THE LOST HEIRESS RETURNS AFTER DIVORCE
Chapter 130: Just Pulled The Trigger

Chapter 130: Just Pulled The Trigger

The man raised his gun toward Heather as he stepped closer.

Heather’s whole body locked up, her instincts screamed at her to run—but her feet wouldn’t move.

Her heart was pounded so hard it rattled in her chest. Her breathing came in short, shallow gasps, like there wasn’t enough air in the room.

For a second, she wondered if she should bolt, make a run for the door, the window—anywhere. But before her brain could even register movement, the man pulled the trigger.

The deafening crack of the gunshot sent a sharp, piercing pain through her ears.

Heather flinched as the bullet went straight into the wall beside her, missing her head by inches. For someone who had obviously killed before, that miss was intentional.

And the message was loud and ringing in her ears.

Her hands flew to the sides of her head as she stumbled forward, gripping her ears, but her balance slipped away.

It felt like her eardrums had burst. She tried concentrating, but the room swayed and twisted. Her knees buckled, and she collapsed onto the floor.

Her hearing was gone.

Everything was muffled. She could feel her pulse, heavy and fast, but no sound, just that sharp, blaring ring echoing inside her skull.

Run. Run now.

She crawled toward the bed, each movement was clumsy and disoriented, but she wanted to survive, to fight.

As she crawled near the bed, she found his legs coming closer, she she rolled under the bed and waited. The room tilted, her body felt sluggish from adrenaline and shock.

Another gunshot came close to her legs, so close the heat of it grazed her, the bullet slammed into the mattress beside her.

Heather panicked, dragging herself out from under the bed, but the man didn’t stop shooting at the bed. She crawled toward the open closet doors. At this time, the shooting stopped.

But rough fingers yanked her backward by the hair, she felt the pain shooting through her scalp.

"No!"

She clawed at the floor as he pulled her away from the closet. Her brain screamed survive, but her body wasn’t cooperating.

He dragged her to the center of the room and let go, shoving her hard onto the floor.

Her ears were already bleeding now; the warm liquid trickled down her jawline. The pain in her head was unbearable.

She cupped her ears again, squeezing her eyes shut as nausea twisted her stomach.

When she opened them, he was crouched in front of her, his face hidden behind that black mask, his eyes were hard and unfeeling, and he was still smiling.

His hand struck her face.

The slap whipped her head to the side, her cheek instantly went numb. For ten long seconds, she couldn’t feel her face at all. The shock of it bloomed through her skull, and the pain only creeped in afterward.

The man grabbed her chin, twisting her head side to side like she was nothing but a rag doll. His voice was muffled, like she was underwater, but she saw his mouth moving, spitting words full of disgust.

Heather felt rage and fear. Her lip curled, and she spat directly in his face.

It landed, sticking to his cheek. His grip tightened immediately.

His hand flew to her throat, pressing down with unrelenting force.

Heather’s airway closed off like a valve snapping shut. She fought hard, clawing at his hand, scratching at his wrist, but his grip only tightened.

The pressure in her head built fast—her temples throbbed, and her eyes bulged. The skin on her face burned hot.

Her lungs were aching as they begged for air that wasn’t coming.

Her brain screamed at her—this is it, he’s killing you.

Her vision started tunneling, the edges of the room blurring. But she didn’t want to die by a stranger; she always thought her death would be a panic attack caused by Alex when he tells her he’s moving out.

Not some insane psycho, she was going to leave that part for Alex, so her hands desperately flew to his eyes, jabbing and scratching wildly.

It worked. His grip loosened just enough for her to gasp in precious air.

She collapsed onto her side, coughing violently, the inside of her throat raw and searing. She wanted to run now, as she rose, he pushed her down, luckily for her, she landed on the bed.

But she didn’t have time to recover—he pinned her down, his full weight crushing her chest. His hands clamped around her throat again, cutting off her breath for a second time.

This time was worse.

Her limbs thrashed weakly beneath him, but her body was already shutting down. Her muscles trembled and we’re almost giving out.

She could feel her pupils threatening to pop; she had no airway, and she was going to die if he continues.

She wasn’t going to survive this.

Surprisingly, the man’s grip slackened, and his head jerked toward the door.

Heather’s blurry vision landed on Adonis, standing casually in the hallway, dressed in a dark robe, he wore a bored expression on his face.

She finally felt relieved, there was a flicker of hope. Finally, someone could save her from this man. Adonis looked strong enough to take him down.

"Can you keep it down? Some of us are trying to sleep," he muttered, before walking back into his room.

The door clicked shut.

What? He saw her—saw the man trying to kill her—and walked away?

Is that how much he hated her? What kind of person is he?

The assassin looked equally confused too, he was frozen for half a second.

She took advantage of the opportunity and didn’t hesitate. Her eyes landed on the scissors from earlier, laying on the bed.

Finally, her shot. She stretched her hand toward the scissors; her fingers closed around the cold steel.

He noticed the second she grabbed them. As she was about to raise it to his face, his hand slammed onto hers, pinning it to the mattress, and twisting it hard.

The blades went into her palm.

Heather gasped, a cry formed in her throat, but she wouldn’t let go.

The pain in her hand was unbearable, the scissors cut deeper as he wrenched her wrist, but she held on like her life depended on it—because it did.

How was she going to make him let go?

She twisted her lower body, her knee drove upward with every ounce of strength she had left, slamming into his groin.

He recoiled instantly, grunting in pain, his body lurching forward.

Her hand dove into his jacket pocket—until her fingers brushed cold metal.

A gun.

She grabbed it, her heart hammered wildly as she fumbled for the trigger.

Her hand was shaking violently, her whole body suddenly felt weak, and her vision clouded with tears, blood, pain.

Just as the man came on her again, she pulled the trigger.

The sound was deafening, even with her damaged ears.

For a moment, nothing moved.

His body slumped forward, heavy and still pinning her down.

Heather’s chest heaved as she lay frozen beneath him, her mind was trying to process what just happened. Her hand burned, her lungs burned, everything burned.

She shoved at his shoulder weakly, pushing him off her inch by inch. He was too heavy. His limbs flopped to the side, finally revealing his face, pale and still, blood pouring from the gaping hole in his neck.

She didn’t even remember aiming. She had just pulled the trigger.

Heather’s breathing was shaky, her entire body trembled uncontrollably. She looked down on her palms; they were slick with blood—his and hers.

Her vision blurred again, this time from raw panic.

She had killed him.

It didn’t matter that it was self-defense. Her hands, trembling and stained red, had taken a life. The realization hit her like a freight train—cold, hard, and unforgiving.

But there wasn’t time to fall apart.

Alex.

Heather’s heart clenched as she limped toward his room, every step agonizing. Her bloodied hand reached for the doorknob, twisting it open.

"Alex?" her voice cracked, hoarse from being choked, "Baby, are you okay?"

She rushed to his bedside. Alex lay there, small, blinking up at her with wide, sleepy eyes.

She scanned his body frantically—no bruises, no blood, no marks. Relief threatened to drop her to her knees.

"Mommy?" Alex’s voice wobbled as his little eyes filled with confusion. "Why are you covered in blood?"

His gaze drifted over her arms, her torn clothes, her shaking hands.

"Are you hurt, Mommy?" Alex asked softly, his tiny fingers patting her sides, checking for wounds, just like she had done to him.

Heather’s throat tightened painfully as fresh tears gathered in her eyes.

"No, baby. I’m okay." She scooped him into her arms, holding him tight against her chest, breathing in the familiar scent of his soft hair. "We’re okay now."

But they weren’t safe yet. She wanted to get them out, and fast.

She turned and rushed to Asher’s room, scooping him up, her trembling limbs holding both of them close.

She didn’t know what would happen next—but right now, her only mission was simple: get them out alive.