My Husband Hurt Me for His Lover, But My 4-Year-Old Daughter Saved My Life

Through the peephole, I saw four men in black suits, tall and expressionless. They flanked an older man in a gray suit, straight-backed and commanding.

He was leaning on a cane of dark wood with a silver head. His white hair glistened under the hall light; his eyes were sharp and absolute.

“Where’s Sophia’s apartment?” He asked the stunned landlady.

She pointed at our door, trembling. “Sophia, it’s Grandpa. Open up.” He said.

The moment I heard his voice, I flung the door wide and collapsed into his arms. “Grandpa,” I said.

He held me tightly. “It’s over now, child. No one will ever harm you again.” He said.

Outside, a motorcycle screeched to a halt. Damon had returned, his face blanching at the sight of luxury sedans and men in suits.

“What’s going on here? Who are you people?” He shouted.

Then he turned on me. “Sophia, who’s this old man?” He shouted.

Grandpa’s calm stare froze him in place. “So you’re Damon,” He said evenly.

“The one who hurt my granddaughter.” He said.

“So what? You can’t just barge into my home!” Damon spat back.

“Who I am doesn’t matter,” Grandpa replied, his voice deep as thunder.

“What matters is what you did.” He replied.

His gaze fell to my swollen leg, and one of the men stepped forward. “Damon Garrett, you’re under arrest for domestic violence. Come with us.” The man said.

“What? That’s absurd!” Damon protested, panic rising.

“The proof is right here,” Grandpa said quietly.

“The bruises on her body and the call from my great-granddaughter.” He said.

Two men seized Damon as he thrashed helplessly. “Sophia, say something! Do you really want me in jail?” He thrashed.

I looked at him with nothing but cold contempt. Grandpa gestured to another guard, who handed the landlady a thick envelope.

“This will cover his debts and your silence. You’ve seen nothing. Understood?” Grandpa said.

She nodded frantically. Within moments, everything was settled.

Grandpa turned to me, his tone softening again. “Come, little one. Let’s go home.” He said.

He carried Ila in his arms, and she nestled against his chest, finally safe. One guard helped me to the car, where a woman in a white coat waited.

“Our family doctor,” Grandpa explained as the car rolled away, leaving the nightmare behind.

The lights of New York shimmered outside the window, but inside me, a different storm was breaking. It was one that would lead eventually to truth, family, and the safety I had long stopped believing in.

The doctor treated my injuries. Thankfully, my leg wasn’t broken.

Ila slept soundly in Grandpa’s arms, exhaustion etched across her small face. Watching her, gratitude and pain mingled in my heart.

Without her bravery, we might not have survived. I studied Grandpa, Alexander Monroe, the man who had once been only a distant figure in my childhood.

Memories surfaced of my adoptive parents, Franklin and Martha Patterson, modest but loving civil servants. I remembered their dear friend Mr. Alexander, the powerful CEO who had paid for my schooling and treated me as the granddaughter he never had.

When my parents died in a car accident during my senior year, it was he who handled everything, comforting me through the loss. “You’re not alone,” He’d said.

“From now on, I’m your family.” He had said.

He found me work in one of his company’s branches, and slowly I began to heal. Until Damon entered my life: charming, ambitious, and persuasive.

Damon had seemed like salvation. I ignored Grandpa’s quiet warning that his eyes lacked honesty.

A year later, we married. Grandpa gave us a condo and generous funds as a wedding gift, though Damon soon sold them off under the pretext of independence.