At the hospital, the doctor’s face was grim as he handed me the report. "Your daughter has multiple new injuries," he said, voice tight with anger. "But that’s not all — there are signs of older wounds too. Blunt force trauma, cuts from sharp objects, even marks from fingernails."
He paused, eyes darkening. "The most serious injury is a fracture in her shin. It’s slight, but left untreated, it could’ve gotten much worse. I suggest you start paying closer attention to your daughter’s well-being."
His words hit me like a punch to the gut. Guilt and rage swirled inside me. Rage not only for Astrid but for Zera's mother, my wife, Rhea, as well. For I don't believe, she, a mother, wouldn't know that her daughter was being bullied for a long time.
As Zera underwent treatment, I sat quietly by her side, wrestling with my emotions. Then my phone buzzed. It was a call from the finance department.
"Sir," the accountant began hesitantly, "I wanted to report something strange. Recently, Mrs. Johnson transferred four million dollars, claiming it was for an investment. But when we double-checked, the signature didn’t match yours — even the company seal looked off."
My mind reeled. Four million?! I’d never authorized that transfer. And I sure as hell didn’t sign anything.
Back when I started this company, Rhea had been my secretary. After the company took off, we started dating and eventually got married. But before the wedding, we’d signed a prenuptial agreement — the company and my personal assets remained separate.
Yet, she’d insisted she didn’t want to be a housewife, so I gave her control over one of our branches. However, while the other branches thrived, hers consistently bled money — losses in the millions every year. Still, I never questioned it. I thought I was giving her a chance to learn.
But now? Now I realized I’d been a fool.
I instructed the finance department to take immediate legal action and dig deeper into the missing funds.
When we left the hospital, I barely had time to process what I’d learned before another shock hit me. As I drove out of the parking lot, a Porsche swerved in front of us, crashing straight into my car.
I jumped out to check the damage. But when I saw the license plate, my heart sank.
It was the same Porsche I’d bought Rhea for her birthday.
A man climbed out, middle-aged and angry. Gripping a baseball bat, he stormed towards me.