29. Monica
29
MONICA
I slump into my car seat, legs aching after a twelve-hour shift at Taste of Heaven. The kitchen was in absolute chaos tonight—two servers called in sick, and we had a surprise visit from a food critic. My feet are screaming for mercy, but somehow, I can't stop smiling.
Because I'm going to see Henry.
"Get it together, Monica," I mutter, flipping down the sun visor to check my reflection in the tiny mirror.
Jesus. My hair's a disaster, frizzy curls escaping in every direction from what used to be a neat bun. I yank the elastic out and shake my hair loose, running my fingers through the tangles. The restaurant's heat and steam have left my face shiny, and there's a smudge of what looks like béarnaise sauce on my cheek.
I grab tissues from the glove compartment and wipe away the day's evidence from my face. Henry's seen me looking worse—covered in flour, sweating over a hot stove—but tonight feels different. Since that last time we were together, something's shifted between us. The fake engagement doesn't feel so fake anymore.
I dig through my purse for my emergency makeup kit, dabbing concealer under my eyes to hide the exhaustion. A touch of mascara, a swipe of tinted lip balm.
"Mrs. Blackwood," I whisper, testing the name on my lips again. It still gives me butterflies, even though it's just for show. Or at least it was supposed to be.
My phone buzzes with a text from Henry: " Coming home?"
I type back quickly: " On my way. Just freshening up."
"You always look perfect to me."
My heart does that stupid little flip it always does when he says things like that. I check my reflection one more time. The woman staring back at me looks happier than she has in years—despite Benjamin, despite the threats, despite everything.
I start the car, suddenly not feeling tired at all. Henry is waiting, and somehow that's all that matters.
I turn out of the restaurant parking lot, tapping my fingers on the steering wheel to the rhythm of the upbeat song on the radio. The night air flows through my cracked window, cooling my skin after hours in the hot kitchen.
The streets are emptier than usual. A blessing after the day I've had. I press down on the accelerator, eager to get to Henry's place—our place, I guess, for now.
A yellow light appears ahead. I ease my foot onto the brake pedal.
Nothing happens.
My car continues forward at the same speed. I press harder.
Still nothing.
"What the hell?" My heart jumps into my throat as I pump the brake pedal frantically. The pedal goes straight to the floor with no resistance. No slowing. No stopping.
The yellow light turns red.
"No, no, no!" I swerve into the turning lane, narrowly missing an SUV entering the intersection. The driver lays on their horn as I blow past.
My hands get clammy on the steering wheel. Sweat breaks out across my forehead as I scan the road ahead. There's a hill coming up. If I don't slow down now?—
I jerk the emergency brake. The car fishtails, tires screeching against asphalt. For a terrifying moment, I'm certain I'll flip, but somehow I regain control, though the car barely slows.
"Think, Monica, think!" I downshift manually, the engine whining in protest. The speedometer needle finally starts to drop, but not fast enough. I'm still moving too quickly toward the busy street at the bottom of the hill.
This isn't an accident. The image of Benjamin's smirking face flashes through my mind. The photos. The vandalism. And now this.
He's trying to kill me.
A sob catches in my throat as I swerve around a parked car, searching desperately for somewhere safe to crash. The thought is absurd—there's no safe way to crash—but I need to stop this car before I hit someone else.
I yank the wheel hard to the right, aiming for an empty stretch of sidewalk where I'll only hurt myself. The car jumps the curb, tires screeching against concrete. The front end smashes into a light pole with a sickening crunch of metal.
My body lurches forward violently before the seatbelt catches, snapping my head back like a rubber band. Pain explodes through my neck and shoulders as I'm thrown against the seat.
Everything stops.
Steam hisses from the crumpled hood. The airbag deflates against my chest, leaving a burning sensation across my skin. My ears ring, drowning out the world around me.
"Oh my God." The words escape my lips in a whisper. I can't move my neck without shooting pain racing down my spine.
Benjamin did this. He fucking tampered with my brakes.
The timing isn't coincidental. Benjamin's escalating—from harassment to attempted murder. And it's all because I decided to get a restraining order on him.
I try to lift my arm to unbuckle my seatbelt, but my body refuses to cooperate. Tears stream down my face, from pain or shock or both. My vision blurs around the edges.
A face appears at my window—a woman with concerned eyes. She mouths something I can't hear through the glass and my ringing ears. With effort, I press the button to lower the window.
"Are you okay? Can you hear me?" Her voice sounds distant, underwater, like I'm listening through layers of thick glass.
I try to nod, but the movement sends another jolt of pain through my neck, sharp and electric. "I think... my neck..." The words come out slurred and weak, barely audible even to my own ears.
"Don't move," she says firmly, already pulling out her phone with practiced urgency. "I'm calling an ambulance. Just stay still. Don't try to get out."
I sit frozen in my mangled car, staring straight ahead at the crumpled hood. Benjamin wanted me dead. The reality of it washes over me in waves, each one colder than the last. He wanted me dead because I dared to stand up to him, because I found happiness with someone else. Because I became Mrs. Blackwood instead of staying his punching bag.
The woman stays by my window, talking into her phone while keeping her eyes on me. Her free hand presses against the glass like she's trying to reach through it. "They're coming," she reassures me. "Just a few minutes. Hang in there, honey."
I can't even manage a thank you. My mouth feels stuffed with cotton. I just sit there, stunned, as sirens wail in the distance, growing louder with each passing second. The taste of fear is metallic in my mouth, mixing with what I realize must be blood from where I bit my lip during impact.
What the hell? Is this really my life right now?