Scarlet Tears at Eighteen

Start Reading

The blood feud between the Monroe family and the Norton family had raged for generations.

My father was killed by a conspiracy orchestrated by the Monroes, and Peter Monroe's father was murdered by my uncle.

We were born into a legacy of violence. Our families were sworn, mortal enemies.

But absolutely no one knew that for the past eight years, Peter and I had been secret lovers in this very cabin.

When we were intimate, he would wrap his hands around my throat and squeeze tight.

I would bite down hard on his shoulder.

We wouldn't stop until the heavy, metallic taste of blood filled our mouths.

He would lean in close to my ear and aggressively whisper that he truly wanted to kill me.

I would whisper back that we should just die together. That even if we went to hell, we wouldn't let each other go.

I used to be incredibly naive. I actually believed that our love could wash away the hatred, that it could conquer the impossible circumstances of our reality.

But today, everything changed.

Peter walked into our cabin with his arm wrapped tightly around a strange girl.

He looked me dead in the eye and introduced her as Chloe.

And then he told me that she was his future wife.

...

I paused my hand mid-stroke as I cleaned my handgun. I didn't stand up.

Peter guided the girl to the sofa directly across from me and sat down.

The girl kept her hands tightly clenched around the cuff of his suit jacket.

Her wrists were incredibly thin, pale, and delicate. Completely soft.

A stark contrast to my own hands, which were covered in callouses and old, jagged scars.

I looked up. Click. I flicked the safety back on and set the heavy black pistol onto the coffee table.

"Peter. Did you ask my permission before bringing trash into my house?"

Chloe's face instantly went chalk white. She shrank back, pressing herself deep into Peter's chest.

Her voice trembled, sounding incredibly pitiful and wronged.

"Peter, let's just go. I'm sorry, I shouldn't have insisted on coming..."

"What are you afraid of?"

Peter looked down at her. His eyes held a terrifyingly soft warmth that I had never seen in our eight years together.

But when he looked back up at me, that warmth instantly shattered into razor-sharp ice.

"I own half this property. If you can sit here, so can she."

He reached out, gently pinching the girl's chin, and tilted her head up.

Right in front of my face, he kissed her.

Chloe offered a weak, symbolic push against his chest before completely giving in.

As she closed her eyes, I caught the smug, victorious glance she shot me from the corner of her eye.

I sat perfectly still, my fingers crushing the gun-cleaning cloth in my lap.

The slick, dark gun oil seeped through the fabric and coated my skin, making my stomach churn with disgust.

When they finally broke the kiss, Peter gently wiped the corner of Chloe's mouth with his thumb.

"Chloe is clean. She's gentle. She's never had blood on her hands, and she hasn't taken any lives. Not like you. You reek of violence. You look like a vengeful ghost."

"Aria, a man doesn't want a partner who swings a machete next to him in a turf war. A man wants a woman who can speak softly, who acts cute, and who can stay safely at home."

"And that is something you will never be able to learn."

"Is that right?"

I laughed. I leaned forward, resting my elbows on my knees, staring him down across the coffee table.

"Eight years. It took you eight years to figure out what kind of person I am?"

"I knew from the start."

Peter's Adam's apple bobbed. His gaze drifted back down to Chloe.

"I was just blind before. But now, I finally understand what I actually want."

He stood up, wrapping his arm around Chloe to guide her out.

As they walked past my chair, her sharp stiletto heel deliberately stepped on the gun cloth I had dropped on the floor, grinding it viciously into the hardwood.

The absolute second the front door clicked shut, I stood up and violently kicked the coffee table.

It flipped through the air and crashed. The whiskey bottle, the crystal glasses, everything shattered into a million jagged pieces.

For the next two weeks, Chloe's presence became a suffocating shadow over my life.

She showed up at the exclusive club where I was hosting a major business negotiation.

She "accidentally" bumped into me while holding a glass of red wine.

The dark liquid soaked my silk blouse. Before I could even react, her eyes welled up with tears and she threw herself into Peter's arms.

I was furious and tried to confront her.

But Peter stepped in, shielding her behind his back in front of all my business partners.

He stared me down, his face a mask of absolute coldness, and delivered a ruthless threat.

"Aria, if you touch a single hair on her head, I will personally destroy your primary supply line."

I looked at him, smiled coldly, and didn't say a single word.

The very next day, he made good on his threat. He brought his men and intercepted my shipment.

Three tons of product. He didn't leave me a single scrap.

She printed out dozens of intimate photos of her and Peter and mailed them to every single department in my corporation.

She sent me text messages in the middle of the night, attaching pictures of Peter sleeping next to her.

The background of the photos was the silk sheets we had picked out together. The lighting was from the Nordic chandelier we had installed together.

I never replied. I just ordered my men to dig up every single detail of her past.

An orphan. No parents. No family.

Peter supposedly picked her up while she was working as a bottle girl at a local dive bar.

She was as clean as a blank sheet of paper. And she was as fake as one, too.

My lieutenant asked if I wanted him to make her disappear.

I didn't answer right away. I lit a cigarette, took a drag, and slowly exhaled the smoke.

"No rush. If you want to know what the enemy is plotting, you have to let the prey strike first. Then, you kill them with one blow."

To her, my silence was proof of weakness and surrender.

She didn't disappoint me. A few days later, she ambushed me right in the lobby of my corporate headquarters.

In front of dozens of my employees, she placed a protective hand over her flat stomach. Her eyes were bright red as she bowed deeply to me.

"Miss Norton, I'm begging you, please let me go! I'm pregnant with Peter's child. I just want to live a quiet life and have my baby."

"Please, I'm begging you! The baby is innocent! Don't hurt him! This is Peter's only bloodline!"

The lobby immediately erupted into shocked, furious whispers.

My fingernails dug violently into my palms, but I didn't lose my temper in public.

Instead, I leaned down and gently patted her on the shoulder.

"Chloe. If you want to play a game, I will play with you until the bitter end. Just don't regret it."

That exact night, I had her dragged to an abandoned warehouse on the outskirts of the city.

She was thrown onto the concrete floor. Tears streamed down her face like a broken necklace.

"Miss Norton, I'm sorry! I was wrong! I'll never do it again, please let me go!"

I squatted down in front of her, casually flipping open a tactical folding knife.

The sharp, metallic click echoed in the massive room. The cold steel caught the dim light, reflecting onto her terrified face.

"Your mistake wasn't messing with me. Your mistake was taking something that didn't belong to you and parading it around like a trophy."

I raised my hand and slapped her across the face with everything I had.

Her head whipped to the side. She was completely stunned, clutching her cheek as she stared at me in absolute disbelief.

"That was for the rules. Don't touch my man."

My hand came down a second time. Blood instantly welled up in the corner of her mouth.

"That was for basic human decency. Never mistake someone's tolerance as permission to act like a bitch."

I didn't stop. Again. And again.

The sharp cracks of my palm hitting her face echoed rhythmically. I counted every single one.

At first, she tried to act tough and begged for mercy. Then, she started screaming Peter's name at the top of her lungs.

By the end, she couldn't even make a sound.

Blood dripped heavily from her chin onto the concrete.

When I hit one hundred, I finally stopped.

I grabbed the collar of her shirt, wiped the blood off my knuckles, and stood up, looking down at the broken mess on the floor.

"Those hundred slaps were to jog your memory. If you cross me again, I won't be taking your face. I'll be taking your life."

It was just beginning to get light out when I finally pulled up to the estate.

The moment I pushed the heavy oak doors open, the suffocating stench of stale cigarette smoke hit my face.

Peter was sitting on the sofa in the dark. Dozens of crushed cigarette butts were scattered around his boots.

Before I could even open my mouth, he stood up and closed the distance between us in three massive strides.

He violently grabbed my jaw, his fingers digging into my cheeks, his teeth gritted in pure, homicidal rage.

"Aria. You actually dared to touch her."

I looked up, staring dead into his eyes. My jaw was throbbing in agony, but I smiled.

"I touched her. So what? If she has the guts to get in my face, she better have the guts to take a beating."

He raised his hand and struck me across the face with terrifying force.

My head snapped to the side. The skin of my lip split open, and the heavy, metallic taste of blood flooded my mouth.

I slowly turned my head back, looking him right in the eye.

I didn't flinch. I didn't show a single ounce of weakness.

"You brought this on yourself, Aria."

"She took a hundred hits. You're going to take two hundred."

"Try me."

I opened my mouth to shout for my guards outside.

But Peter was faster.

He kept his brutal grip on my jaw and violently twisted his wrist. My jaw loudly dislocated, instantly locking into a sickening, crooked angle.

Immediately, the lieutenant he had brought with him rushed forward, expertly pinning both of my arms behind my back.

The second slap landed. The entire right side of my face instantly went numb.

He didn't stop.

Again. And again.

The heavy, brutal blows rained down on my face, alternating left and right.

I didn't try to dodge. I didn't beg for mercy. I didn't even try to take a step back.

I stood perfectly rigid, keeping my eyes locked dead onto his face.

By the time he hit fifty, my vision started to swim with black spots.

A high-pitched ringing echoed in my ears. The blood pooled heavily in my mouth, spilling over my lips.

A thick drop of my blood splashed onto the back of his hand. It was so hot that he actually flinched and pulled his hand back.

Seeing his boss hesitate, the lieutenant's grip on my arms loosened slightly.

I immediately seized the opening. I twisted my body, driving my elbow brutally into the lieutenant's temple, knocking him out cold. I reached up, grabbed my own jaw, and violently snapped it back into place.

I spat a mouthful of bloody saliva onto his expensive shoes and smiled at him.

"What's wrong?"

"Hand getting tired? Didn't eat breakfast?"

He ground his teeth together, raised his hand, and delivered another brutal slap. This one hit harder than all the rest combined.

Two hundred times. Not one more, not one less.

When the final blow landed, he violently yanked his hand back and turned his back to me.

I could hear the knuckles in his hand popping as he clenched his fists.

I had to grab the wall just to stay on my feet. My face was so swollen it had entirely lost feeling.

I reached up with a shaking hand and wiped the blood from my chin. I took a slow step toward his back. My voice was a rasping whisper.

"Peter. We are even."

"If she ever steps foot in front of me again, I will carve a piece of meat off her bones. You are more than welcome to pay me back double."

"Unless you plan on killing me right now, I swear to God she will end up in a body bag long before I do."

He whipped around, staring at the horrific, bloody mess he had made of my face.

His lips trembled. He opened his mouth to say something.

But in the end, he just clenched his jaw and spat out a single threat.

"Don't think for a second that I wouldn't do it."

He spun on his heel and stormed out. The heavy front doors slammed shut behind him with explosive force.

I stood completely alone in the massive foyer, staring at the scattered cigarette butts on the marble floor. Slowly, my legs gave out, and I slid down the wall until I was sitting on the ground.

The grandfather clock in the hallway chimed. It was exactly 8:00 AM.

Eight years ago, at this exact hour, we had moved into this house together.

For the next two weeks, Chloe completely vanished from my life.

Half a month later, it was time for the annual syndicate charity gala.

My makeup artist had to apply three heavy layers of industrial concealer just to hide the lingering, dark bruises on my face.

I stood near the edge of the ballroom, wearing a custom haute couture gown, holding a crystal champagne flute.

I listened to the quiet, vicious whispers of the city's elite. They were all laughing about how Peter Monroe had turned on the Norton heiress and declared war, all over some cheap bar girl.

I heard footsteps approaching from behind.

I turned around to see Peter walking toward me, his arm wrapped tightly around Chloe's waist.

Chloe was wearing a flowing, angelic white gown. The bruises on her face had completely healed.

Her makeup was flawless. She rested a delicate hand protectively over her slightly rounded stomach, leaning her entire body weight affectionately against Peter.

She walked right up to me and politely asked the other guests standing nearby to give us a moment.

Once we were alone, she dropped her voice to a vicious, gloating whisper.

"Do you see this, Miss Norton? I am three months pregnant with Peter's child. He promised me that the second the baby is born, we are getting legally married."

"He said that I am the only woman he will ever marry in this lifetime."

"Honestly, I should be thanking you for the little stunt you pulled last time. If you hadn't done that, I never would have realized just how much weight I hold in his heart"

My grip on the crystal flute suddenly tightened with terrifying force. The glass cracked loudly under my fingers.

Blood mixed with the expensive champagne and ran down my wrist.

I didn't even look at her. I raised my eyes and stared directly at Peter.

He was standing right next to her. He clearly heard every single word of her gloating, venomous speech, but he didn't do a damn thing to stop her.

He just stared at me with a dark, heavy gaze, as if he was waiting to see how I would react.

I smiled. I opened my hand and casually set the shattered glass onto the railing next to me.

I reached out and gently patted Chloe on the cheek.

My touch was feather-light, and my voice was equally soft.

"Congratulations."

Without another word, I turned my back on them and walked away. I didn't look back once.

Two hours later, my men dragged Chloe into a sterile, underground operating room.

She was strapped to the surgical table, fighting like a wild animal.

She screamed, crying hysterically, calling me a venomous bitch, and screaming Peter's name at the top of her lungs.

I stood next to the surgical lights, staring down at her. I turned to the underground doctor and gave a single order.

"Terminate it. Clean her out completely. No anesthesia."

The procedure was over in less than thirty minutes.

I had just turned around to leave when the heavy steel doors of the operating room were violently kicked open.

Peter charged into the room, his eyes bloodshot and completely feral. He lunged at me, his hands wrapping brutally around my throat.

He slammed me against the tiled wall with terrifying force, instantly cutting off my air.

"Aria!"

"Are you completely insane?! That was my child! How could you do this?!"

I was suffocating, my vision going black at the edges, but I actually smiled.

I forced my arm up, reached into the pocket of my blazer, and pulled out two crumpled, faded ultrasound printouts.

I slammed them directly into his face.

"You want to talk to me about children?"

"Look at those papers. The first one is from when I was twenty. The second is from when I was twenty-two."

"Two children. Both of them were yours."

"The first time... you told me the Monroe family civil war wasn't over. You said you couldn't afford to have a weakness. I laid on a freezing operating table entirely alone, passing out from the agony, while you were busy fighting for control of your syndicate."

"The second time... the Nortons and the Monroes were in an all-out street war. You said bringing a child into that crossfire was a death sentence. I got on my hands and knees and begged you. I told you I would take the baby and disappear, that we would go somewhere no one knew our names. And you told me absolutely not. You said Peter Monroe's child would not be raised like a rat in the gutter."

"And now, you want to scream at me about your child?"

"Peter, you have no right!"

My voice was dead calm, but every single syllable was laced with a decade of suppressed, venomous hatred.

The hands crushing my windpipe instantly lost their strength.

He looked down at the faded ultrasound papers scattered on the bloody floor. His body violently swayed as if he had been shot.

He took a stumbling step backward, crashing heavily into a surgical tray. Metal instruments clattered to the floor in a deafening crash.

"Aria..."

It had been three months since he had called me by that name.

I pushed him aside and smoothed the wrinkles out of my jacket.

All the emotion, all the hatred, all the rage slowly drained out of my eyes, leaving behind nothing but a stagnant, dead pool of water.

"Peter. Everything between us rotted away a long time ago."

I didn't look at him again. I didn't look at Chloe whimpering on the operating table. I turned around and walked out the door.

Three days later, Peter trapped me in my private safehouse in the old district.

He allied himself with the traitors within the Norton family. In a single night, he violently took over every single one of my territories and severed all my supply chains.

My men were either slaughtered or bought off.

By the end of the night, I was entirely alone in the safehouse.

He had his men weld thick steel bars over all the doors and windows. The only way in or out was the heavy steel front door.

The digital keypad code was still set to my birthday. But I couldn't leave.

That night, a massive thunderstorm rolled in. The rain came down in absolute sheets, and lightning violently illuminated the sky.

It felt exactly like the night we turned eighteen. The first night we ever spent together in this house.

The heavy steel door clicked open. Peter walked inside.

He brought the freezing chill of the storm with him. In his right hand, he was gripping a heavy, matte-black handgun.

It was the gun I had given him for his twentieth birthday.

He walked slowly across the living room and stopped directly in front of me. He slowly raised his arm, leveling the barrel directly at my chest.

I was sitting on the sofa. I looked up at him.

I didn't move a muscle. I didn't say a word.

"Chloe is dead."

"Aria, you destroyed my child. You destroyed Chloe. Tell me, do you think you should pay for that with your life?"

I stood up. I took a slow, deliberate step toward him.

His entire body instantly went rigid.

As I stepped forward, the gun barrel slowly began to shake, inching backward.

"Don't move! I told you not to move!"

I didn't stop. I kept walking until I was standing right in front of him.

I was so close I could smell the stale tobacco and the cold rain soaking into his coat.

I reached up and firmly grabbed his wrist, the hand holding the gun.

I pulled it forward, pressing the cold steel muzzle violently against my own chest, right over my heart.

The heart that had beaten for him for eight years.

Those eyes, the eyes I had loved for eight years, were bloodshot and completely feral.

"If you want revenge, pull the trigger."

His hand was shaking violently.

He desperately tried to yank the gun away, but I gripped his wrist with terrifying strength, refusing to let him move an inch.

Tears spilled over his eyelashes, dropping heavily onto the back of my hand. They were shockingly hot.

"Aria. Let go of my hand."

"I don't blame you anymore. We can stop fighting now, okay?"

I smiled. The tears finally spilled from my own eyes.

"Peter. Eight years. All the blood spilled between the Nortons and the Monroes. The two hundred times you struck my face. The three children I bled out on a table. How exactly are we supposed to settle that?"

"We've fought for so long. We've hated each other for so long. And we've loved each other for so long. I'm so tired."

I looked into his eyes. My fingertips reached up and gently traced the line of his jaw, as tenderly as I had done a thousand times before.

"Peter. Since we can't afford to love each other anymore, and we don't have the strength left to hate each other... let's just end it."

The sheer, absolute terror in his eyes reached its breaking point. He fought like a madman to rip the gun out of my grip.

"Aria! Stop! Put the gun down!"

"I forbid you from dying! Do you hear me?!"

I ignored him entirely. I brought my other hand up, wrapping my fingers over his index finger, which was still resting on the trigger.

I took one final look at his face, permanently burning the image of his complete, utter breakdown into my memory.

When we were eighteen, I took a knife to the gut for him.

He held me in his arms, his eyes just as red as they were now, sobbing uncontrollably like a little boy.

And then, I squeezed his finger. I pulled the trigger.

Bang

The deafening gunshot was entirely swallowed by a massive crack of thunder.