BROKEN VOWS

Chapter Twenty Five : Secrets

Benjamin's POV.

As I stood there, the weight of her words descended upon me like a crushing avalanche, suffocating me beneath the unyielding truth. Each syllable was a razor-sharp blade, slicing through my defenses and laying bare the ugliness of my past actions. I couldn't deny it, couldn't defend myself against the scathing accusations that seared my conscience like a branding iron.

Her words conjured up the ghosts of our troubled past, and I was forced to confront the dark specter of my own making. Memories of the way I'd treated her, of the pain and the fear I'd inflicted, came flooding back, and my stomach churned with revulsion. The bitter taste of regret filled my mouth as I realized that I'd been so blinded by my own anger and resentment that I'd lost sight of what was truly important. I'd lost sight of her, of us, of the love we'd once shared, and of the life we'd built together.

And now, as I stood there, faced with the devastating consequences of my actions, I was forced to confront the darkest corners of my own soul. I realized that nothing would have changed, even if I'd known about the miscarriages. I was too far gone, too consumed by my own self-loathing and inadequacy. I'd have just found another way to blame her, to hurt her, to justify my own failures and shortcomings.

The thought was a bitter pill to swallow, a jagged rock that lodged in my throat, making it hard to breathe. I felt like I was drowning in a sea of my own regret, unable to escape the undertow of my past mistakes. I'd failed her, failed us, and I didn't know how to make it right.

I succumbed to the toxic whispers in my mind, the ones that relentlessly taunted me with my inadequacy. I'd become convinced that I was unworthy of love, that I'd never be enough for anyone, especially my wife. And so, I'd constructed a twisted narrative to justify my own failings.

In my warped thinking, I'd imagined that she was unfaithful, that another man was waiting in the shadows each time she stepped out of the house. It was a convenient lie, one that allowed me to shift the blame and deny my own responsibility for those pregnancies. I'd rather accuse her of infidelity than confront the ugly truth: that I'd taken her by force, drunk and out of control, and impregnated her against her will.

In a sick, twisted way, I'd felt justified in causing those miscarriages, just as I'd felt justified in attacking Hunter, a man I now knew was her cousin. The revelation was a blow, but it was eclipsed by the weight of my own guilt and shame.

I was still reeling from the discovery that she'd found her family, but it was a distant concern, overshadowed by the crushing burden of my own culpability. I'd killed our children, destroyed our family, and shattered our love. The knowledge was a constant, gnawing ache, a reminder of my own monstrosity.

The weight of my secrets had become a crushing burden, one that I'd carried for far too long. I'd thought that by keeping my childhood experiences locked away, hidden from prying eyes, I could somehow escape the pain and the trauma. I'd convinced myself that if no one knew, then it would be as if it had never happened. I'd be free to move on, to leave the past behind.

But the truth was, I'd been running from my demons, not facing them. I'd been afraid of being vulnerable, of being seen as weak or damaged. I'd feared that if people knew, they'd look at me differently, that they'd pity me or worse, fear me.

And so, I'd hidden behind a mask of confidence and control, all the while secretly seething with anger and resentment. I'd become a master of manipulation, using my charm and my wit to keep people at arm's length.

But Rainbow had always seen through me, had always known that there was more to me than met the eye. And now, as she looked at me with those piercing electric blue eyes, I felt my defenses crumbling. She had a way of making me want to confess all my secrets, to bare my soul to her.