✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*
[ 𝐒𝐄𝐐𝐔𝐄𝐋 1 ]
Because this is where love fades and hate resides and intensifies, broken hearts produce the most tragic stories.
Their treachery is told through their bleeding hearts: their unrequited love was never reciprocated. The...
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My knees felt weak, shaking violently from the adrenaline and the sheer audacity of my confrontation with Vidyut. I leaned against the door, pressing the heels of my hands into my trembling eyelids, trying to burn out the image of his broken, tormented face.
He had called himself a monster, a killer, and a coward. He'd confessed his greatest fear—that his actions had brought this danger to my doorstep. But I had seen the truth in his eyes when he pinned me against the wall: terror, yes, but also a possessive, consuming love that he was desperately trying to suffocate to keep me safe.
I had retaliated with the most brutal, terrifying piece of blackmail I could muster, successfully turning myself from his victim into his necessary, dangerous partner. I had won the fight, but the victory was a hollow, echoing chamber of pain.
I am poison. Get away from me.
His words echoed, but they had flipped my own thinking. He thought he was the danger. But the danger came from the mess my father created. I was the target, the key to his destruction, and as long as I was within reach, Vidyut would be forced to stay, to fight, and to risk everything, including the ruin of his business and his relationship with his own family.
The only logical move was to remove the target. The only way to win our war—the one where we both survived—was for me to leave.
My decision was instantaneous and terrifying. I pushed off the door, moved to the main entrance, and twisted the heavy internal lock. The click was loud and reassuring. For the next hour, this room was a sanctuary, a war room where a new plan would be forged.
I went straight to my dresser, my heart pounding a panicked rhythm against my ribs. I pulled a small, silver key from the hidden seam of my bedside lamp and unlocked the bottom drawer. Inside lay my battered leather-bound diary—my confessional, my archive of trauma, the one place I'd allowed myself to be truly weak.
My hands were shaking violently as I picked it up. This diary was the only piece of my past that had moved with me, The man with the scarred hand. He delivered the flowers to the hospital reception. He was wearing the silver ring with the snake's head.
