✧･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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Three months. Three months since the shot shattered the calm of the dungeon, three months since I threw myself in front of him, and three months since I truly understood the depth of my love—and his fear.
My right arm was finally, miraculously, whole. The bullet had torn through the fleshy part of my forearm, missing bone and major arteries, a doctor's luck. The scar was still pink, a livid, raised line that stretched from wrist to elbow—my personal war medal. Sometimes, especially when the evening air cooled, a throbbing ache would spread through the tissue, a phantom limb of pain that served as a cruel, physical reminder of the cost of my decision.
The moment the pain subsided, however, the greater, psychological agony began.
For the first few weeks, the walls between us had crumbled entirely. He was not Vidyut Agarwal, the ruthless CEO; he was just Vid, the frightened, guilt-ridden man who hovered over my bed. His anxiety was a tangible thing, a constant, smothering presence. He handled my wound dressings with a tenderness that was almost agonizing to watch, and he slept—when he slept at all—on a daybed pushed right against my wall, waking at the slightest sound of my shifting.
In this one month, he has fulfilled one of my desires of having pets – a dog and a rabbit. I named them Choco and Olaf.
But the moment I was cleared for full movement, the moment the doctors declared my recovery stable, the shutters came down. The tenderness vanished. The CEO persona, the cold, distant monster, returned with terrifying finality, armed with spreadsheets and late-night calls. He had nursed me back to life, only to distance himself from the resurrected woman.
I clenched my left hand, the faint ache in my right arm flaring in response to the suppressed frustration. Tonight, it would end. I wouldn't allow him to hide behind his guilt or his business anymore. I needed the truth, and I needed him.
Flasback
The first time I regained true consciousness, not the hazy, drug-induced twilight, I was aware of two things: the dull, persistent throb in my arm, and the weight of a powerful, familiar presence gripping my left hand.
