She Chose My Torturer

My fiancée, Chloe, and I were kidnapped during what was supposed to be our pre-wedding getaway.

The kidnappers wanted her location—but I refused to give her up. For a hundred hours, I endured their torture.

Chloe used her family's connections and resources to track me down. When she found me, I was barely alive—broken, bruised, and bleeding.

She went absolutely ballistic. She swore she'd make those men pay, that she'd see them behind bars. They fell to their knees, begging: "Ms. Carter, it was Shane Miller! He made us do it! Are you gonna lock him up too?"

That's when Chloe froze. Her face went tight with conflict.

Shane Miller. Her first love. The one who got away—her "white moonlight." He'd been gone for five years.

In that moment, I knew. It was over between us.

I woke up alone in a hospital room and called to cancel the wedding.

"Hi," I said, my voice rough. "I'd like to cancel my marriage registration."

I recited my ID number and appointment date to the clerk.

There was a pause on the other end. Then, carefully, she said, "Mr. Evans, this date was specially requested by Ms. Carter. It's the anniversary of the day you two first met. If you cancel now… you'll have to wait another year."

A sharp, heavy pain clenched around my chest. My vision blurred.

"Cancel it," I repeated.

Hearing the finality in my voice, she didn't argue.

As I hung up, my eyes swept across the empty hospital room. Cold. Sterile. Hollow. My heart felt just as empty.

"Ethan… you're awake?"

I turned. It was Chloe.

After more than ten days, she looked as radiant as ever—glowing, put together. Meanwhile, my reflection in the window showed a swollen, bruised, broken man. I barely looked human.

"Why are you on the phone already?" she said, slipping easily into nurse mode. "The doctor said you need rest. You're seriously hurt."

She acted like nothing had happened—fluffing my pillow, smoothing the sheets, tucking me in like a child. Her beautiful eyes were full of what looked like love and concern.

"The doctor said your injuries aren't life-threatening. With rest, you'll recover. As for your legs… we can discuss surgery in six months, when you're stronger—"

"Chloe," I cut in, my voice cold. "Did you ever visit me while I was out?"

She stopped short. Her eyes darted away. "Of course I did."

But I knew she was lying. This room had none of her presence—no flowers, no personal touches, none of the chaos she always brought with her.

Last year, when I was hospitalized with stomach pain, Chloe turned the whole place upside down. She called in specialists, argued with the staff, refused to leave my side—even after they figured out it was just gastroenteritis. She filled the room with gifts, vitamins, and fresh flowers every day because she thought it'd "help me heal."