Chapter 8: Not a Mere Collision
Frances arrived at her company in Macedonia to a reception that was more than warm—it was overwhelming.
The staff, dressed in their finest, had lined the walkway outside the glass-front building, faces bright with excitement. Some clapped, some offered flowers, and others bowed in quiet respect. The head of HR stepped forward with a bouquet of white lilies—her favorite.
"Welcome, ma'am," he said, smiling widely. "We have been eagerly awaiting your presence."
Frances returned a soft smile, deeply touched. Her steps were calm and measured, yet every click of her heels on the marble floor resonated authority. This was hers—her empire. No storm, no absence, could erase what she had built.
"I hope everything has been handled well in my absence," she said as she entered her office, the glass door closing gently behind her. Bianca followed closely.
"Yes, ma'am," her PA nodded. "Everything has been kept exactly as you wanted."
Frances took in the familiar surroundings—same paintings, same skyline view, same scent of lavender in the air, just as it had been in Lichfield, England. She had returned a changed woman, and so had the air around her.
Meanwhile, at Raymond's office…
Joel entered without knocking. He had long learned that urgency in this world brooked no formalities.
"Boss," he said, standing tall, "she's back permanently. Confirmed. She's already at her company."
Raymond's gaze remained fixed on the edge of a sleek dagger on his desk, its silver gleam catching the low light.
"I know," he said flatly.
Joel hesitated. "Should I make a move? Alert the troops? Maybe send her a message?"
Raymond finally looked up, eyes narrowing—but not in anger. Calculation. Strategy.
"Inform the others. Let them know Frances is not to be touched… yet."
Joel tapped his phone, sending a clear message throughout the Stafford mafia network: Frances is back. Watch her. But don't touch. Not until Raymond says.
Elsewhere, in a quieter part of Macedonia, Paris stood outside a modest townhouse, nervously wringing her fingers. She hadn't told anyone—not even her younger brother—but she was planning to leave the country. The past had grown too loud. Too close. She needed distance before it consumed her.
She unlocked the door and stepped inside. The house was neat and smelled faintly of roasted coffee beans. Her brother wasn't home yet, but she waited. She had to tell him in person, and waiting meant confronting her fear head-on.
That evening, Frances drove herself home, craving silence. The steady rhythm of the road, the hum of her tires, and soft music playing through the speakers felt like a balm. The sun dipped low, painting the city in shades of gold and orange.
She exhaled slowly. Maybe, finally, everything would settle.
Then—
BANG!
Her car jolted violently. She slammed the brakes, the seatbelt snapping her chest with a sharp jerk. Heart pounding, she tried to process the sudden collision. Smoke hissed faintly from the hood.
"What the hell…" she muttered.
She unbuckled and stepped out, only to freeze in shock.
A little boy, no older than three, struggled to stand beside a fallen bicycle. His face was pale, eyes wide with fright.
Frances hurried to him. "Where's your mother?" she asked, lifting the bike.
"Mama went to work, so I came out to play," he replied innocently.
"And are you hurt?" she asked, checking his body carefully.
"No, ma. You stopped on time," he said, a small grin breaking across his face.
Frances kneaded her brow. "But you're too young to be playing outside alone. Wait indoors next time." She couldn't help the maternal edge in her voice—it reminded her of her own little boy in Lichfield.
"And why aren't you at school? Children like you should study after class," she said fondly.
"My mama said there's no money, but she promised," he said, proud of his small defiance.
"Give me your mother's contact. I'll take you home," Frances said, lifting him into her car and placing the bicycle carefully in the boot. She promised to call as soon as she could.
Later, video call with her son, Luce, warmed her heart. His excitement radiated through the screen.
"Momma!" he cried.
"I miss you so much," Frances cooed, kissing the screen.
"I want to meet Momma soon! Will Uncle Nicole bring me tomorrow?" he asked eagerly.
"No, Luce. Momma will always come to see you. I'll bring lots of goodies for my baby," she promised.
"Really?" he exclaimed.
"Yes, my love," she smiled.
He waved, and she waved back, feeling a pang of longing and guilt. She breathed deeply, the memories of the past refusing to fade.
That night, the memory of Raymond resurfaced—the night before he had proposed the marriage contract.
She had been resting after dinner with him and his elder sister, unaware that danger lingered behind her closed doors.
The door had opened silently, and Raymond had appeared—drunk, or perhaps hypnotized.
"You've got a silky, clean body… why am I drawn to you?" he had murmured, removing his clothes.
"No, stop! What are you doing?" she had cried, trying to run.
He had grabbed her, whispering, "I've never felt aroused with a woman before. Just bear with me tonight. I'll pay you."
"No, Mr. Stafford! Stop! This isn't what you promised!"
Fear had gripped her, paralyzing her. She felt lost, helpless. He had pushed her onto the bed, his presence suffocating, and captured her lips in a forceful kiss.
The room had been soundproof. The maids asleep. No one could hear her.
Eventually, Frances had given up pleading. She had been enveloped by his presence, sinking into the embrace of a man she both feared and couldn't ignore.
Morning had come. The bed was empty.
"Where has he gone?" she had whispered. "Does he even remember what he did to me?"