She had been starving.
Not for luxury. Not for safety.
For acknowledgment.
For warmth.
And I had starved her of it entirely, blind to the ache I inflicted daily.
Then came the confessions, written in trembling, tear-stained ink that blurred and warped the paper.
Pages flecked and crinkled, as if she had cried openly while writing, incapable of restraining her sorrow. “I love him,” she had scrawled—words so simple, yet seismic, shaking the foundation of everything I had believed about control, hate, and possession.
“God help me, I never stopped. Even after everything—the accusations, the cold shoulders, the way he looks at me like I’m the villain.I love a man who hates me. Why can’t I stop?
Love. She had loved me. Despite the suspicion, the cage I had built around her with walls of fear and power.
I gripped the diary until my knuckles ached, the leather groaning beneath my trembling hands.
I slammed the diary shut, leather creaking like the chest of a man suffocating.
My hands shook violently, my mind spinning with the weight of all I had ignored, all I had inflicted, all I had lost.
I collapsed against the edge of the bed, the strength draining out of me all at once, knees hitting the carpet with a dull thud.
The mattress loomed above me like a witness—still warm with memories, still carrying the faint imprint of her body.
My forehead pressed into the quilt as words spilled out of me, broken, desperate, barely coherent.
“Elena... I’ll find you,” I whispered into the emptiness, my voice hoarse, unraveling. “I will. God, Elena, I did the worst thing to you. The worst.”
My hands clawed into the sheets like I could anchor myself to her ghost. “But I’ll find you. I need to. You’re my wife, right? You still are.”
The room answered with silence.
“I caused you to lose your voice,” I went on, the confession slicing me open. “I caused you to lose our baby. God knows how much you suffered in there—the injuries, your hand twisted like that, the scars climbing your legs...” My breath hitched violently. “Elena, you must forgive me. You must. E...le...na...”
Her name fractured on my tongue, splintering into sobs I could no longer hold back.
Then I lurched to my feet and fled the room like a madman, as if staying another second might crush me completely.
The estate blurred as I stormed through it—hallways, marble floors, priceless art reduced to meaningless smears.
My heart hammered like a war drum, grief and fury and terror colliding until I could barely think.
“Gear up,” I barked at the first man I saw. “All units. Now.”
The mansion erupted into motion.
Doors slammed open. Boots pounded against stone. Weapons lockers screamed as they were yanked apart, metal clashing against metal.
Orders ricocheted through corridors. Radios crackled to life. Men ran—not with questions, not with hesitation, but with the instinctive obedience of soldiers who recognized the sound of a man unraveling.
I moved through the chaos like something unleashed, issuing commands with ruthless precision.
This wasn’t planning born of patience.
This was a man preparing to tear the world open with his bare hands.
