When Ryan stabbed me five times, my white dress was quickly soaked with crimson blood. He pressed the bloodied knife against my vulnerable neck. 

“Call David,” he said. His hand trembled with rage. 

Pale-faced, I hesitated briefly before dialing, “I’ve been taken by Ryan. He’s stabbed me several times, up on our neighborhood rooftop. Come rescue me quickly.” My voice quivered. 

A moment of silence followed, then a response devoid of concern—cold and dismissive: “Really? What timing. Ashley falls apart and tries to kill herself, and now you’re being stabbed,” David said. His tone was utterly detached. 

“How could Ryan possibly know our new address? I was so careful with my confidential work,” he didn’t believe me. 

“Next time, try to come up with a more believable lie before your little performance, okay?” he said. The sarcasm dripped from his words. 

The icy words crackled through the phone. Ryan’s dark eyes blazed with intense hatred, his grip tightening. A fresh crimson line appeared on my neck. 

Terrified but fighting to appear calm, I pleaded, “I’m not trying to stop you from saving Ashley. If you don’t believe me, just send two of your people to check—” My breath caught in my throat. 

“Enough!” David cut me off impatiently. “Stop acting. I don’t have time for this. I’m going to save Ashley,” he said. His voice was sharp and dismissive. 

He turned to the operator, “Mark the ‘rooftop stabbing’ as a false report. Don’t process any calls about this,” he instructed. His command was cold and final. 

The phone went dead. Silence crashed around me. 

Ryan’s hatred intensified. A suffocating despair washed over me. 

I never imagined David could be so ruthless. 

In my previous life, when Ryan—harboring resentment toward David—first kidnapped me, he had also started by stabbing me five times, “I’ll make you pay,” he muttered. His eyes gleamed with vengeance. 

Terrified of losing my child, I had made countless phone calls begging David to come and save me, “Please, you have to help me,” I sobbed. My voice broke with desperation. 

Eventually, David gave in to my pleas and rushed to my rescue, “I’m coming,” he said. His tone was distant. 

When Ashley learned about this, she suddenly broke down and set fire to her rental apartment, burning herself alive, “I can’t go on,” she whispered. The flames engulfed her. 

That night, sensing something was off, I asked David if he was angry, “Are you mad at me?” I said. My hand trembled.