Abandon Deadly Betrayal, Embrace New Life

My fiancé Franklin and I had been together for ten years. I was standing at the altar in the chapel I designed myself, waiting to marry the man who had been my entire world since high school.

But when our wedding planner, Hayley, who was officiating, looked at him and asked, "Franklin Frye, will you marry me?" he didn't laugh. He looked at her with a love I hadn't seen in years and said, "I do."

He left me standing alone at the altar. His excuse? Hayley, the other woman, was supposedly dying of a brain tumor. He then forced me to donate my rare blood type to save her, had my beloved cat put down to appease her cruel whims, and even left me to drown, swimming right past me to pull her from the water first.

The last time he left me to die, I was suffocating on the kitchen floor, going into anaphylactic shock from the peanuts Hayley had deliberately put in my food. He chose to rush her to the hospital for a fake seizure instead of saving my life.

I finally understood. He didn't just betray me; he was willing to kill me for her.

As I lay recovering in the hospital, alone, my father called with an insane proposal: a marriage of convenience to Arden Harvey, a reclusive and powerful tech CEO. My heart was a dead, hollow thing. Love was a lie. So when he asked if a change of groom was in order, I heard myself say, "Yes. I'll marry him."

Chapter 1

Charlotte Wooten and Franklin Frye were supposed to be a love story for the ages. Ten years, a decade of shared memories that stretched from a nervous high school prom date to this very moment, standing on the wedding aisle. Charlotte, a talented architectural designer, had even designed the beautiful chapel herself, a testament to the future she believed they were building. Franklin, a successful real estate developer, was the man who had been her anchor, her other half, since they were teenagers.

Their connection was once the stuff of local legend. Franklin, the popular football player, had only had eyes for the quiet, brilliant Charlotte. He' d followed her to the same college, supported her through grueling architectural exams, and celebrated every one of her successes as if they were his own. He was the man who, after a minor argument in their junior year, had driven three hours in a snowstorm just to leave a single, perfect gardenia-her favorite flower-on her doorstep with a note that read, "My world is cold without you." For ten years, he had been her world.

That perfect world began to crack six months ago. It started subtly. Franklin, who had always been an open book, became more private with his phone. He started working late, citing pressures on a new development project. Charlotte, trusting and preoccupied with their wedding plans, chalked it up to stress. She even felt a pang of guilt for not being more supportive.

The first real tremor came on a Tuesday night. Franklin was in the shower, and his phone, left on the nightstand, buzzed incessantly. It was a reflex, not suspicion, that made her glance at the screen. A string of notifications from an unknown number. Her stomach tightened. She told herself it was nothing, just a work thing. But a cold feeling crept over her.

Later that week, while looking for a document on his laptop, she saw an unlocked folder on his desktop. The name was innocuous: "Project H." Curiosity, a gnawing, ugly thing she hadn't felt in a decade, made her click.

It wasn't blueprints or financial projections. It was a photo album. Hundreds of pictures of a woman Charlotte had never seen before. A woman with bright, vivacious eyes and a smile that seemed to light up every frame. She was laughing on a boat, sipping coffee at a cafe Charlotte and Franklin frequented, even posing playfully in what was clearly Franklin' s office. The most recent photos were dated just days ago.

A separate text file held their conversations. Charlotte' s hands trembled as she read.

"Hayley, you' re like a wildfire. I can' t look away."

"Thinking of you again. Your laugh is stuck in my head."

"She' s... comfortable. Stable. You' re... everything else."

The breath left Charlotte' s lungs. Hayley. The name was unfamiliar, yet it now felt seared into her brain. She scrolled back through Franklin's recent emails. There she was. Hayley Herring. Their wedding planner. The woman Charlotte herself had hired three months prior, charmed by her efficiency and bubbly personality. The woman who had access to every detail of their lives.

Looking back, the signs were all there, screaming at her. Franklin' s sudden interest in the wedding details, attending meetings he' d previously called "a waste of time." His lingering glances at Hayley during their consultations, which Charlotte had mistaken for simple appreciation of her work. The way he' d started using phrases and jokes that weren' t his, phrases she now saw typed out in his messages to Hayley. The love he had once poured entirely into Charlotte was now being siphoned off, redirected to someone else.

That night, she confronted him. The photos were open on the laptop screen when he walked into their bedroom. He saw them, and the color drained from his face.

"Who is she, Franklin?" Charlotte' s voice was barely a whisper.

He was silent for a long, agonizing minute. A minute where ten years of trust crumbled to dust.

"I... I got carried away, Charlotte," he finally said, his voice strained. "It was just a momentary thing."

"A momentary thing? There are hundreds of photos. You told her I was 'stable' while she was 'everything else'!" The words felt like acid in her mouth.

"She' s just so... alive," he stammered, looking away, unable to meet her eyes. "Different. It was a mistake. A stupid, fleeting attraction. It meant nothing."

Charlotte felt a wave of nausea. Her entire body went cold. "So, who do you choose?" she asked, the ultimatum hanging in the air, heavy and final.

He looked at her then, his face a mask of guilt. "You, Charlotte. Of course, it's you. It has always been you."

He swore it was over. He swore it was just a stupid infatuation that had gotten out of hand, that he had never physically cheated, that he was blinded by the novelty. To prove it, he took his phone, and right in front of her, deleted Hayley Herring' s number and all the photos. He held Charlotte, begging for forgiveness, promising his entire future was with her and only her.

Part of her, the logical, self-respecting part, screamed at her to leave. But the other part, the part that had loved this man for a third of her life, was desperate to believe him. She chose to believe him. She buried the pain and the betrayal, telling herself that every long-term relationship has its tests. This was theirs. They would get through it. They would still get married.

A week later, Franklin came to her with a strange proposal.

"Hayley called me," he said, his tone carefully casual. "She apologized for everything. She feels terrible. She' s a good person, Charlotte, she just... made a mistake."

Charlotte said nothing, her heart hardening.

"Our officiant had to cancel due to a family emergency," he continued. "I was thinking... what if we let Hayley do it? It would be a way to show there are no hard feelings. A way for all of us to officially move on, to close that chapter right before we start our new one."

The suggestion was so bizarre, so utterly tone-deaf, that Charlotte was speechless. A cold dread filled her. She wanted to scream, to ask him if he was insane. But looking at his earnest face, his plea for a "clean slate," she felt a crushing weariness. She was so tired of fighting, so tired of the suspicion. Maybe he was right. Maybe this was the only way to truly put it behind them. To let the woman who almost destroyed them be the one to officially bind them together. A final, symbolic victory.

Against every instinct, she agreed. "Fine," she said, her voice flat. "Let her do it."

How could she have been so stupid? The question echoed in her mind now, a mocking, relentless drumbeat.

Here, at the altar, in the chapel she designed, standing before everyone they knew, the full, horrifying truth of her foolishness was laid bare.

Hayley Herring, dressed in a tasteful cream-colored suit, smiled brightly at the crowd, then at Franklin. The music had swelled and faded. The air was thick with anticipation.

"Do you, Franklin Frye," Hayley began, her voice clear and carrying through the silent chapel, "take... Will you marry me?"

A few confused titters rippled through the guests. A simple slip of the tongue. An officiant' s nervous mistake. Charlotte managed a tight, strained smile, waiting for Franklin to laugh it off, to correct her, to turn to Charlotte and say his vows.

But Franklin didn't laugh.

He didn't even look at Charlotte.

His gaze was fixed solely on Hayley. And in his eyes, Charlotte saw not confusion, not amusement, but an ocean of raw, unguarded emotion. A look of such profound longing and adoration that it stole the breath from her lungs. It was the look he used to give her, but a thousand times more intense.

The world seemed to slow down. The confused murmurs of the guests faded into a dull roar. All Charlotte could see was her fiancé, the man she had loved for a decade, looking at another woman as if she were the only person on earth.

Then, he spoke. His voice was firm, clear, and utterly devastating.

"I do."

A collective gasp swept through the chapel. Hayley' s eyes filled with tears, a triumphant, brilliant smile breaking across her face. She reached out, her hand trembling.

"Franklin," she breathed. "Take me away from here. Please, just take me away."

Franklin' s eyes flickered to Charlotte for a single, fleeting second. There was a flicker of something-guilt, maybe pity-but it was gone as quickly as it came, replaced by a look of grim determination. He took Hayley' s outstretched hand, their fingers lacing together as if they were the ones who belonged.

He turned his back on Charlotte. On their ten years. On their future.

"Franklin, no," Charlotte whispered, the words catching in her throat. She reached for him, her fingers brushing the sleeve of his tuxedo. "Franklin, don't you dare do this. Don't you dare walk away."

Her touch made him pause for a fraction of a second. But then he pulled his arm away as if her touch burned him. Without another glance, he led Hayley Herring down the aisle, past their stunned friends and family, and out of the heavy oak doors of the chapel, leaving Charlotte alone at the altar.

The silence that followed was absolute, a crushing weight. The scent of gardenias from her bouquet was suddenly sickening. The beautiful vaulted ceilings she had designed now felt like they were closing in, suffocating her.

Then, a sound broke the stillness. It was a laugh. A broken, hysterical sound that she vaguely recognized as her own. Tears streamed down her face, mingling with the hideous, painful laughter. It was all a joke. Her life, her love, her trust-it was all one spectacular, humiliating joke.

Her mother, her face a storm of fury and horror, rushed onto the altar. "That bastard! That absolute bastard!" she hissed, wrapping her arms around Charlotte' s trembling body.

Her father was right behind her, his expression grim. He looked past Charlotte, his eyes scanning the crowd until they landed on a man sitting quietly in the back row-Arden Harvey, a reclusive and immensely powerful tech CEO, a family acquaintance whose business and Charlotte's father's had some dealings. He was a man of few words but immense influence.

"Arden," Charlotte' s father called out, his voice cutting through the chaos. "The Wooten family owes you a favor. And we have a bride. Perhaps a change of groom is in order."

The suggestion was insane, a desperate, face-saving measure born of pure shock and rage. But to Charlotte, standing in the ruins of her life, it sounded like the only lifeline in a drowning sea. Her heart was a dead, hollow thing in her chest. Love was a lie. Vows were a joke. Nothing mattered anymore.

"Yes," she heard herself say, her voice devoid of all emotion. "I'll marry him."

Her parents breathed a sigh of relief. Her father immediately began making arrangements, his voice low and urgent as he spoke with Arden Harvey's assistant.

Charlotte was numb as her mother led her away, back to the bridal suite. Back to the house she had shared with Franklin, a house that now felt like a mausoleum. She tore off the beautiful lace gown, the symbol of her shattered dreams, and let it fall to the floor in a heap of white silk and humiliation. She began robotically packing a bag, throwing in clothes, her laptop, anything that was solely hers. She had to get out. She had to erase every trace of herself from this place.

Just as she zipped the suitcase, the front door burst open.

It was Franklin.

He looked exhausted, his face pale and strained, but the frantic desperation was gone, replaced by a heavy, somber grief. He rushed toward her, his arms outstretched.

"Charlotte, I am so, so sorry," he said, his voice thick with a pain that, for a horrifying second, she almost believed. "Let me explain."

She flinched away from his touch, her entire body recoiling. "Explain?" she repeated, her voice dripping with ice. "What is there to explain, Franklin? You left me at the altar for our wedding planner. I think that's pretty self-explanatory."

"No, you don't understand," he pleaded, his eyes welling with tears. "Hayley... she' s sick, Charlotte. She' s dying."

Charlotte stared at him, bewildered.

"She has a brain tumor," he choked out, the words tumbling over each other. "Glioblastoma. The doctors... they gave her three months, maybe less. She got the final diagnosis this morning. She panicked. At the wedding, when she said that... it was a cry for help. She told me it was her dying wish, just to hear me say 'I do' to her once. Just once. How could I say no, Charlotte? How could I deny a dying woman her last wish?"

He looked at her, his face a portrait of earnest, heart-wrenching anguish. He was begging her to understand, to see the nobility in his cruel betrayal. He was asking her to postpone their wedding, to let him spend the last few months of Hayley' s life by her side, to grant him this act of "compassion."

Charlotte looked into the eyes of the man she had loved for ten years, and for the first time, she saw the depths of his weakness. He had loved Hayley. She had seen it in his eyes at the altar. This story, this perfectly tragic, cinematic tale of a dying wish, was nothing but a convenient excuse. It was a way for him to have his cake and eat it too-to play the hero for his new love while keeping his devoted fiancée on hold. He was weaving a web of lies not just to trap her, but to convince himself of his own righteousness.

If she had known then, in that moment, the true extent of Hayley' s deception and Franklin' s capacity for cruelty, she would have laughed in his face and walked out forever. She would have seen that his love for Hayley was a bottomless pit he was willing to throw Charlotte into, again and again.

But she didn't know. She only saw the man she loved, weeping, torn between his past and a tragic, fabricated future. And in that moment of weakness, she hesitated.

That hesitation was the beginning of her descent into hell.

Just then, his phone rang, shrill and demanding. Franklin' s head snapped up, his expression instantly changing to one of sheer panic.

"Yes? What is it?" he barked into the phone. "What do you mean she's bleeding out? I'm on my way!"

Franklin's face was a mask of terror. "Hayley's at the hospital. She started hemorrhaging. They need blood. A lot of it."

He hung up and grabbed Charlotte's arm, his grip like a vise. "We have to go. Now."

"What? Why me?" Charlotte tried to wrench her arm free, the sudden violence of his grip shocking her. This wasn't the grieving, apologetic man from a moment ago; this was someone desperate and ruthless.

"Her blood type," he said, dragging her toward the door. "It's rare. AB negative. Same as yours. The hospital's blood bank is low. You're the only one who can donate in time. You have to save her, Charlotte."

The sheer audacity of his demand was staggering. He wanted her to save the woman who had just destroyed her life. He was not asking; he was commanding.

"No," Charlotte said, digging her heels in. "Let go of me, Franklin. I'm not going anywhere."

"Don't be selfish!" he roared, his face contorted with fury. "This is a person's life we're talking about! Whatever happened between us, you can't let her die!"

He was dragging her out of the house now, his fingers digging painfully into her skin. The heavy wedding ring on his finger, the one that was supposed to symbolize his eternal love for her, pressed into her flesh.

"She's a dying woman, Charlotte! Are you so heartless that you'd watch someone die out of spite?" he yelled as he half-shoved, half-pulled her into his car.

The words were a brutal form of moral blackmail. He was twisting her own compassion into a weapon against her. In the chaotic swirl of pain and confusion, a small, weary part of her conceded. A life was a life. Even Hayley's.

The hospital was a blur of fluorescent lights and the antiseptic smell of fear. Franklin didn't let go of her arm for a second, pulling her through the corridors until they reached the transfusion center.

"She needs blood, now!" he yelled at a startled nurse. "Her name is Hayley Herring. This is the donor."

A nurse quickly prepped Charlotte's arm. As she sat in the cold chair, Charlotte's mind was reeling. She was about to give her own blood, her life force, to the woman who had stolen her fiancé and humiliated her in front of everyone she knew. The absurdity was so profound it bordered on madness.

She tried to pull her arm back one last time. "Franklin, I can't do this."

"You will," he said, his voice low and menacing. He moved behind her chair, placing his hands firmly on her shoulders, pinning her in place. "Do it," he ordered the nurse.

The needle was a cold, sharp sting. Charlotte flinched, a tear of pure, undiluted humiliation slipping down her cheek. She watched, numb, as her dark red blood flowed through the clear tube, leaving her body to go save her rival. Franklin's hands never left her shoulders, a heavy, proprietary weight that felt more like a cage than a comfort.

The world started to swim as the bag filled. 450 milliliters. A standard donation, but after the emotional devastation of the day, her body felt depleted, hollowed out. Black spots danced in front of her eyes.

"It's done," the nurse said, taping a cotton ball to her arm.

The second the needle was out, Franklin released her. "Thank God," he breathed, his relief palpable. Just then, a doctor burst out of a nearby operating room.

"Mr. Frye! We've stabilized her, but she's asking for you."

Franklin didn't hesitate. He didn't even look back at Charlotte. He sprinted toward the operating room, his focus entirely on Hayley.

As he ran, Charlotte tried to stand. Her legs buckled beneath her. The world tilted sideways, and she collapsed, her head cracking hard against the corner of a metal medical supply cart.

The cart swayed, and a heavy tray of stainless-steel instruments cascaded down, striking her on the head and shoulders. A sharp, blinding pain erupted behind her eyes, and then, everything went black.

The last thing she saw was Franklin's back as he disappeared through the operating room doors, a final, definitive act of abandonment.

...

When Charlotte woke up, the first thing she registered was the dull, throbbing ache in her head. She was in a private hospital room. Franklin was sitting in a chair by her bed, his head in his hands. He looked up when she stirred, his eyes red-rimmed and filled with a weary sort of guilt.

"Charlotte, you're awake," he said, his voice raspy. "I'm so sorry. I didn't see you fall. I was so worried about Hayley..."

She just stared at him, her eyes empty. The apology felt like a hollow echo in the sterile room. Sorry he didn't see her get hurt, not sorry for being the cause of it.

"Don't talk," she said, her voice a dry rasp. Her throat was sore.

"I was so stupid and rough with you," he continued, ignoring her. He reached out to take her hand, but she pulled it away. "I promise, Charlotte. I will never, ever treat you like that again. Once Hayley is... gone... everything will go back to the way it was. You and me. I promise."

A cold, bitter laugh threatened to bubble up from her chest. Back to the way it was? He had shattered their world and was now promising to glue the pieces back together with empty words. He was so consumed with his role as Hayley's noble savior that he couldn't see the wreckage he'd left in his wake.

He tried to take care of her. He brought her meals, plumped her pillows, and spoke to her in a soft, placating tone. But his attention was fractured. His phone buzzed constantly with updates from Hayley's room. He would be in the middle of feeding Charlotte a spoonful of soup, then his eyes would drift to the screen, his expression softening with a tenderness that was no longer for her.

One afternoon, while trying to help her sit up, his phone rang. He answered it, his focus immediately shifting. "Is she awake? Is she asking for anything?"

Distracted, he let go of Charlotte's arm too soon. She slid awkwardly, her injured shoulder wrenching as it hit the bed rail. A sharp cry of pain escaped her lips.

Franklin ended the call abruptly, his face a mess of guilt and frustration. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, Char."

"Get out," she said, her voice dangerously quiet. "Just get out, Franklin. Go be with her. You're no use to me here."

"Charlotte, I can make it up to you," he pleaded, his voice cracking. "I'll spend the rest of my life making it up to you."

But his promises were like ash in her mouth. She closed her eyes, shutting him out. There was nothing left to say. He was a stranger now, a man whose heart beat for someone else. Their future, the one she had so carefully designed, had been demolished, and he was standing in the rubble, asking her to admire the view.

Franklin finally left, his footsteps echoing his reluctance, but the pull of Hayley' s bedside was stronger than any guilt he felt toward Charlotte. He hired a private nurse and made sure Charlotte' s every material need was met, a paltry substitute for his presence and a clear signal of his priorities.

The day Charlotte was discharged, she returned to the house they had built together. It felt alien, cold. The air was thick with the ghost of their dead relationship. Without a word to the staff, she began to purge her life of him. She took down their photos, packing them into a box she labeled "Mistakes." She threw out the gardenia-scented candles he always bought her. She deleted his number from her phone, though she knew it by heart. Each discarded item was a small, satisfying severance.

She was in the middle of bagging up the collection of movie stubs they' d saved since their first date when the front door opened. Franklin was back. And he wasn't alone.

Hayley Herring was leaning against him, looking pale and fragile. She wore a delicate silk robe, and her hair was artfully tousled. When she saw Charlotte surrounded by boxes and trash bags, her eyes, far from being weak or sickly, held a spark of undisguised triumph.

"What are you doing?" Franklin asked, his brow furrowed in confusion as he looked at the dismantled remnants of their life together.

"Cleaning," Charlotte replied, her voice flat. "Getting rid of things I don't need anymore."

Franklin didn't press the issue, his attention already shifting back to the woman clinging to his arm. "Hayley needs a quiet place to recover," he announced, not asked. "The doctors said stress is the worst thing for her condition. I'm having her stay here."

He led Hayley to the sofa, settling her against the cushions as if she were made of spun glass. Hayley looked up at Charlotte, her expression a perfect blend of apology and helplessness, but her eyes were sharp and challenging. It was a declaration of ownership. This was her house now. Her man.

Charlotte felt nothing. The rage and pain had burned out, leaving behind a frozen calm. "Fine," she said, turning back to her boxes. "It's your house."

Franklin seemed relieved by her lack of protest. "Thank you, Char. I knew you'd understand." He then turned to the housekeeper. "Maria, please prepare the guest room downstairs for Ms. Herring. Make it comfortable."

Charlotte didn' t watch them. She calmly continued her work, moving through the house like a ghost, systematically erasing her own existence from its walls. The next few days were a special kind of torture. She became an invisible spectator in her own home, watching the man she was supposed to have married dote on another woman.

He peeled fruit for Hayley, making sure to cut it into small, manageable pieces. He read to her for hours, his voice a low, soothing murmur that used to be reserved for Charlotte' s sleepless nights. He monitored her medication, fussed over her meals, and held her when she feigned a moment of weakness. The tenderness that had once been exclusively hers was now on public display, lavished on her replacement. It was a slow, deliberate poisoning of every good memory they had ever shared.

As she packed, she found a small, embroidered pillow. "F + C Forever." A gift from her grandmother. She held it for a moment, then tossed it into a trash bag without a second thought. Forever had lasted ten years.

Her only solace was Marmalade, the fluffy orange cat Franklin had given her for her birthday five years ago. He was her shadow, a warm, purring presence in the cold, empty house. When she cried, he would butt his head against her hand. When she couldn't sleep, he would curl up on her chest, a furry anchor in the storm.

One afternoon, a package arrived. It was Marmalade, finally back from the vet after a routine dental cleaning. Seeing his familiar face, hearing his happy meow, was the first genuine warmth Charlotte had felt in weeks. She scooped him into her arms, burying her face in his soft fur. For a moment, she felt a flicker of the woman she used to be.

Walking down the hallway with Marmalade tucked in her arms, she ran into Hayley, who was on her way to the kitchen. Hayley' s eyes immediately fixed on the cat.

"Oh, what a cute little thing," Hayley cooed, her voice sickly sweet. "Can I hold him?"

"No," Charlotte said curtly, holding Marmalade tighter. "He doesn't like strangers."

A flicker of annoyance crossed Hayley's face before being replaced by a pout. "Oh, please? I'm so lonely and sad. A little fluffball would cheer me right up." She reached out her hands.

Charlotte took a step back. "I said no."

Hayley's pout turned into a sneer. She lunged forward, trying to grab the cat from Charlotte's arms. Marmalade, startled and scared, hissed and swiped a paw, catching Hayley's hand with his claws. It was a superficial scratch, barely breaking the skin.

"Ow!" Hayley shrieked, stumbling back as if she'd been shot. She clutched her hand, her face crumpling into a mask of pain and terror.

Franklin came running at the sound of her cry. "What happened? Hayley, are you okay?"

"The cat!" Hayley sobbed, holding up her hand, where a tiny pinprick of blood was welling up. "It attacked me! It just lunged at me for no reason!"

"That's a lie!" Charlotte exclaimed. "You tried to grab him!"

Franklin's gaze hardened as he looked from Hayley' s tear-streaked face to Charlotte's defiant one. His eyes settled on the tiny scratch on Hayley's hand.

"She's sick, Charlotte," he said, his voice dangerously low. "Her immune system is compromised. Any infection could be fatal." He gently took Hayley' s hand, examining the minuscule wound as if it were a mortal injury. "We can't have a vicious animal in this house."

"He's not vicious! She provoked him!" Charlotte pleaded, her heart sinking.

Hayley let out another sob. "I just wanted to pet him, Franklin. I thought... I thought maybe he could be my friend since I don't have much time left." She looked at the cat with feigned terror. "I'm scared of him now."

That was all it took.

"It's just a cat, Charlotte," Franklin said, his tone dismissive and cold. "Hayley's well-being is more important. She wants the cat. It will be her companion for the time she has left." He reached over and, before Charlotte could react, snatched Marmalade from her arms.

"No!" Charlotte screamed, lunging for him.

He handed the frightened, squirming cat to a triumphant Hayley. "There, there, little guy," Hayley cooed, her voice dripping with faux sweetness as she stroked his fur.

"Give him back to me, Franklin! He's mine!" Charlotte cried, her voice breaking.

"Don't be childish," Franklin snapped, stepping between her and Hayley. "It's for the best. Fulfilling one of her last wishes is the least we can do."

He turned and began to lead Hayley away, who was now hugging Marmalade tightly, a cruel, victorious smirk on her face that only Charlotte could see. The cat struggled in her grip, letting out a distressed meow.

Charlotte felt a cold dread wash over her. She couldn't let this happen. She waited until Franklin was in the shower that evening. The house was quiet. She crept to Hayley's room, her heart pounding. She had to get her cat back.

The door was slightly ajar. She peered inside, and what she saw made her blood run cold.