Zara stood before him—unarmed, confused. She asked him what he wanted. He said her.
I watched, frozen, unable to move, as he pulled her into an embrace—and drove a dagger into her throat.
She choked. Her body seized. She clutched at him, but he held her tight. Whispered something into her ear. Something I will never forget.
Then he let her fall to the ground like she meant nothing.
He wiped the blade on his sleeve. Stared at the blood on his fingers.
Then he looked up.
And licked it clean.
While staring me straight in the eye.
It wasn’t about jealousy.
It wasn’t about love.
It was about control.
He couldn’t possess her, so he destroyed her.
And in that moment, he destroyed me, too.
From that moment forward, my hatred for him was absolute.
It seethed in my blood and carved itself into my bones. He made my skin crawl. Every time I looked at him, unease gripped my spine like a noose tightening.
And the worst part?
I knew him.
Not from these years.
But from before.
The memory was elusive, buried in shadow—like broken glass glinting beneath murky water—but it was there—familiarity, recognition, and dread.
He paraded around with his perfect little life—his beautiful wife, his bright-eyed baby girl—as if he hadn’t destroyed mine. As if he hadn’t stolen everything from me.
And I hated him for it.
Jealousy curdled in my gut, sharp and bitter. That used to be my life: warmth, love, family. Now reduced to ash and memory, he lived like a king behind walls of lies.
The arguments grew. Endless, circling, venomous.
I wanted freedom.
He wanted obedience.
I wanted the truth.
He offered chains disguised as guidance.
And I began to realize—Mathias wasn’t here to help me.
He was here to control me.
