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Disclaimer: This series is purely fictional and created solely for entertainment purposes within this subreddit. It does not promote or condone violence in any way. All characters and events are fictional. Some parts of the story may include themes of humiliation or uncomfortable situations as part of the narrative. Reader discretion is advised. Enjoy.
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Michael was thirty-six years old, with an accounting degree from a decent state university, and an almost innate talent for making numbers say whatever was convenient without anyone noticing. For the past eight years he had worked as an independent financial consultant, though in reality nearly all his income—the kind that actually sustained the life he and Mia had built—came from a single client: Tom.
Tom didn’t appear on any org chart or official list. In the circles where it mattered, everyone knew he controlled a large share of the cocaine that came through the port of Miami, along with illegal casinos, loans with interest rates that broke kneecaps if you fell behind, and a chain of laundromats that—whether by irony or cynicism—served exactly the purpose their name suggested. He was old school: tailor-made suits, a Rolex, a low voice, and a calm that gave anyone goosebumps. He never raised his voice; he didn’t need to. People obeyed all the same.
Michael had reached him by chance. A college friend introduced him to an “investor” who needed help placing funds in commercial real estate. The first payment arrived in cash, inside an unmarked bag. Michael asked once where the money came from. He got a long look and a short answer: “Better you don’t know, but if you do it right, you’ll never want for anything.” He did it right. He bought small shopping centers, fast-food franchises, apartment buildings in neighborhoods that were just starting to gentrify. Everything looked legal: flawless contracts, taxes paid on time, audits that never found a thing.
Mia knew—of course she didn’t know the dirtiest details, but she knew enough. At first she protested, cried, threatened to leave. Then she saw the new house, the trips to Europe, the clothes she no longer had to look at twice before buying. She adjusted. “Just make sure nothing happens to us,” she told Michael one night, her head on his chest. Michael swore he had everything under control.
The problem began with Victor.
Victor was the real estate broker Michael used to close many of the deals. Charismatic, with a laugh that always sounded fake. He had access to several of the accounts through which Tom’s money flowed. For months everything worked, but Victor started betting big—cryptocurrencies, horses, blackjack tables—and he lost too much.
Instead of confessing, he decided to “borrow” from a large transfer of Tom’s that was meant for the purchase of a major property for his operations. Two million in total. He thought he’d win it back fast and replace it before anyone noticed. He never did, and Victor vanished from Michael’s radar.
Michael discovered the hole three weeks later. His stomach dropped. He called Victor once, twice, ten times; the phone never answered. He knew he had days—maybe hours—before Tom found out.
Tom found out that same week, without giving Michael time to fix it. It was a Thursday afternoon and Michael was in the kitchen when he heard the roar of engines outside. He looked through the window and saw two black SUVs pull up in front of the house. Four men got out. Tom emerged from the second vehicle, adjusting his shirt cuffs. He wore a dark gray suit, no tie. His eyes met Michael’s through the glass, and Michael began to feel fear.
Mia was upstairs, just out of the shower. She had put on tight jeans and a simple white blouse that perfectly outlined her breasts. At thirty-two she still had the kind of body that made people turn to look without trying to hide it: tall, almost five foot nine, with an hourglass figure that seemed immune to age—narrow waist, wide rounded hips, full firm bust. Fair skin that made anyone who saw her marvel at her beautiful shape. Her blonde hair fell in soft waves to the middle of her back, and her blue eyes had an intensity that could be sweet or cutting depending on the moment. She looked like a more real, mature version of the women on magazine covers—the same impossible proportions, the same mix of innocence and sensuality that was hard to ignore.
She came downstairs barefoot when she heard the knocking at the door. Michael had already opened it. Tom entered first, followed by two of his men. The others stayed outside.
“Michael,” Tom said with his usual calm. “We need to talk.”
Michael tried to sound firm.
“Tom, listen, I—”
Tom raised a hand. One of the men closed the door. The other grabbed Michael by the collar and slammed him against the hallway wall. The first blow was to the stomach; Michael doubled over, breathless. The second was to the face; he felt his nose break and hot blood run over his lip.
Mia appeared at the top of the stairs.
“What the fuck are you doing?” she shouted.
She ran down and put herself between her husband and the man hitting him. She pushed the guy with both hands on his chest. She was strong—she did Pilates and ran five kilometers three times a week—but the man barely stepped back. Still, the surprise stopped him for a second.
“Let him go!” she ordered, her voice shaking but not breaking. “Get out of my house right now!”
Tom raised a hand and his men froze. He looked her up and down, slowly. She was breathing hard; the blouse had lost a button in her rush to separate them from her husband, revealing the edge of a white lace bra and the upper curve of her breasts. There were still drops of water glistening on her chest that she hadn’t fully dried. Tom didn’t smile, but something shifted in his expression: raw curiosity, a desire he didn’t bother to hide.
“Easy, Mrs. Mia,” he said. “This is between your husband and me.”
Mia didn’t move. She stood in front of Michael, who was on the floor coughing blood.
“No. This is in my house. And if you want to keep hitting him, you’ll have to go through me.”
Tom took a step forward. She didn’t back down. She met his eyes.
“I know who you are,” she said. “And I know what my husband does for you. But he didn’t steal your money. It was another son of a bitch who worked with him. Michael is just trying to fix it.”
Tom tilted his head.
“And how do you know all that?”
“Because I’m his wife. And because I’m not an idiot.”
There was silence. One of the goons let out a short laugh, but Tom silenced him with a look.
Michael, from the floor, murmured:
“Tom… give me a week. I can recover at least half. I swear…”
Tom ignored him. He kept looking at Mia.
“You’ve got guts,” he said. “Most wives in your position would be crying in a corner.”
Mia swallowed but didn’t look away.
“My husband doesn’t deserve to die for someone else’s mistake. Give us time.”
Tom stepped closer. Now he was less than a meter away. He could smell her shampoo, something citrus and expensive. His eyes dropped for a second to her cleavage and returned to her face.
“Time costs money,” he said. “And trust.”
Michael tried to stand.
“Tom, please…”
Tom raised his hand again. Michael fell silent.
“All right,” Tom said. “I’ll give you time. But it’s going to cost.”
Mia frowned.
“How much?”
Tom smiled for the first time. It was a small, dangerous smile.
“Not money. Something better.”
He looked her up and down again, without hurry or shame.
“Once a week I send a car. You get in. You spend the afternoon with me. We dine, we talk, whatever I want. No questions. No saying no. Meanwhile, Michael has time to recover what’s missing.”
Mia went pale.
“What?”
Michael, from the floor:
“No! Tom, no…”
Tom paid him no attention.
“That’s the deal, or I finish what we started today. And then I go after Victor. But I finish here first.”
Mia looked at Michael. He was shaking his head, his mouth full of blood.
“No, Mia. Don’t do it.”
But Mia was already calculating. She knew who Tom was. She knew he didn’t mess around. She knew that if she said no, Michael wouldn’t leave that house alive.
She took a deep breath. Her chest rose and fell beneath the blouse.
“How long?” she asked.
“As long as it takes me to regain my trust,” Tom answered. “We start next Friday.”
He turned to his men.
“Let’s go.”
Before leaving, he paused beside Mia. He barely brushed her arm with his knuckles.
“Wear something nice,” he said in a low voice.
The door closed. The SUVs drove off.
Michael crawled to her and hugged her, sobbing.
“I’m sorry… I’m so sorry…”
Mia didn’t cry. She stared at the closed door, her heart pounding so hard she felt it in her throat.
She had just sold a part of herself to save her husband.
And in some very deep, ashamed corner of her being, she felt a shiver that wasn’t just fear.
The house fell into a heavy silence after the SUVs disappeared into the distance, as if the air itself had been holding its breath and was now releasing it slowly. The only thing breaking the quiet was the intermittent drip of Michael’s blood on the floor and his ragged breathing, a hoarse sound that seemed to come from deep inside. Mia knelt beside him, took his face in hands that couldn’t stop trembling, and used the hem of her blouse to wipe the blood from his lip, with a tenderness that contrasted with the violence still lingering in the air. Michael tried to smile, but it only came out as a crooked grimace of pain.
“Come,” she whispered, her voice soft but steady. “Let’s go upstairs.”
She helped him to his feet, slipped his arm over her shoulders, and guided him up the stairs to the master bathroom, holding him as if he were the only thing keeping her upright too. She sat him on the edge of the bathtub, pulled the first-aid kit from the cabinet, and began cleaning his broken nose with cotton soaked in hydrogen peroxide. Michael hissed through his teeth but didn’t complain; he stared at her, as if he feared that if he blinked too hard she would vanish.
“I’m sorry, love,” he said, his voice hoarse and broken. “This is my fault. All of it.”
Mia shook her head without pausing what she was doing. Her movements were gentle, precise, as if she were handling something fragile she didn’t want to break further.
“It’s not just yours,” she answered quietly, almost to herself. “We both chose this life. The house, the trips, that peace we thought we’d bought forever… everything had a price. We just didn’t imagine they’d come to collect so soon.”
She finished cleaning and carefully placed a strip of adhesive tape over his nose. Then she sat beside him on the edge of the bathtub, took his hands in hers, and squeezed them a little, seeking an anchor.
“Michael, look at me.”
He raised his eyes. They were bloodshot, loaded with tears he was fighting to hold back.
“We’re not going to let him win,” she said. “We’re not going to accept that… proposal. We’ll find another way.”
Michael squeezed her hands in return, as if afraid to let go.
“How? Victor disappeared. He took all the money, Mia. Tom isn’t the type to wait.”
“Then we’ll find him,” she replied, with a determination that allowed no doubt, though she spoke without raising her voice. “You know his accounts, his contacts. He has that ex who kept sending him messages. We can track him down. We’ll hire someone real, an investigator who knows what he’s doing.”
Michael looked at her, surprised by the strength that emerged from her when he needed it most.
“With what money? Tom froze everything he could touch. We barely have what’s left in the account.”
Mia took a deep breath, gathering courage.
“We’ll sell whatever we have to. The Rolex I gave you for our anniversary. My jewelry. The car. And… I have savings from my jobs. It’s not much, but it’s a start. Plus, I can ask my sister. She won’t ask questions.”
Michael shook his head instinctively.
“I don’t want to drag your family into this.”
“We’re not dragging them in,” she said, moving closer until their knees touched. “We’re just borrowing. And we’ll pay it back when this is over.”
“You’re incredible,” he murmured. “Most people would have fallen apart. Or left me lying there.”
Mia smiled for the first time that afternoon—a small, exhausted, but genuine smile.
“I love you, idiot. For better or worse, remember? We said it in front of two hundred guests and a priest.”
To be continued…
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