She Was Never Just a Pretty Face novel Chapter 10

Hilda was well and truly out of options. The three million dollar bill had shoved her straight to the edge of a cliff.

Aside from her four hundred thousand, the only thing she had left was her wedding ring, which was appraised at six hundred thousand. But perhaps because jewelers recognized its origin, the secondary market would only appraise it, flat-out refusing to buy it. Her close friend, Clive Lancaster, wired her two hundred thousand—his entire life savings. She initially refused to accept it, but desperation forced her hand, and she meticulously logged every cent as a debt to be repaid.

She worked like a woman possessed, pulling eighteen-hour shifts day after day. She lost a staggering amount of weight.

When tragedy strikes, there truly is no end to the suffering.

One afternoon, she finished delivering and hanging a piece for a wealthy client.

The host and hostess were resting upstairs. She washed her hands in the first-floor bathroom, waiting for them to come down and pay the balance. She had taken a heavy loss on this commission, doing it for twenty percent off her usual rate. The work had been grueling, and the hostess had nitpicked every single detail, but she was desperate for the cash.

Just as she dried her hands, a pair of thick arms locked around her waist. A heavy, disgusting wave of male cologne and hot breath hit her ear.

"It's such a waste for a woman as stunning as you to be painting. Let me buy you an apartment. I'll give you plenty of cash to burn... How does two million a month sound? I'll come over two or three times a week. You just lie on your back and open your legs, and the money rolls in. Isn't that a hell of a lot better than splashing paint on a canvas? I've never seen a woman in Alpha City look as good as you do."

Mr. Whitman practically drooled as he violently tried to crush his lips against hers.

Disgusted, Hilda fought back fiercely. But the man was completely blinded by lust, brutally pinning her against the cold bathroom tiles and bruising her waist as he forced his heavy face toward her neck.

Just then, frantic footsteps thundered down the stairs, followed by his wife's shrieking Alpha City accent.

"I knew all that 'artist' crap was a front! You're nothing but a homewrecker out to seduce rich men! You actually brought your cheap parlor tricks into my own house!"

*Smack!*

A vicious slap cracked across Hilda's cheek.

The skin burned like fire. Her ears rang violently, leaving her completely stunned.

Mrs. Whitman grabbed her husband by the ear, yanking hard. "Can't keep it in your pants for one day, huh? You bring this trash into my home? You couldn't even find a high-class escort? Call her a painter all you want, she's just a cheap, pretentious whore."

The hospital had just called with a grave update: her mother was throwing up blood again. The doctors urged her to transfer her abroad immediately, warning that she wouldn't survive the holidays otherwise. She listened in deadened silence until the phone slipped right out of her fingers.

The rain began to fall. She gently closed her eyes. A single tear escaped, carrying the sheer weight of all the humiliation and injustice she had been forced to swallow.

A black Cullinan cruised slowly past the bus stop.

The driver was Harrell Judson. He recognized her instantly. She looked drastically different from the woman in his memory, enveloped in a suffocating cloud of sorrow as she sat there in a total daze.

He backed the luxury SUV up, suddenly noticing the vicious, red handprint branded across her cheek.

Regardless of everything else, this was Luther's wife. Someone actually had the nerve to strike her?

Rolling down the window, Harrell stared at her and spoke in a low voice. "Get in. I'll take you to the hospital."