Chapter 36

Chapter 36:

Bobby stood frozen as Wendy’s hand connected with his cheek in a sharp, stinging slap. He had no time to brace himself, and his head snapped to the side, jolting him from his bewilderment. Now fully alert, he realized this was no illusion—Wendy and his angel truly stood before him.

Wendy’s eyes blazed with anger, the redness around her irises betraying her fury. Gritting her teeth, she hissed, “If you have an issue, take it up with me—leave my friend out of this.”

Bobby’s eyebrows shot up. “She’s your friend?”

“This is none of your concern,” Wendy snapped, jabbing a finger at him. “And don’t you dare pick on her, or else…” Her threat trailed off, hanging ominously in the air. With that, she grabbed Fernanda’s arm and pulled her away.

Bobby made no move to follow. He stood there as the reality of the slap settled in, the sting a brutal wake-up call. His angel’s eyes had seen it all.

“Fuck!” he exploded after a tense moment, slamming his fist into the nearby wall.

A few paces ahead, Wendy halted and bowed her head, shoulders slumping. Strands of hair fell around her face, hiding whatever emotions churned beneath.

“Thanks for stepping in back there,” Wendy said softly. “You can head home now.”

“What’s your plan?” Fernanda asked, concern lacing her tone.

“I’m heading to my place too,” Wendy replied with a resigned sigh. “Looks like work is off the table today.”

“Let me give you a ride,” Fernanda offered gently.

Wendy glanced up, her eyes still red from earlier emotions. Fernanda met her gaze, sincere concern in her expression, offering a measure of solace.

Find the latest stories gⱯlnσv𝑒ls․com

After a brief pause, Wendy managed a small, grateful smile. “Okay.”

Wendy’s apartment sat in an old residential district, just a ten-minute ride from the bar on Fernanda’s motorcycle. They entered a dim corridor lit by flickering lights that danced across advertisements plastered on the walls. On the fifth floor, Wendy’s two-bedroom unit was modest and minimalist, its sparse furnishings lending an air of quiet severity.

“I only moved in a few days ago,” Wendy explained, motioning for Fernanda to take a seat on the sofa. She opened the fridge and peered inside. “What would you like to drink?”

Fernanda pointed to the bottles of mineral water. Wendy handed her one, and Fernanda twisted off the cap.

“I know him,” Fernanda said, lifting the bottle. “He’s Bobby Harper.”

Wendy offered a wry smile. “Yes, his reputation precedes him.”

“Is he your boyfriend?” Fernanda pressed, curious but respectful.

Wendy hesitated, then sighed. “It’s no secret. He’s an ex of mine.”

Fernanda’s eyes widened slightly. Considering their earlier interaction, it seemed there might still be lingering feelings between them.

“He’s such a jerk,” Wendy said, frustration edging her voice. “Even after we split, he’s still clinging on. It’s ridiculous.”

Fernanda’s lips curved into a subtle frown as she contemplated their breakup. Could it have been because of me, his supposed fiancée? She pushed the thought aside.

“Sorry to dump all this on you, especially since we’ve only just met today,” Wendy said, flicking her hair back. She sighed. “Forget it. Enough about him. Are you hungry? I can cook something if you’d like.”

“No need to go to any trouble,” Fernanda replied, polite yet distant. “I won’t be staying much longer.”

“Fine. Actually, my cooking’s pretty terrible. You’re probably better off sparing your stomach the torture,” Wendy quipped with a playful grin.

After idly sipping her water and checking the clock, Fernanda rose. Wendy made no move to stop her.

It wasn’t until several minutes after Fernanda had departed that Wendy realized with a start—she hadn’t even asked her name. No big deal—she’d ask in the exam room tomorrow.

By the time Fernanda returned to Dawn Villas, it was past eight. She unlocked the door to find the Morgan family lounging on the couch, joined by a new presence—an older woman in her sixties. Clad in opulent attire with her hair in an elegant perm and her face expertly made up, the woman’s features were marred by clear hostility.

Erika clung to her arm and, upon noticing Fernanda, murmured something in her ear. With a swift movement, the older woman rose and stalked over to Fernanda, narrowing her eyes with palpable scorn.

“You’re Fernanda?” she demanded.

“Yeah,” Fernanda said, casually slipping her motorcycle keys into her pocket. “And you are?”

“You’re the one who broke my grandson’s wrist?” the woman’s voice was sharp, her eyebrows knitting into a fierce scowl as she shoved Fernanda with surprising strength. “How could you be so cruel and spiteful?”

Fernanda deduced that the grandson in question was Crowell, so this must be Selma Cruz—Crowell and Erika’s grandmother, and Michelle’s mother. No wonder Erika was so devoted to her.

Ector stepped forward, his voice low in an attempt to defuse the tension. “Grandma, please don’t be upset with Fernanda. It wasn’t her fault—”

“Come on, she’s the one who broke Crowell’s wrist, isn’t she?” Selma’s indignation rose. “I visited him in the hospital today—his hand is in that big, clunky cast. He’s never endured anything like this! And now I hear she wants him out of the house! Who does she think she is?”

“Grandma, please, calm down,” Erika interjected softly, moving to Selma’s side and guiding her toward the sofa. Her voice was soothing, but Selma was not easily placated.

“I have lived in this house for decades,” Selma continued, her tone loud and defiant. “No one has ever told me to leave! And now this cocky little brat thinks she can hurt my grandson and kick him out? It’s not him who should leave—it’s her!”

Noticing how unpleasant Selma’s words had become, Ector spoke up. “Grandma, there’s no denying that Crowell assaulted Fernanda—”

Before he could continue, Selma cut him off sharply. “How could my own grandson possibly have assaulted her? I suspect she was the instigator! How could a girl raised without any proper manners be innocent? She’s nothing but a temptress, surely having ensnared countless men in her web!”

“Grandmother, please!” Ector exclaimed.

Unaware that Fernanda’s true lineage had not yet been revealed and assuming her background was common knowledge, Selma spoke without restraint.

Fernanda, who had intended to stay out of the argument, felt her patience snap at Selma’s cruelty. She stepped forward, her face an icy mask of composure, exuding a frosty authority that filled the room.

Ector began, “Fernanda—” but she raised a hand, silencing him with a swift gesture, and fixed Selma with a defiant gaze. “You said no one dared tell you to leave, didn’t you? Well, here’s a first for you. Leave on your own, or I’ll drag you out myself. Decide now. Don’t waste my time.”

.

.

.