My Husband Wants An Open Marriage (Julie and Ryan)

CHAPTER 093: Nice To Meet You ~~Julie~~

Whenever I picture someone getting kidnapped, it's always in a tinted van, at night, with mean-looking men at every corner.

But it seems Colombians have it different.

Because there's a young boy of not more than twenty at the wheel of what appears to be a Corolla. And the other kidnapper, the one holding the gun, is a lady in her sixties. She's smiling at me, gun steadily aimed. And somehow, her smile scares me more than a frown would.

"Could you at least tell me where we're going?" I ask.

The lady doesn't reply.

"Does someone in this car speak English? Why am I being held at gunpoint?"

The lady brings the gun closer and presses her index finger to her lips. Right. Message understood.

The teenager behind the wheel keeps his eyes fixed on the road ahead, his knuckles white on the steering wheel. He looks anxious and calm at the same time. It's hard to explain. Like he's pretending this is just another day when he knows, deep down, that it's not. I shift in my seat. My legs are cramping from being in the same position too long. "How much longer?"

The woman says nothing, as usual, while the boy glances at me through the rearview mirror, his jaw tight. No answer from him either.

Fine. Play it that way.

I stare out the window, watching unfamiliar streets blur past. My mind races back to this morning-the warmth of Luke's chest beneath my cheek, his hand lazily trailing up and down my back as the sun peeked through the curtains. It was supposed to be a lazy day. A day to unwind.

Then Luke went out for a run, because God forbid he's unfit on Christmas Day. And Carolina knocked on our hotel room door minutes later.

"Come on, Julie! You can't spend all morning cooped up. I want to show you Medellín. It's beautiful!"

At first, I hesitated. The WiFi was garbage this morning, leaving me frustrated and bored. Also, the fact Luke left me alone wasn't exactly encouraging. So I decided, why not? A little adventure couldn't hurt. And Carolina's infectious energy made it hard to say no. 1/5

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"Okay," I said, slipping into jeans and a light sweater. "But only because I need a break from bad N*****x buffering."

Carolina laughed, pulling me out of the hotel with a promise that I'd love the city,

She wasn't wrong. Medellín was alive. We strolled through bustling markets where vendors shouted over each other, offering everything from vibrant textiles to freshly squeezed juice. Carolina showed me the art scene, murals bursting with color. We laughed at street performers, bought too many snacks, and took a million photos.

By the time we reached the mall, my feet were screaming. I waved Carolina off, deciding to wait in the car while she finished her errands.

"Take your time, I told her, settling into the passenger seat. "I need a breather."

I hadn't expected a gun-wielding grandma to appear out of nowhere, shoving me into the back seat of a different car.

And now, here I am.

"I'm sure you both have the wrong person," I say. "I haven't been here for a complete day."

The old lady leans forward, her gun still aimed, giving me a look that feels like a warning. Then, she smiles wider, as if she finds me amusing. She doesn't say a word.

The teenager shifts uncomfortably in his seat, glancing at the woman. I see something flash in his eyes-hesitation? Regret? I can't be sure. But whatever it is, it gives me hope. Maybe he isn't as committed to this as she is,

The car slows as we pull into a driveway. My heart pounds harder. I crane my neck to look out the window. The house is unassuming, tucked behind a row of towering trees. It has a rustic charm-red brick, ivy climbing the walls, wooden shutters-but something about it makes my skin crawl.

This isn't just a random hideout. This is someone's house.

The garage door opens,

and the car creeps inside. My mind races. If they're real kidnappers, they're doing a terrible job. I've seen their faces. I'm not bound, bagged, or unconscious. None of this makes sense.

The teenager kills the engine. The hum of the garage door closing is deafening in the silence that follows.

The woman mutters something in Spanish, gesturing with the gun for me to get out. I don't understand her words, but the meaning is clear enough.

I hesitate. She cocks her head, the smile never wavering. The boy shifts in his seat, looking anywhere but at me.

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Slowly, I open the door and step out, my legs shaky. The concrete floor is cold beneath my sneakers. The woman motions toward a wooden chair near the center of the garage,

I sit, heart pounding in my chest, eyes darting around for anything I could use as a weapon. A wrench. A screwdriver. Hell, even a loose brick. But the garage is meticulously clean.

The teenager gets out of the car, avoiding eye contact, while another man-older, maybe mid-twenties-steps out from the shadows. He's tall, broad-shouldered, with dark eyes that flick between me and the old woman. His expression is unreadable, but there's something cold in his gaze that makes my stomach turn.

"You know," I say, "if you're trying to kidnap someone, you might want to invest in a van and some duct tape. Just a tip."

The man laughs-a light, airy sound that doesn't belong in a situation like this. He says something in Spanish to the woman, and they exchange glances.

The teenager finally speaks, his English halting. "No... hurt you. Just... wait."

Wait for what?

"If this is about money, I can-

The man begins to walk forward.

When he stops in front of me, he extends a hand like we're at a damn business meeting.

"Hi. I'm Rafael. Nice to meet you."

I stare at his outstretched hand. "Rafael," I reply. "I can't say it's nice to meet you."

His hand lingers in the air before he withdraws it. "Fair enough. I understand how this looks, but I promise you, it's just a little misunderstanding. My mother..." He gestures toward the gun-wielding granny. "...thought it was appropriate to ask you a few questions -with a gun. I'm really sorry about that."

"What is going on?" I ask.

"I'm here as the translator."

""Translator?"

Rafael smiles. "She'll speak, and I'll translate.

I glare at him, the disbelief bubbling into anger. "You know, the socially responsible thing

to do when you want to talk to someone is to approach them and converse. She pulled out a gun."

"Once again, I apologize."

"Well, can you get her to start talking before I lose my shit?"

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Rafael sighs, turning to the old woman. They exchange words in rapid Spanish. Her response is calm, yet firm. Rafael turns back to me, his eyes carrying a weight they didn't have before.

"She says your fiancé is a piece of shit."

My head jerks back in surprise. "Excuse me?"

Rafael shrugs, fighting a grin. "Mothers never get straight to the point. But the summary is -she wants her daughter back."

"Daughter?"

"Sara González."

The name comes as a surprise. Of course it has to be Sara. Who else would it be? "Why do you think I have her?"

Rafael relays my words in Spanish. His mother responds.

"She says Sara is in prison."

I glare at both of them. "Where she should be." I pause for a while, staring at them. But they must be expecting more from me, because nobody replies. So I say, "Look, as much as I'd like to take credit for putting that bitch in prison, I wasn't aware of it. Even if I was, how is it any of my business?"

"Because Lucas filed for a restraining order," Rafael says. "That ruined her parole, and now she's serving the rest of her sentence. After everything we did to get her out.

My laugh is bitter. "I'm really sorry for your loss. But if your daughter wanted to stay out of prison, she should have followed the rules. You don't stalk people while you're on parole."

Without warning, the old woman pulls out her phone and begins to dial a number. She's muttering something under her breath.

""What now?" I say.

Rafael watches her with a weary expression. "She says she's calling Lucas's mother. They'll deal with this mother-to-mother as children are disobedient and passionate about the wrong things. That if Sara isn't let out, you're not going anywhere."

For the first time since this nightmare began, my fear evaporates. I lean back in the chair, arms crossed. "Go ahead," I say. "This will be over quickly."

Rafael's brow furrows. "You don't seem scared"

"Oh, I was. Terrified, actually. But now? This is laughable."

""She's serious," he warns.

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"So am I," I shoot back. "This-"I gesture to the garage, the gun, the whole absurd situation-"is the worst kidnapping I've ever seen. If you don't want to join your daughter in prison, let me go now."