Please Come Back, My Love Chapter 74

Elena: POV

"Who sent you?"

My voice came out weaker than I wanted. Shaking.

The one who'd grabbed me—tall, greasy hair, dead eyes—he didn't even smile.

"Does it matter?"

"Tell me." I tried to pull free. His grip tightened. Bruising. "**Who sent you?**"

The shorter one stepped closer. Looked me up and down like I was meat.

"Someone who wants you gone."

Not Julian. It **couldn't** be Julian.

He was cruel sometimes. Cold. But this?

"Was it my husband?" The words tasted like poison. "Did Julian Sterling—"

Greasy Hair laughed. Sharp. Mean.

"Your husband?" He glanced at the others. "Poor bitch doesn't even know."

"Know what?"

"That nobody wants you around, sweetheart." He leaned in. Cigarette breath. "Not your husband. Not his family. **Nobody.**"

My heart stopped.

"That's not—"

"Boss said you're pathetic." The quiet one spoke up. Flat voice. "She said even your own husband doesn't want that thing in your belly. Said you're just **trash** that needs taking out."

"Victoria." The name came out as a whisper. "Victoria Astor sent you."

Greasy Hair shrugged. "Maybe. Maybe not."

"Tell me—"

"Boss paid extra to keep our mouths shut." He pulled out his phone. Showed me the screen for exactly two seconds.

A text. Unknown number.

**[Target leaving villa 4 AM. Pregnant. Make her lose it. Make it look like accident. She stays alive—needs to suffer.]**

Then he pocketed it.

"Could be your husband's bitch. Could be his **mother.** Could be **both** for all you know. Rich people protect each other, don't they?"

He grabbed my chin. Forced me to look at him.

"You're just the problem they're cleaning up."

Tears burned. I blinked them back.

"Please. I have money. I can pay—"

"**No.**" He released me. Nodded to the others. "We're on a schedule. Get it done."

---

I ran.

Made it three steps before hands grabbed me from behind.

I screamed. Thrashed.

Tried to remember what Sophia taught me. Elbow back. Stomp on instep.

But I was **slow.**

Four months pregnant. My center of gravity off. My body already exhausted from running, from fear, from three sleepless nights.

The short one punched me in the kidney.

Pain exploded. I dropped to my knees.

"**No—**"

A boot kicked my shoulder. I fell forward. Hands hit pavement. Skinned palms.

I tried to crawl. Protect my stomach. Get **away—**

Someone grabbed my hair. Yanked me back.

"**Please—**" I choked out. "My baby—"

"That's the point."

Greasy Hair's boot slammed into my side.

**Crack.**

Rib. I felt it break.

Couldn't breathe. Couldn't scream.

Just curled up. Arms around my belly. Around my **baby—**

Another kick. To my lower back.

Another. To my thigh.

Then the short one crouched down. Grabbed my arms. Pinned them above my head.

"Hold her."

The quiet one sat on my legs.

I couldn't move.

Couldn't protect—

"**NO—PLEASE—**"

Greasy Hair's boot pressed against my stomach.

Right where my baby was.

Where I could feel the small bump. Four months. Still tiny but **there.**

"Boss said make it convincing."

He pressed down.

Not kicking. Just **pressing.**

Steady. Methodical.

Like he was putting out a cigarette.

"**STOP—**" I screamed. Thrashed. "**PLEASE GOD STOP—**"

But they didn't stop.

He pressed harder.

Pain. White-hot. Searing.

And something else.

Something **wrong** deep inside. Like something was **tearing.**

"**MY BABY—**"

He lifted his boot.

Then brought it down.

Hard. Once. Twice. Three times. Right on my stomach.

I couldn't scream anymore.

Couldn't breathe.

Could only feel the **agony** ripping through me and the desperate knowledge that my baby—

*No no no no—*

"That should do it." Greasy Hair stepped back. "Finish her up. Make it look good."

The one holding my arms let go.

Grabbed my head instead.

Slammed it against the pavement.

Once.

The world went **white.**

Twice.

Everything started to fade.

Three times.

**Darkness.**

---

**Cold.**

I opened my eyes.

Couldn't remember closing them.

How long—

*What time—*

Dark. Still dark. But lighter somehow. That pre-dawn gray.

Maybe twenty minutes had passed. Maybe more.

I was alone.

They were gone.

My face was pressed against pavement. Sticky. **Wet.**

I tried to move.

**Pain.**

Everywhere.

Ribs. Head. Back.

And my stomach—

*Oh God my stomach—*

I looked down.

Black leggings. Dark hoodie.

But I could see it now in the growing light.

**Blood.**

Spreading from between my legs.

Soaking through fabric.

Pooling on the ground beneath me.

*No.*

*No no no NO—*

I tried to sit up.

Agony tore through me. Ribs screaming. Head spinning.

Managed to prop myself against the wall.

Pressed both hands to my stomach.

Felt the **wetness.** The warmth.

Too much blood.

**Too much.**

"Baby," I whispered. Voice broken. "Baby please—"

But I could feel it.

The cramping. Deep. Violent.

Like my body was trying to **expel** something.

Something that wasn't supposed to come out yet.

Something that was only **four months old.**

*Please God no—*

*Please not this—*

My phone.

Where was my—

I looked around. Blurred vision. Everything spinning.

There. Three feet away. Screen shattered but still glowing.

I crawled.

Every movement was knives. Broken glass. **Fire.**

Reached it. Grabbed it with shaking, bloody hands.

Couldn't see the screen clearly.

Couldn't think straight.

But I managed to unlock it.

Managed to pull up Julian's contact.

Stared at his name.

**Julian Sterling.**

*He said he didn't know if he wanted this baby.*

*He said—*

But those men—they said **she** sent them.

*She.*

Not him.

**Not him.**

I hit call. It rang. Once. Twice.

"**Elena?**" His voice. Frantic. Raw. "Elena, **where are you?** I've been going insane—I've been calling—"

"Julian—" My voice cracked. Barely a whisper. "Help—"

"**Where are you?**" Background noise. Car engine. Like he was already driving. "Tell me **where—**"

"Brooklyn. I don't—I don't know—" Everything was spinning. "There's blood. So much blood. The baby—"

"I'm tracking your phone right now." His voice shook. "I'm coming. Do you hear me? I'm **coming.** Just hold on—"

Another cramp. Worse than before.

I dropped the phone.

Curled onto my side.

Both hands pressed against my stomach. Against the place where life had been.

Where I could feel it **leaving.**

"I'm sorry," I sobbed. To the tiny person I'd already loved so much. "I'm sorry I couldn't—I tried to protect you—I tried—"

But I'd failed.

I heard Julian's voice. Distant. Tinny. Coming from the phone on the ground.

"Elena? **ELENA?** Answer me—**please—**"

But I couldn't.

The cramping was too much.

The blood was too much.

My vision blurred. Darkened.

*I'm losing my baby.*

*Our baby.*

The last thing I felt was my hands.

Still pressed against my stomach.

Still trying to hold on.

Still trying to protect what was already **gone.**

Then nothing. Just **darkness.**