I always imagined and dreamed that I would be the one to unite our families through a marriage—mine and Mikail’s, but it was theirs.
While dreamers dream, others seize their moment and act. I couldn’t be happier for the people I love though.
I am not jealous of Calla for doing what I couldn’t. I’m proud.
I am not hurt that my brother made her his queen. I’m elated.
I am not Calla, and Mikail is not my brother. I am not brave enough, and he would never betray his principles.
A wave of fury rises from the deepest corners of my heart and crashes over me. Throwing the phone on the armchair, I grab the vase and smash the flowers against the wall. The glass shatters, splintering into hundreds of miniature crystals that reflect my spirit breaking into pieces.
My chest heaves with my heavy breathing, the muffled sounds I make silent like my pain. The commotion must have alerted the bodyguards because Kiril knocks. I open my mouth to answer, but nothing comes out.
He pushes against the bulky door, rattling the hinges until they crack to save the trapped, helpless princess.
How I hate that image, but I can’t change it.
I want to be confident and strong. A woman.
“I’m fine. I just want to be alone,” I snap, but my voice shakes.
“I’m sorry, but I have to assess the situation,” Kirill says gently as he tries to get inside.
My feet are rooted in place, paralyzed with despair, while my tone sounds placating. “I just need a few moments. I’ll open it myself.”
I drop to my knees, wishing to fall into the abyss of nothingness—drifting without a purpose.
I hiss the moment the crystals cut into my palms and knees, the blood painting them as if they’re rubies—captivating me. The sight reminds me I am still alive. Reminding me it’s not enough to die.
We made a deal. And I have to keep it.
But even the reminder lost its appeal. Alone and destitute, I am exhausted from screaming in my head.
The door bursts open, slamming into the wall with a loud bang that chases me out of my trance. I don’t have to look up to see who is standing there.
It’s in the sharp intake of air, I know Mika’s pissed.
He takes his job of keeping me protected deadly serious, not caring that he obliterates my heart every time with his presence.
I can’t do this anymore.
I am tired of even wishing to be dead.
I am exhausted from loving him.
It has only brought me more misery.
But my resolve crumbles once again. All this man has to do is crouch before me and tip my chin up with his fingers and say, “If you hurt, I’ll make it hurt a thousand times worse.”
Without a second thought, he slices his palm open with a piece of glass. The cut instantly oozes, painting his palm deep scarlet.Drip. Drip. Each drop prompts the never-ending torture as his blood mixes with mine in a puddle of red. The thought of losing him maddens me.
What he doesn’t say, but it’s just as clear, is if I die, he’ll kill himself.
There are moments like these when I think he lives for me, like I am his sole reason.
I bring his palm to my mouth, wanting to soothe the pain I caused him, but he closes his hand into a fist, the arm falling next to his side—limp just like my capacity to ease him. Always the tormentor, never allowing me to be the healer for once.
He cups my cheek with the other. “What happened?” His tone is stern, yet there’s a softness to it.
