"The news is real, Mr. Ashford—Sarah really did get married," the man reported as he stood stiffly before the massive desk.
Mr. Ashford leaned back in his leather chair and let out a sharp, manic laugh. "Hahaha! So the little lamb thinks that just because she got married, she's escaped my clutch? Hahaha!" His laughter echoed through the large office, dark and twisted. "She's only made me crave her more. I like married women even better."
He snapped his fingers once. "Proceed."
"We went to the marriage registry to verify it," the man continued. "The man she married is named Mark Atkinson. We investigated him thoroughly. He's a beggar, sir. Completely broke. From what we gathered at the Whitmore mansion, Sarah found him under a bridge, brought him home, slept with him that very night, and the next day, they were married."
Mr. Ashford sat in stunned silence for a moment, eyes wide. He had assumed Sarah might have run off with some useless heir or arrogant trust fund brat—but a beggar?
Then his lips curled into a twisted grin. "Hah... then that beggar must be good in bed. Good enough to make the icy princess Sarah—pride of high society—marry him?" He leaned forward with a wicked chuckle. "Hahaha! That's rich."
"But what are your orders, Mr. Ashford?" the man asked cautiously.
Mr. Ashford tapped his desk, his sharp fingernails clinking softly against the wood as he thought. Finally, he said with venom in his voice, "I want both of them. Sarah… and the beggar. He dared to sleep with my Sarah before me?" He narrowed his eyes. "He must have gotten tired of his coward life—begging at the side of roads. Then I'll help him. I'll grant him death."
He waved his hand dismissively. "But wait. Don't act yet. I want to see what the Whitmores will do first. We'll give them their chance to clean up their mess."
Then he laughed again—slow, guttural, unhinged—showing all of his yellowed teeth like a hyena circling prey.
*****
18:30 PM — Sarah's House
They were curled up on the couch in the living room, quietly watching an animal documentary on TV. The mellow voice of the narrator filled the space as lions prowled across the savannah. Out of nowhere, Sarah turned toward Mark and asked, "You didn't throw out the leftovers, right?"
Mark turned his head, eyebrow raised. "You ate enough that you couldn't even stand, and now you're asking about leftovers?"
"Of course!" Sarah said as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. "You don't get to eat food like that every day, so when you do—you make it count." She placed a hand over her stomach dramatically. "Even if I died eating that food, I'd have no more regrets in life."
Mark chuckled lightly, then said with a straight face, "I didn't throw it out. Don't forget—I was a beggar. We know how important food is."
Sarah's eyes lit up with a grin. "Glad to hear that. Let me go grab a plate—"
But as she stood up, she felt a firm grip wrap around her wrist. She turned in surprise to see Mark's large hand gently but firmly holding her back.
"Where do you think you're going?" he asked, eyes narrowed with purpose. "It's no time to eat now. Your self-defense training starts now."
"But I'm still not ready yet…" Sarah protested like a kid being denied dessert.
"Exactly," Mark replied, now standing. "Because your enemies won't wait for you to be ready."
Without another word, he took her by the hand and led her out into the garden, where the orange sunset was casting long shadows across the grass.
"Alright, let's begin," Mark said, releasing her hand. "We'll start with basic conditioning. Run five laps around the garden—full speed. Let me see your stamina."
Sarah looked at the garden, then at him, horrified. "Five?!"
"Yes. No shortcuts. Your legs are your first weapon. Speed saves lives. Go!"
Reluctantly, she started running—awkwardly at first, but by the second lap, she was getting into rhythm. Mark watched silently, arms crossed, gauging her endurance, focus, and how quickly she lost form.
After the laps, she stumbled back, panting hard.
"Good," he said, not giving her a chance to catch her breath. "Now stand firm. Feet shoulder-width apart."
He moved behind her and corrected her posture, gently adjusting her stance.
"Self-defense begins with balance. If you lose your footing, you lose the fight."
Then he had her practice basic footwork—forward, backward, side steps, small pivots.
"Again," he kept saying.
Then came basic arm movements—how to block a punch, how to redirect pressure, where to hit.
"This isn't about being stronger," he reminded her, "it's about being smarter, faster, and more prepared than your attacker."
Sarah tried to keep up, drenched in sweat, struggling with every movement but not giving up.
By the end, she dropped to the grass, breathless but smiling.
"I didn't know learning to fight would feel like dying," she said between gasps.
Mark crouched beside her. "Then you're doing it right."
*****
After finishing the self-defense training for the day, the two of them returned inside, both covered in sweat and dust.
"You can warm your leftover and eat it now," Mark said, casually wiping his forehead with a towel as they stepped into the living room.
"No, I don't need it now," Sarah replied, waving him off. "All I need now is to soak myself in the bathtub." Without waiting for a response, she dashed upstairs toward her master bedroom.
Mark chuckled softly, shaking his head. "As expected," he murmured, then sat back down on the couch, resuming the animal documentary he had paused earlier.
Upstairs, Sarah entered her elegant master bedroom, tossing her towel on the chair near her vanity. She walked straight into the bathroom, her body aching in places she didn't even know existed. She turned on the golden faucet, letting the warm water cascade into the deep porcelain tub. She added her favorite lavender-scented bath salts, watching as they dissolved slowly, releasing gentle fragrance into the air.
As the steam began to rise and the tub filled, she peeled off her clothes and stepped in, lowering herself with a long sigh. The water wrapped around her like a soft, heated blanket. Muscles relaxed. Mind slowed. For the first time that day, she felt like she could melt into the water and sleep.