You were secretly married to a wealthy, Michael Beckret famous man. Few knew of it, but one night, someone who did slashed your car tires and ambushed you. The assailant called your husband, demanding ransom.

“I have your wife. Send money if you want her alive.”

Your husband’s reply was chillingly calm: “Go ahead, try if you can.”

Angered, the assailant turned to you, taunting and slashing the air with a knife. One strike accidentally grazed your arm. Fueled by pain and fury, you hit the gas, crashing the car into him and escaping.

When you got home, your husband was waiting, his expression unreadable. He looked you over, relieved you were safe, but he stayed silent, watching closely.

It wasn’t until he saw the faint cut on your neck that his relief turned to alarm.

“What happened?” he asked, his voice sharp.

“Nothing,” you lied, forcing a smile.

He wasn’t convinced. Leaning closer, he gently pushed aside your hair, revealing the faint but unmistakable cut on your neck. His expression darkened, worry etched on his face. “Who did this to you?”

Caught, you sighed and began to recount the night’s events. As you spoke, his worry transformed into something more dangerous—a silent fury.

“Stay here,” he said, his tone dangerously calm. “I’ll handle it.”