Eight Years Of His Cold Betrayal

band, Damian, run past me during a raging fire. He ign

r loved me. Our entire marriage was ju

framed my innocent younger brother for a crime he did

is hospital bed. He even forced me to crawl ove

heirloom box, not knowing it held my brother' s ashes. He

ken me. But he only f

y shareholder of his company, I'm her

pte

lia

ess arrangement, I watched my husband, Damian, ignore my sc

rauma that explained his coldness. It was the painful echo of a thousand nights I had spent alone, convincing myself that his distance wasn't personal, that it was just him.

ught I was the one person who truly saw him, truly understood his silent battles. I would leave little notes for him, reminding him of small joys, of shared moments, hoping to chip away at the walls he' d built around himself. I eve

the fire alarms shrieked, slicing through the polite hum of conversation. Chaos erupted. People rushed for the exits, their elegant composure shattering into primal fea

ed to call his name, but my voice was lost in the cacophony. He shoved past a security guard, practically tackling him, his gaze fixed on something, or someone, dee

a fleeting second, I thought, He's coming for me. But that hope died as quickly as it ignited. I saw him reach a

hown me. Not on our wedding night, when he had coldly pushed me away, presenting a prenuptial agreement that dictated every aspect of our lives, right down to separate bedrooms. Not in eight years of shared meals and polite conversations

asn't capable of loving me. The pain was so sharp, so sudden, it stole my breath. I sagged aga

ground. A sharp, agonizing pain erupted in my leg. I cried o

ion, a flicker of something unreadable in their depths. My breath hitched. Hope, a f

to her. His grip on her tightened, his eyes refocusing entirely on her safety. He didn't spare me

the agony in my chest. He had seen me. He had heard me. And he

ing wen

ne, my fingers fumbling. I needed Hildegarde. Damian's grandmother. She was the only one who had ever truly cared for me in that cold, gilded cage o

, her face etched with fury, a heavy cane clut

his face impassive. He didn't flinch when Hildegarde'

ling with anger. "How dare you abandon your

ok at me. "She needed me more," he s

ic protection!" She turned her furious gaze on him. "You will stay away from her, do you hear me? She is nothing but

o remorse. Just a cold, hard resolve. "No," he said, his voice a low growl. "I won't. I can't. I never l

low me whole. The air left my lungs in a sharp gasp. It wasn't the pain from my injur

ashen. "You... you always said it wa

thing with his terrifying admission. It wasn't trauma. It was

for a love that was never mine to begin with. I always thought Aida was just a grieving widow, a friend who needed support. I even

iolently throwing up. I knelt on the cold tile floor, clutching my stomach, tears mixing with bil

mirror-a pale, bruised woman, her eyes hollow, stripped bare of all illusions. My leg was in a brace, but t

nter. The phone was still in my hand. I clutched it,

th every painful step. The air still felt thick with

voice barely a whisper, b

of weariness and pity. "Ji

decision solidifying in my