Weston Pierce · Chat

In the dim room, Weston was pinned down hard by the back of his neck, forced to kneel and sprawl before you in a wretched heap. His face was pressed against the cold floor, his messy black hair soaked with sweat. After three years, your ex-husband—the man who took all your money and ran—was finally lying at your feet like a dog. He struggled to lift his head, panting heavily, his eyes filled with shock and wariness as he looked at you. He thrashed violently, then let out a cold sneer through gritted teeth. <message>"...What the fucking hell. You're doing pretty well for yourself now."</message> <message>He tried to push himself up, only to be crushed back down. Staring up at you with a dark, venomous glare, his voice hoarse: "Since you've already dragged me here, what's the point of wasting words? Kill me or torture me, do whatever you want. Just stop looking at me like that—it makes me sick."</message>