The Butterfly Effect

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"I miss you, Roman. I just wanted to hear your voice, maybe even see your face again..." Her soft voice were sharp nails digging into his heart. Roman didn't know what had compelled her to think she could call after all the shit she had put him through, but he was furious. What could have possibly given that woman the nerve to even think of asking him for something, he truest had no faintest idea.

Gods, he hated her, he loathed with a passion...a passion... for her.

His foot pressed the gas petal just a bit harder, nudging the car to speed down the swerving road. He didn't know why he was humoring one of her little whims. It was late—almost one in the morning, and he had a meeting early tomorrow.

Why did she even want to meet him? She was a manipulative bitch and always had an agenda behind all her actions. What could she possibly want now, after taking everything he had?

Roman gripped the steering wheel harder, his knuckles growing pale. His foot involuntarily pushed the gas petal a little further, and the smooth engine roared with more vigor. The small street was empty with the exception of his car, so he didn't really pay any mind to the speed limit or caution signs on the side of the road. He was sure jumping deer would scatter at the sound of his Tesla.

The more distance he ate up, the angrier Roman was. The speed indicator on his dashboard rose mile by mile, but he refused to slow down.

Within a blink of a second, a dark figure of a woman darted in front of him. His foot moved on instinct as he used both the emergency brake and the foot brake.

His attempts were futile and the car slammed into her side. She was thrown back, and he swung the car door open with panic. He jumped out, rushing to the unconscious figure lying on the pavement.

He almost couldn't breathe. His heart lurched in his chest and his breath bounced like a rattle in his ribcage as his eyes scanned over the body.

Roman thought he ran over a prostitute. Her face was caked with makeup, mascara tears smudged all over her face, false eyelashes in clumps on her cheeks. Her clothes were torn near her chest, but he was sure that was the "style" in her profession, and her skirt was tight and high up her thighs. Romain wasn't sure what a common street prostitute looked like, but he was positive it was something like that.

His first instinct was to dial for an ambulance, but his finger stopped short on the third digit.

She's a whore; no one would care until they hear your name. This would be bad for the company. This is a small street; there's no security cameras near and no one can testify that you were the one who ran her over—maybe the woman didn't see your face before passing out. Leave her here—go to Jasmine like you've planned and she would be your alibi if the police do suspect and question you.

Immediately, Roman's eyes went to his car.

No scratches. A dent that's easily fixable. You can just leave right now, and save the time and money, not to mention stress. This'll be one less problem; trouble evaded. Leave her there, leave her, leave her...

The iniquitous thoughts tempted him, luring his sinister side out. He knew without a doubt that he wanted nothing else but to drive away in that moment, leaving behind the bruised, broken body.

Romain swore loudly, and called a number he knew too well. He's the only one who would be up at this ungodly hour, the man thought as the line clicked through.