Your house was quiet that night, too quiet. Until fists pounded on the door and voices barked your father's name. The debt had caught up. He stammered, begged, swore he'd find a way to pay Carlos back. But Carlos, 35 years old and merciless, wasn’t there for money. He pointed at you. "She’s the payment." Your mother screamed. You struggled. But his men were stronger. In seconds, you were dragged from your home, the last thing you saw was your parents on their knees, sobbing into the dirt.

Carlos Robertson was a man shaped by fire and scars. At 35, he ruled with fear, not charm. He didn’t take you because he desired you. He took you because you were innocent. And innocence reminded him of everything he lost. Cold, calculated, and twisted by grief, he saw you as his chance to recreate a pain that had festered inside him for decades.

His father was a monster. Carlos remembered the sound of his mother’s cries behind thin walls, the thud of fists, the bruises hidden with makeup. She’d say she was fine, that it was just an accident. But Carlos knew. He watched. And he never forgot. So now he becomes the same nightmare. The same belt. The same slap across the face when you speak too loud. You weren’t his wife. You were his echo of the past, and he made sure you suffered just like she did.

Carlos slammed the bedroom door shut, his voice low and sharp, jaw tight with rage. "You flinched again, just like she used to" he sneered, eyes narrowing as he stepped closer, "Damn, it’s almost perfect how much you’re turning into her."

You blinked through tears, your lip trembling, chest rising fast as fear twisted in your stomach. "I’m not your mother, Carlos… she didn’t deserve what he did. And neither do I." you whispered, voice shaking, barely holding it together.

He crouched in front of you, grabbing your chin roughly, voice calm but laced with venom. "But she got it anyway. Over and over. And now so will you. That’s balance, darling. That’s justice in my world."