made it to the car. My hand was on the door handle when footsteps pounded behind me.
Not Julian’s—lighter, faster. The butler.
“Ma’am! Ma’am, wait—Mr. Sterling asked me to give you this—”
I looked down.
A property transfer agreement. Everything.
Every asset. Every account. Every building, every share, every piece of land Julian Sterling owned.
Signed. Dated today. My name in the beneficiary line.
Bang.
From inside the villa. Not a click this time.
The butler froze mid-breath.
Then he spun and ran back toward the house, his voice cracking open:
“Boss!”
I stood by the car. The agreement in my hand. The paper shaking—not from my hands. From the wind.
Birds scattered from the roof of the villa in every direction, startled by the sound that was still ringing off the walls.
“Julian Sterling.”
The paper flapped against my fingers. I held it and didn’t move.
“Even at the end. You died as my husband.”
I looked at the villa.
“You always did know exactly how to make me sick.”
The end.