Never Looking Back: Life After Heartbreak

I had always thought that cheating was a high-input thing with low output, but some people just liked it, like my husband.

I first found out he was cheating on me from a photo my best friend sent me.

1

I received a photo of my husband cheating on me.

In the photo, he had his arm around a woman.

The photo was taken by my friend Vivian Barber, who followed my husband and took it secretly.

"I heard that he is taking the mistress to Quin Island." Vivian egged me out, "Rannie, let's catch them in the act!"

My husband Peter Norris was the CEO of a construction company. He was a real tycoon with over a hundred million dollars, but he was also a loyal reader of mine, familiar with my works and characters.

We met at one of my book signing events and then fell in love.

He respected me and agreed to be child-free. We got engaged and got married on May 1st, and we were going to have a grand wedding banquet on Thanksgiving Day.

I lost my mind and took a boat to Quin Island with Vivian.

The boatman had dark skin and jokingly called himself Black Skin. His real name was Carter Blake. I saw his name on Vivian’s phone when she called him to order the boat.

I was not in the mood for jokes, looking at the sea, feeling distressed.

The boat was a small yacht with only the three of us. Vivian was crazy about taking selfies and then spending a long time editing the photos.

She was in a good mood and occasionally wanted to pictures with me, but I had no interest.

My husband had no signs of cheating before. He could tell me if he didn’t love me anymore. We were all adults and I wouldn’t act like a little girl that would make a scene.

I couldn’t accept that my husband returned my love for him in this way.

"You don't seem to feel sorry for me at all," I said, "You are heartless."

Vivian tidied up her messy hair, deliberately pulled down her neckline, and started to take selfies again. Then she said to me while editing the photos, "So I live carefree. I advise you not to get married. With your status and looks, you can date whatever men you like. Why did you have to marry a tycoon?"

Black laughed.

I found that Black had been staring at me.

I had fair skin and delicate features. Many men treated me as their dream lover.

Fortunately, I had Vivian with me. After floating on the turbulent sea for an hour, we finally arrived in Quin Island.

Black took us to a place that had many ancient buildings.

After Vivian got off the boat, she leaned close to my ear and said, "I'll go to the bathroom, and Black will take you to find a place to stay. I'll find you later."

Without waiting for my response, Vivian quickly left.

Although Black looked fierce, he was extremely polite: "Ms. Granger, please follow me."

"Do you know my name?" I was a little nervous.

"You are the famous beauty writer Rannie Granger. Of course, I know you. I even have your Supermodel under my pillow."

Supermodel was my recent book, which told the story of an unknown model Anne Roland who successfully became the world's top model with her unparalleled appearance and extraordinary emotional intelligence.

The character Anne Roland was based on myself.

The room Black took me to was dark and a bit damp, with a salty smell of sea breeze and a lingering ambiguous atmosphere left by the former guests.

Black walked to the door and said, "Have a good rest."

I smiled and sent a voice message to Vivian, "Where are you? I'm in room 109."

I didn't receive a reply for a long time and I was a little anxious. I made a video call, but no one answered. I called again and it said Vivian’s phone was turned off.

Suddenly, I felt that something was wrong, so I immediately grabbed my bag and prepared to find Vivian.

But the door was locked.

Everything went black before my eyes.

2

I was illegally detained.

No one came to open the door and I couldn’t break it open even after smashing it. I was able to call the police, but all I could hear was a busy tone until my damn phone didn’t work anymore.

I had exhausted all my strength and collapsed on the ground, sweat soaking through my backless Prada skirt. The room had no windows. There was nothing here but a wooden bed with cheap white sheets and a wooden bench that I had smashed.

After my phone ran out of battery, I was in a huge panic until the door opened again.

Black, who changed into a suit, came in. I immediately pounced on him, only to be pushed back onto the bed.

Behind him was a man wearing frameless glasses. He had a perfectly groomed hairstyle and was well-dressed. This man glanced at me.

"She’s really Rannie. Great."

The man only said that. He knew me. I was somewhat famous in New York, but now my fame would make these men become excited.

The man with frameless glasses left.

Black waved his hand and several people came into the room.

They take me to a floor cage and throw me in, along with a couple of other women. Then they filled the cage with seawater and a scruffy old man brushed over us with a mop.

As he brushed, he shouted at us, "Wife, wife."

It turned out he was a fool.

The whole process took just over half an hour.

Black nodded in satisfaction and then ordered the people around him, "Take them to the Beauty Pavilion."

The Beauty Pavilion was also a suite that was extravagantly decorated. It had a crystal chandelier hanging from the ceiling and ink marble on the floor.

There were three king-sized beds in the room, with women lying on them who had perfect figures.

They looked dull and had no expressions, like puppets lying on the bed.

Finally, someone came in. It was the man wearing glasses that I had met before. He was dressed in top-of-the-line Canali custom-made menswear from Italy as if he were on a date with a woman of equal status.

What made me feel strange was that he was holding a bright pink rose of the French Perle Prize in his hand.

He put the rose in front of me and made a very elegant gentleman's gesture, then pounced on me.

3

In the following days, I truly experienced what it felt like to be a puppet.

Three large beds were separated by two beautiful hollow gold screens, in the style of the Victorian era. The screens were the barriers between us.

The woman on the next bed was called Cici Swift. She said that this was a bomb shelter left over from the early days, which had been redecorated to look like what it was now.

In addition to this Beauty Pavilion, there were many other rooms outside, each with a different decoration style. They were in the style of Chinese, European, and Mediterranean style, and even classrooms, hospitals, and rural courtyards.

I asked, "What if someone gets sick?"

She said, "If they can be cured, the doctors will come to treat them. Otherwise, they would be taken away by a man with Bob. I don’t know what he will do with them."

I guessed they might have been killed.

The woman on the other bed didn’t move or speak.