Too Late For Your Second Chance

My fiancé, Bentley Wise, heir to a New York real estate empire, promised we'd marry in 99 days. But after he saved a socialite, Frida Tanner, from a landslide, he spent those days repaying her "kindness," abandoning me at every turn.

When Frida, driving distracted, killed my mother in a car crash, Bentley defended her at the funeral. "It was an accident, Adelle. You're causing a scene."

He shielded my mother's killer, pushed me to the ground, and chose her over our ten years of love.

Lying on the floor of the chapel, I watched him comfort the woman who destroyed my life. I knew then that our love was dead.

I exposed their crimes online and fled to Paris to start over.

But just as I found new love and a new life, Bentley appeared, begging for a second chance. "I'm so sorry, Adelle. Please, just come back to me."

I refused, telling him I was with someone else. That night, Frida's mother, seeking revenge, had me kidnapped and left for dead.

Bentley sacrificed himself to save me, taking the blows meant for me. As he lay bleeding, he pleaded, "Give me another chance. I'll do anything."

I looked at the man who had destroyed me, then saved me, and said, "I have a new life now, Bentley. A life you have no part in."

Chapter 1

My wedding dress, a cascade of ivory silk, hung in my small apartment, a beacon of a future that had burned brighter than any star for ten long years. Bentley Wise, the heir to a New York real estate empire, was supposed to be my forever. I, Adelle Molina, a working-class artist, had believed in our love, believed it could conquer anything.

Every morning, I traced the numbers on the countdown calendar he' d given me, the one promising our wedding in 99 days. Each passing day was a step closer to the dream, a dream that now felt like a cruel joke.

It all started on a hiking trip.

The sun had been warm on my face as Bentley pulled me up the winding path. We were laughing, hand in hand, the city a distant hum beneath us. Then the earth itself screamed. The ground beneath our feet ripped open, a torrent of mud and rock cascading down the slope. Fear seized my throat, but Bentley, my Bentley, was there. He strong-armed me, pushing me clear of a falling tree.

Then I saw her. Frida Tanner, a socialite from a family as powerful as Bentley' s, caught in the path of the slide. Her face was a mask of terror. Without hesitation, Bentley lunged, pulling her to safety just as the ground gave way where she had stood. He saved us both. He was my hero.

Later, in the sterile waiting room of the emergency clinic, Frida clutched Bentley's hand, her voice a theatrical whisper. "You saved my life, Bentley. I owe you everything." Her eyes, however, flickered to me, a glint of something I couldn' t quite decipher. It sent a chill down my spine.

Bentley' s father, a man whose presence could curdle milk, had called him the next day. I heard snippets of the conversation, sharp and cold. "The Tanner family is crucial to our upcoming city project, son. Frida's well-being is paramount. A 'repayment of kindness' is expected." It wasn't a request; it was an order.

Bentley had returned to me, his face drawn. He held out the small, elegant countdown calendar. "Ninety-nine days, Adelle," he said, his voice softer than usual. "Ninety-nine days to repay Frida, to ensure our families' alliance. Then, we get married. I promise." His eyes pleaded with me to understand. I wanted to believe him. I needed to believe him.

I took the calendar, its polished surface cool against my fingertips. I nodded, a tight smile on my face. "Okay," I whispered, the word tasting like ash. "Ninety-nine days." I told myself it was a small price to pay for our future. I told myself it would pass quickly.

I was so wrong.

Those ninety-nine days became a slow-motion nightmare. Bentley was consumed by his "repayment." Dinners we' d planned for months were canceled with a curt text message. My calls went unanswered. When he did call, it was often to say he was with Frida, helping her redecorate her penthouse, accompanying her to some charity gala. Each mention of her name felt like a tiny cut.

The worst came after my appendectomy. The surgery had been more complicated than expected, leaving me weak and in pain. I woke up alone in the hospital room, a vase of generic flowers my only companion. I tried to call Bentley. No answer. I called again. Still nothing. My phone finally died in my trembling hand. I later learned he had been at a 'recovery party' for Frida, who had apparently suffered immense emotional trauma from the landslide. My own physical pain felt secondary to the ache of abandonment. The nurse, a kind woman named Maria, held my hand and told me I was strong. I just felt broken.

Then came the kidnapping. Bentley's father's business rivals, a desperate bunch, had mistaken me for Frida. They had taken me from my small studio, rough hands over my mouth, the scent of stale cigarettes and fear filling my nostrils. I was dragged into an abandoned warehouse, the cold concrete floor biting into my skin. They demanded information I didn't have, threatening me with a rusty knife. I fought, I screamed, I begged. I even called Bentley' s name, a desperate plea into the void. The knife slipped, a searing pain across my arm. I thought I was going to die. When the police finally stormed in, it wasn't Bentley who found me, but a patrol officer. His face was grim. Bentley had been unreachable, comforting Frida over a bad dream she'd had.

I lay in the hospital bed again, a bandage wrapped around my bleeding arm, a new scar etched into my skin, both visible and invisible. He visited me for an hour, his eyes distant, his apologies hollow words that meant nothing. He said he was sorry, that Frida had needed him. He said I was safe now. But I wasn't. I was dying inside.

Then, my mother. My kind, hardworking mother, whose food truck was a beacon of warmth and good food in our neighborhood. She was rushing home from a long shift, tired but happy, planning to make my favorite soup. Frida, meanwhile, had been speeding through a residential area, late for a fitting. She had been distracted, on her phone, arguing with a friend. She ran a red light.

My mother's truck, bright yellow with its hand-painted daisies, was T-boned. The impact was horrific.

The hospital corridors smelled of antiseptic and despair. The doctor's words blurred into a monotone hum. "We did everything we could, Adelle. I'm so sorry." My mother, my vibrant, loving mother, was gone. Just like that.

A kind-faced nurse, noticing my blank stare, had gently told me, "The other driver, Ms. Tanner, she's okay. A few minor bruises. She was on her phone, they said. Ran the light." The words hit me like a physical blow. Frida. It was Frida. Again.

I tried to call Bentley. My fingers fumbled, keying in his number, desperate for comfort, for anger, for something. It rang and rang, then went straight to voicemail. Again. Always voicemail. I threw the phone across the room, watching it shatter against the sterile white wall. A guttural cry ripped from my throat, raw and uncontrolled. My mother was gone because of her, because of him.

The funeral was a blur of black suits and whispered condolences. I moved through it like a ghost, my heart a hollow space in my chest. Then, I saw them. Bentley, impeccably dressed, a somber expression on his face. And beside him, Frida, pale and fragile, clinging to his arm. She wore a delicate black veil, as if she were the grieving one. My vision swam with red.

My feet moved on their own, carrying me towards them. "You!" I shrieked, my voice cracking, raw with grief and rage. I lunged at Frida, my hands reaching, wanting to tear at her, to make her feel an ounce of the pain she had inflicted. "You killed her! You killed my mother!"

Bentley reacted instantly. He caught my wrists, his grip like iron. "Adelle! Stop this! This is a funeral!" His eyes, usually so soft, were hard and accusing. He pushed me back, away from Frida, who was now cowering behind him, making soft, whimpering sounds.

"She killed Mama!" I sobbed, struggling against his hold, my eyes burning into his. "She was on her phone! She ran the light!"

Bentley' s face hardened further. "It was an accident, Adelle. A tragic accident. Everyone knows Frida would never intentionally hurt anyone." He shielded Frida with his body, his words a cold, cruel dismissal of my agony. "You're clearly not thinking straight. You're causing a scene. You need to calm down."

My breath hitched. Calm down? My mother was dead, and he was defending the woman who killed her. The man I loved for ten years, the man who was supposed to marry me in a few short days, was protecting her. It was then, standing over my mother' s casket, feeling the cold disdain in Bentley' s eyes, that something inside me shattered irrevocably.

No. This wasn' t an accident. This was the consequence of his choices, his neglect, his unwavering loyalty to a manipulative socialite. The love I had painstakingly built, brick by brick, over a decade, crumbled into dust.

"You fool," I whispered, the words barely audible. "She told me. She told me she hated me, Adelle. She admitted she was distracted. She laughed about it. And you... you knew. You knew what she was capable of."

His forehead creased in confusion, a flicker of doubt in his eyes. "What are you talking about? Frida would never-"

"You're defending her?" My voice rose, raw and ragged. "After everything? After my surgery, after I was stabbed, after my mother was killed because of her negligence? And you still defend her?" I felt a terrifying clarity wash over me. "No, Bentley. This isn't an accident. This is what you allowed to happen."

He took a step back, his face pale. "Adelle, you're not making sense. This isn't the time or place for this. You're unhinged." He reached out, not to comfort me, but to try and silence me. He thought I was hysterical. He thought I was weak.

"Unhinged?" I laughed, a harsh, broken sound that echoed in the quiet chapel. "You built this, Bentley. You stood by and watched as she tore my life apart. You pushed me away, piece by piece, until there was nothing left." My heart felt like it was being ripped from my chest, but this time, it wasn't just pain. It was defiance. "I'll make sure justice is served, Bentley. Legally. For my mother."

His eyes narrowed, a glint of the ruthless businessman I sometimes saw in his father. "You think you can fight my family, Adelle? You think you have a chance against the Tanner family? You have nothing." He scoffed, a sneer twisting his lips. "You're a working-class artist. You have no idea how this world works." He raised his hand, not to strike, but to emphasize his point, and shoved me back.

I stumbled, my weak legs giving way, sending me crashing to the polished floor. The sharp impact of my head against the marble sent stars dancing behind my eyes. A jolt of pain shot through me, but it was nothing compared to the agony in my soul. I stared up at him, my vision blurred by unshed tears, and saw the man I loved, standing over me, protecting my mother's killer.

He had promised my mother, years ago, when we first started dating, that he would always take care of me. That he would never let anything happen to me. Now, he was the one hurting me. He was the one letting everything happen.

A strange, bitter laugh bubbled up from deep within me. It wasn't a laugh of joy, but of complete, utter despair. A laugh that acknowledged the cruel, twisted irony of it all. "You think I'm weak, Bentley?" I croaked, pushing myself up despite the throbbing in my head. "You think I can't fight?"

He looked at me with a condescending pity, mistaking my broken laughter for resignation. "Adelle, please. Let's not make this worse. You're upset. We can talk about this later, when you're thinking clearly. Just go home." He even offered me a hand, a gesture that felt like a final insult.

I recoiled as if burned. "Go home?" My voice was barely a whisper, but it carried the weight of a decade of shattered dreams. "There is no 'home' with you, Bentley. Not anymore. I'm done. We're done."

Just then, Frida whimpered, clutching Bentley's arm tighter. "Bentley, I'm scared. She's crazy."

Bentley immediately turned his full attention to her, his hand gently stroking her hair. "It's okay, angel. I'm here. She won't hurt you." He pulled her close, murmuring reassurances. His back was to me, a solid wall between us, a stark symbol of his priorities. He held her like she was the most precious thing in the world, while I lay broken on the floor.

Watching him comfort her, my mother a few feet away in her coffin, the reality hit me with the force of a tidal wave. He had chosen. He had always chosen her. The Parisian scholarship I'd secretly applied for, the one I'd dismissed as a pipe dream, suddenly felt like my only escape. My only salvation. My mother's memory, her vibrant spirit, demanded more than quiet suffering. It demanded justice. And I would get it.

I pushed myself up, my legs trembling, but my resolve as strong as steel. "You'll regret this, Bentley Wise," I vowed to his retreating back, my voice barely a whisper filled with a promise of retribution. "You'll regret this more than anything." I turned, ignoring the stares, ignoring the pain, and walked away from the funeral, away from Bentley, away from ten years of my life. My new life began now. And I would make sure he knew exactly what he lost.