⚜ summary: You were promised to Caleb Li, second son of the Lord of Akso, and you were beginning to love him, then war came, and Caleb fell in battle. Now you are married to his older brother Zayne - a cold, dutiful man who keeps you at arm's length. When he returns with a bastard son, you start to believe that you will be nothing more than an obligation to him.
⚜ cw: MDNI!, non-mc reader (can also be read as mc reader), fem!reader, arranged marriage, this chapter will be caleb and reader focused, heavy angst, YES HEAVY ANGST, character death, game of thrones inspired au, references to game of thrones, slight age gap, possibly ooc zayne, past caleb x reader, mentions of having children and marriage, 7.4k wc, unbeta'd, unedited
⚜ an: back again for another installment of the arranged marriage au series! zayne already had his own au but this has always been my OG plan for him and the reaction for the prince zayne and warlord sylus aus motivated me to write this as a full fic.
this is loosely based on game of thrones. there will be some terms borrowed from got and you guys might get confused with the way the ages are written (i based it on how grrm wrote the ages in the books, caleb and reader are both 16 at the start of the story and zayne is 20, but zayne x reader will start when she is 20-21 and zayne is 24-25), to make it easier to understand some of the terms, i added definitions after the chapter. i hope it won't get too confusing.
thank you again for the support especially to those who commented on the masterlist and those who are following my arranged marriage series. i hope you guys enjoy this new au. title was inspired by let the light in by lana del rey.
please leave a comment, like, or reblog if you enjoyed reading!
⚜ series masterlist ⮚ part two
⚜ lads masterlist | arranged marriage au | AO3
The first letter arrived in early spring, when the apple blossoms were just beginning to bloom in your father's orchards.
You were six and ten, old enough to understand what the heavy wax seal meant, young enough to still feel the flutter of possibility in your chest when you broke it open.
The Lord of Chansia's daughter would marry well.
You had always known that.
Your lord father had made sure you understood your value.
The betrothal with House Li was born of the anticipation for war.
For years, the Northern border burned from wildling raids and Lord Li of Akso needed men.
Thousands of them.
His own bannermen were already committed, their forces stretched thin across hundreds of miles of frozen wasteland, and he knew that it would only be a matter of time before the attacks would escalate.
So he looked South, to the noble houses of the Reach, who are rich in fertile lands and men, who had no stake in the Northern conflicts but might be persuaded to care.
Your father saw an opportunity.
Ten thousand strong, that was your father’s offer.
Ten thousand trained soldiers, plus supplies for several years, in exchange for a marriage alliance with House Li. It was an enormous commitment, one that would cement Chansia's influence in the North for generations.
When the ravens flew back and forth between Akso and Chansia, your father expected Lord Li to offer his heir because that was how these things were done.
The future Warden of the North for ten thousand swords.
Instead, Lord Li offered his second son.
Caleb Li of Akso.
Your father had been surprised, second sons were not usually the price for such a massive alliance, but Lord Li was a shrewd man. He had plans for Zayne, his heir, a Northern match perhaps, someone to solidify Northern power, not dilute it with Southern influence, or perhaps, he is still looking for a stronger match from the other Southern kingdoms of Philos.
And you…
You were just the youngest of four daughters.
Your elder sisters had already been wed to powerful Southern lords. You were valuable, yes, but not that indispensable, not the way your older sisters had been, so your Father accepted.
A second son in exchange for a youngest daughter and ten thousand men.
It was a bargain that satisfied both houses.
And then Caleb's first letter arrived, and it was not what you expected.
My Lady,
I hope this letter finds you well.
My father, the Lord of Akso, has informed me of the betrothal arranged between our families.
I confess I am uncertain of the proper etiquette for such correspondence, but my brother Zayne suggested that honesty might serve better.
They tell me our betrothal is a matter of alliance.
That is true, but I find myself hoping it might become more.
My father speaks of honor and obligation.
I would rather speak of the future, of what we might build together, if you will have me.
I have heard many things about your family and you, but I would rather know them from you.
Will you write to me?
Tell me of Chansia, of your family, of yourself.
I promise to do the same, though I fear the North is far less interesting than the South.
Yours in anticipation,
Caleb Li of Akso
You had read it three times, tracing the slightly uneven script with your fingertip.
He had terrible handwriting.
The letters slanted and looped in a way that suggested he had been hurrying or perhaps nervous.
Somehow that made it better.
More real.
Your reply had been formal, exactly what your septa had taught you.
But Caleb's second letter was warmer, and his third warmer still, and by the time summer arrived, you found yourself becoming a permanent fixture in the rookery, waiting for the next raven from the North to arrive.
He wrote to you about the North.
About Akso Castle perched on a hill overlooking the rest of the North, about winter roses that somehow bloomed even in frost, about the godswood where his mother used to pray before she died.
The godswood.
He wrote of it often, he tells you about the heart tree, the ancient weirwood tree with its bone-white bark and blood-red leaves, the hot springs that steamed even in the deepest winter, the sense that the old gods watched over everything.
The North kept the old ways, he explained though you already know this. The Northerners prayed to the nameless gods of the forests, not the Seven, not the new gods brought by the Andals when they invaded Philos.
We will be married there, if you will have it, he wrote. In the godswood, before the heart tree, with the old gods as our witnesses, as is the Northern way. I hope that does not frighten you.
It did not frighten you. It felt right, somehow, sacred.
He wrote about his father, Lord Li, stern and commanding, a good lord respected by his bannermen and loved by all the North.
He wrote about his older brother Zayne, wise and serious, who had taken over most of their father's duties even though he was barely twenty autumns old.
Zayne frightens people sometimes, Caleb wrote in one letter. He does not mean to. He carries everything so quietly that others mistake his silence for coldness. But I have seen him sit up all night with a sick horse, and once I found him in the library crying over a book of poetry from the Age of Heroes. He pretends to be made of ice, but he is more than that. I wish others could see what I see.
You had smiled at that, charmed by Caleb's obvious affection for his brother, but you have not thought much about Zayne Li beyond the knowledge that he existed.
He was the heir, the future Warden of the North.
You would be marrying the second son.
That was fine.
That was more than fine, because Caleb's letters made you laugh.
They came with gifts sometimes, small things, nothing ostentatious.
A pressed winter rose, its pretty blue petals preserved between sheets of parchment.
A silver brooch shaped like a songbird, because you had mentioned loving the larks that nested in your mother’s gardens.
Once, unexpectedly, a smooth black stone he had found by the river while they were hunting, which he said reminded him of your eyes in the moonlight.
I have not seen your eyes in moonlight, of course, he had written, but I imagine them often. I hope that is not too forward. Zayne says I should be more reserved, but he also says I should be myself, and I find those instructions contradictory.
You had kept that letter in your bureau, taking it out sometimes late at night to reread by candlelight.
You met Caleb Li for the first time in autumn, when your father hosted a gathering for the Northern lords.
The great hall of Chansia Castle was blazing with light, candles in every sconce. The Northern lords arrived in a procession of black horses and dark cloaks, and you stood at your father's side in a gown of deep blue silk, your hands folded demurely, your heart hammering against your ribs.
You saw Caleb before he saw you.
He was laughing at something one of the other young lords had said, his head thrown back, dark hair catching the firelight. He looked exactly like his letters, warm, open, alive in a way that made everyone around him seem dimmer by comparison.
When his gaze found you across the hall, his expression transformed into wonder.
He crossed the hall like he was being pulled by invisible strings, barely remembering to bow to your father before turning the full force of his attention on you.
"My lady," he said, and his voice was exactly what you had imagined, warm and slightly rough, like honey over cobblestones. "I... you are more beautiful than I dreamed. Forgive me, that was probably too forward. Zayne is going to kill me."
You had laughed, you could not help it, and his answering smile was so bright it was almost painful to look at directly.
"I do not mind forward," you respond, and watched color rise in his cheeks.
"In that case," he said, offering his arm, "would you allow me to bore you with terrible conversation? I promise not to step on your feet at least twice if we dance."
He had kept his promise.
He was an awful dancer, all enthusiasm and no rhythm, and you had laughed so hard you could barely breathe.
Later, when the feast wound down and the other guests had dispersed into smaller groups, you and Caleb secretly escaped to gardens where the night air was cool and sharp with the promise of coming winter.
"I brought you something," he pulled a small wrapped bundle from his coat. "I was going to wait, but I am terrible at waiting for things."
Inside the cloth was a comb, simple wood inlaid with small chips of blue stone that caught the moonlight.
"For your hair," he said shyly. "The stones are from the mountains near Akso. They remind me of winter roses, and I thought you might like having a piece of home. Of our home, if you will have it, if you will have me."
You looked at him, at this man whose letters made you laugh and sent you flowers and was so earnest it made your chest ache.
It is not love, not yet, but the beginning of it, the possibility of it.
"I will have it," you whispered softly, meeting his eyes. "I will have you."
His kiss was gentle and tasted like the wine from dinner and something sweeter underneath. When he pulled away, his forehead rested against yours, his breath warm against your lips.
"I am going to make you happy," he promised, his eyes full of warmth. "I do not know how yet, but I will. I will spend every day learning how to make you smile."
You believed him.
You met Zayne Li exactly once before everything changed.
It was at the same gathering where you first met Caleb, but Zayne had spent most of the evening in your father's solar, discussing politics and trade agreements and all the serious matters that second sons were not expected to worry about.
You had glimpsed him across the hall a few times, tall and dark-haired like Caleb, but broader through the shoulders, his face carved into more severe lines.
He looked like winter itself had taken human form.
Near midnight, you had gone to the library seeking a book, and found him there instead, standing by the window with a goblet of wine, staring out at the darkness.
"Oh," you said, freezing in the doorway. "Forgive me, my lord. I did not mean to intrude."
He turned slowly, and you got your first clear look at him.
Caleb had been right.
He was frightening, in a way. The stillness of him, the severity. No smile, no warmth, only that steady, assessing gaze that seemed to see straight through you.
"You are not intruding," he said. His voice was deeper than Caleb's, rougher, with none of his brother's easy warmth. "This is your father's house."
"Yes, but..." You trailed off, uncertain. "I was looking for a book."
"Then by all means, look."
He turned back to the window, dismissing you, and you should have left.
You should have grabbed a book and fled, but some stubborn part of you wanted this man to see you as more than his brother's pretty betrothed.
"Caleb speaks very highly of you," you said.
"Caleb speaks highly of everyone."
There was no inflection in his voice, no indication of whether that was criticism or affection.
"He says you are kind. That you pretend to be cold but you are more than that."
That got a reaction.
The slightest tension in his shoulders, a tightening around his eyes.
"My brother is an optimist."
"Is that so bad?"
"It is when it leads to poor judgment."
The words stung, though you were not certain why.
"You do not approve of the betrothal."
"I did not say that."
"You did not have to."
He finally turned to face you fully, and in the firelight, his eyes were a strange color, hazel-green, like frozen moss.
"My approval or lack thereof is irrelevant. The betrothal serves both our houses well. You will make Caleb a suitable wife, I am certain."
Suitable.
Not happy.
Not loved.
Suitable.
"I will make him more than suitable," you said, lifting your chin. "I will make him happy. I will…"
"Happiness is a luxury," Zayne cut in, his voice flat. "Duty is what endures. If you can give him both, then you are better than most."
He walked past you toward the door, moving with that careful control that made him seem older than his years. But before he left, he paused, not looking back.
"He loves easily, my brother," Zayne said quietly. "He gives his heart away like it costs him nothing. Do not make him regret it."
Then he was gone, and you stood alone in the library with your heart beating too fast, uncertain whether you had been warned or threatened.
You did not think about Zayne Li much after that night.
He was a footnote in your story, a stern older brother who would fade into the background once you married Caleb, moved North, and be granted your own keep and lands.
He would be the Lord of Akso someday, and you would be the wife of the second son, and your paths would rarely cross.
That was what you thought.
You were wrong.
The visits continued over the next eighteen months.
Caleb came to Chansia for the midwinter feast and stayed a fortnight.
You walked the gardens together every day, your septa trailing at a discreet distance. You talked about everything, about his childhood, your studies, the books you loved, the future you would build together.
In spring, you traveled North to Akso Castle.
The journey took three weeks, your father's men escorting you through increasingly cold and barren landscape. Septa Josephine rode in the carriage with you, wrapped in furs and complaining about the cold with increasing frequency the further you traveled.
Lord Li greeted you in the courtyard, older than you remembered from that autumn gathering, his iron-gray hair and ice-chip eyes seeming harsher here in his own domain. Your septa stood beside you, silent as a pillar, as he studied you with the assessing gaze of a man evaluating whether you would be strong enough for the North or his son.
"My lady," he said with a slight nod. "Welcome to Akso. I trust the journey was not too difficult?"
"It was manageable, my lord. Thank you." You smiled politely as you curtsied.
He stared at you for a long moment, taking in your southern clothes, your softer features, everything that marked you as foreign to this place. Then his mouth twitched in what might have been approval.
"You will need warmer cloaks," was all he said before turning away.
Septa Josephine was immediately swept away by the steward’s wife to see to your chambers and the unpacking of your things. The moment she disappeared through the castle doors, Caleb closed the distance between you.
He pulled you into an embrace that made the guards politely look away.
"You came," he breathed against your hair. "You actually came North."
"Did you think I would not?"
"I hoped, but hope and certainty are different things."
You stayed a month at Akso, learning the castle, meeting the household, spending every possible moment with Caleb. Septa Josephine accompanied you everywhere at first, maintaining the appearance of propriety, though she gradually allowed you more freedom as it became clear that the Li household was honorable.
The godswood became your favorite place, the weirwood tree with its carved face, the hot springs steaming in the cold air, the sense of peace that settled over everything.
Caleb brought you there often.
"My mother used to pray here," he told you once, his hand in yours as you sat by the spring. "She said the old gods listened better when you spoke honestly. No pretty words, no formal prayers, simply truth."
"What would you tell them?" you asked curiously. "If you spoke honestly right now?"
He turned to you, his expression serious.
"I would tell them that I am grateful that I was given you when I expected nothing, that I am falling in love with you and I hope, I pray, you might be falling in love with me too."
Your answer was a kiss, and when you pulled away, you murmured against his lips, "I am."
Summer brought Caleb to Chansia for the harvest festival. Ten days of celebration, of stolen kisses in hidden alcoves, of promises made under stars.
Autumn brought him again, this time for five weeks. Long enough that the servants began to whisper. Long enough that your septa began to frown at how much time you spent alone together, always clothed, always proper, but alone nonetheless.
"People will talk," Septa Josephine warned this time.
"Let them," you said, reckless with the certainty of your coming marriage.
She had been right, they did talk.
The younger, newer servants gossip like ravens fly, constantly, with no regard for consequence. By the time Caleb departed, your reputation had been questioned. Not ruined but tainted by the simple fact that you had spent too much time alone with a man you were not yet wed to.
It did not matter that you are betrothed to him.
It did not matter that nothing had happened.
Your father was furious, but you did not care.
"The wedding must happen soon," he told you.
But then winter finally came, and with it, war.
The raven arrived in the dead of night.
Wildling raids along the Northern border had escalated into organized attacks, coordinated assaults, thousands of raiders pouring over the Wall. Lord Li was calling his banners.
The war Chansia's men had been promised for was finally here.
Your father mobilized immediately. Ten thousand men, as agreed. Supplies, weapons, everything that had been negotiated.
Caleb came to say goodbye.
He arrived early one morning, just as dawn was beginning to break. A servant woke you up, urgently knocking, whispering words that Lord Caleb is here and requesting to see you immediately.
You dressed hastily, your hands shaking as you pulled on your robe over your nightdress. By the time you reached the great hall, your mother was already there in her dressing gown, Septa Josephine with her who was trying to protest when Caleb asked to see you alone.
But your lady mother took one look at Caleb’s face, exhausted, terrified, heartbreakingly young in his travel-worn leathers, and made her decision.
“Let them have this moment,” she said quietly to your septa, then turned as she saw you enter. “Be discreet, sweetling. Use the servant’s passage to your chambers. Make sure no one sees.”
“Mother–,” you began, but she cut you off with a gentle smile and a hand to your cheek.
“He is going to war,” she said softly. “Let me worry about propriety. You just…” Her voice caught. “You say what needs to be said.”
So you led Caleb to your chambers, through the hidden passages meant for the servants. Your heart is pounding, from fear, from the knowledge that this might be goodbye.
"Father wants me at Driftmere, the Northern border," he said without preamble, sitting on the edge of your bed like his legs would not hold him. "My men leave in three days."
Your stomach dropped.
The Northern border was too close to the Wall, too close to where the wildlings were.
"Zayne will be with Father in Anlan, at the Eastern front. They are splitting our forces. Zayne commands the cavalry, I take the infantry to reinforce the border fortifications." He grabbed your hands, held them too tight. "William will be with me. Zayne's best friend, from House Poole. Zayne asked him to watch over me, to keep me safe."
"Because Zayne thinks you are not ready?"
"Perhaps he is right." Caleb's laugh was bitter. "But ready or not, I march in three days."
You pulled him close, and somehow you both ended up lying on your bed fully clothed, his arms around you, your head on his chest listening to his heartbeat. The sun was beginning to rise outside your window, painting the horizon in shades of pink and gold.
"Look," Caleb whispered, turning your face toward the window. "When we are married, when you come North, some mornings the sun rises over the mountains just like that. Pink and gold, and the snow looks like it is on fire. It is the most beautiful thing I have ever seen." He paused. "Except for you."
Tears slipped down your cheeks.
"Do not talk about after. Talk about now." You begged.
"Now I have to leave you," he said, voice breaking. "Now I have to march to war and pray I am strong enough, brave enough, lucky enough to come back."
You pressed closer to him, breathing in his scent, leather and pine and something uniquely him that you wanted to memorize.
"When you come back," you said fiercely, "when this war ends, we marry immediately and we will have children. Many children."
"Many?" He managed a small laugh. "How many?"
"At least three," you said, trying to sound certain, trying to make the future feel real. "Two boys and a girl, perhaps. Or two girls and a boy."
"What will we name them?"
You were quiet for a moment, thinking of the future you so desperately wanted to build.
"For a girl... Jasmine, after the flowers I will miss most when I come North."
"Jasmine," he repeated softly. "I love that. She will be beautiful and sweet-smelling and remind you of home."
"And strong," you added. "Strong enough for the North."
"Like her mother." His arms tightened around you. "And for boys?"
"You choose," you murmured. "They will be your sons. Northern names for Northern boys."
"No," Caleb said quietly. "Names we choose together, when I come back. We will sit in the godswood by the hot springs, and we will plan everything, their names, their futures, the life we will build." His voice broke. "When I come back."
You turned in his arms, looked up at him. His eyes were wet, his expression raw with fear and love and desperate hope.
"Promise me you will come back."
"I promise," he responded. "When this is over, we will have everything we have dreamed of."
"Promise me," you repeated firmly.
"I swear by the old gods and the new, I swear it."
The sun rose fully, flooding your room with golden light. Outside your door, you could hear servants beginning their morning routines.
The real world was finally calling.
Caleb pressed one last kiss to your forehead, your cheeks, your lips.
"I have to go," he said, though he made no move to release you.
"Not yet," you begged. "Please, just a few more minutes."
So he held you until your septa's scandalized knock came at the door. Until the world outside demanded his attention. Until there was no more time left.
When he finally stood, adjusting his cloak, you memorized everything about him, the way his dark hair fell across his forehead, the exact shade of his eyes in the morning light, the curve of his mouth when he tried to smile for you.
"I love you," he said at the door, his hand on the frame. "Remember that. Whatever happens, remember that I love you."
"I love you too. Come back to me, Caleb. Please come back."
He smiled, though it did not reach his eyes.
"For you? I would fight through a thousand wildlings."
Then he was gone.
You stood at your window and watched him ride away, his dark cloak disappearing into the morning mist. The pink and gold sunrise he had described faded into ordinary daylight.
You did not know that the life you would build would be nothing like the one you had dreamed of in his arms.
But in that moment, you still had hope.
And hope, however fragile, was enough.
You did not know it would be the last time you saw him alive.
You received letters from Caleb when you could.
Not often, he was where the attacks were heavy, fighting day after day against an enemy that seemed endless, but when the ravens came, you devoured every word.
He wrote about the cold. About how winter at Driftmere that made Akso's climate seem mild by comparison. About watching men freeze to death in their sleep, about frostbite taking fingers and toes and noses.
The first winter of the war, you made him a favor.
You spent weeks embroidering a kerchief of fine linen with winter roses in blue thread, your initials and his intertwined in the corner, and you sewed a ribbon the color of your house along the edge.
You sent it with a raven, along with a letter.
For the coldest nights, when you need to remember that winter roses survive the cold. That we will survive, that I am waiting for you.
His response came a month later.
I will keep it over my heart always, he wrote. When the fighting is the worst, when I am certain I will not survive the day, I press my hand to my chest and feel it there. The winter roses you embroidered remind me that even in the deepest cold, beautiful things survive and that you are waiting for me. And that I have something worth fighting for.
He wrote about William, who had saved his life twice now.
Zayne chose well, Caleb wrote. William is the best swordsman I have ever seen. He watches my back the way Zayne would if he were here. I am grateful for him, even if it reminds me daily that my brother thinks I need protecting. He is more than Zayne’s friend now, he is mine too. He keeps me sane when the darkness threatens to overwhelm.
After reading that letter, you sat down and embroidered a second favor. Simpler than Caleb’s, but made with care, a small token of gratitude for a man keeping your betrothed alive. You sent it with the next raven heading North, with a note that says:
For William of House Poole, with my deepest thanks for protecting what I hold most dear.
Weeks later, Caleb wrote back.
William was moved beyond words when he received your favor. He keeps it tucked in his armor, says it brings him luck. He swears he will keep me safe if only to one day meet the lady kind enough to think of him. You have made a loyal friend, even if he is one you have never met.
That summer, you made a third and final one, a plain kerchief of linen with House Li’s sigil for Zayne. It felt like a proper thing to do, a gesture of courtesy for your future good-brother. You sent it without fanfare and without an expectation of response.
Months passed before you received any acknowledgement.
A raven arrived, not from Caleb, but from Zayne himself. The letter was brief, formal, but there was something in the carefully chosen words that felt almost warm compared to the last you saw him.
My lady, I received your favor. Your courtesy is noted and appreciated. I am grateful for your kindness. The favor is kept safe.
Zayne Li of Akso.
That was all, but somehow, it was enough.
When you mentioned it to Caleb in your next letter, his response made you smile despite everything.
I am told that my brother actually smiled when he received your kerchief, Caleb wrote. His men said they had not seen him smile in months. One of them joked that perhaps the Ice Lord was melting. Zayne apparently gave him extra watch duty for the comment, but kept the kerchief nonetheless. I think perhaps my cold brother is not immune to kindness as he pretends.
In another letter, Caleb wrote about the enemy more. About how the wildlings fought with a ferocity born of desperation, how they seemed willing to die by the thousands to push South.
In the second year of the war, he wrote about something he had forgotten to mention.
I realized I never told you the most important part of our future, his letter began. When Father grants us our lands, we will need a house name. I have been thinking about this for months, and I believe I have found it.
House Xia, he wrote. It means “summer” in the old tongue of the East. I know it sounds strange for a Northern house, but hear me out, you are my summer. You are the warmth that keeps me alive in this frozen hell. You are the light that breaks through the darkness. When I think of our future, I think of warmth and light and life, I think of you.
For our sigil, I think of a snow leopard holding a winter rose in its jaws. The leopard for the North, fierce, protective, and able to survive the harshest conditions. The winter rose for you, for the beauty that blooms in the deepest cold, for a life that we will build together.
Enclosed was a sketch, rough but clear. The snow leopard, powerful and elegant, with a delicate winter rose held gently in its mouth. The contrast was striking, strength and beauty. The North and the South, Caleb and you.
You cried when you read it, pressing the letter to your chest.
You respond immediately.
House Xia is perfect. The sigil is perfect. You are perfect.
When you come home, we will make it real. We will plant winter roses around our keep, and our children will grow up knowing that even in the coldest winter, beautiful things survive, that love, our love survives.
His next letter carried even more details.
Father has officially approved the name and sigil. House Xia, cadet branch of House Li. Father has yet to choose lands that he will grant us but when this war is over, we will ride to wherever our lands will be, and begin building our life. Our children will be Lord and Ladies of House Xia, carrying both our legacies, Northern strength and Southern grace.
The letters continued through the second year and the third, though they grew shorter as the fighting intensified. Caleb wrote of small victories, of grounds gained and lost, of endless cold and exhaustion. But always, always, he wrote of coming home, of the future you would build.
At first, you told yourself it was the winter storms. Ravens could not fly in blizzards and could not navigate when snow fell so thick it blotted out the sky.
It was nothing.
It meant nothing.
When a letter finally came, five months after the last one, your hands shook so badly you could barely break the seal.
Forgive my silence, my love, Caleb wrote, and his handwriting was shakier than you remembered, the letters uneven. The fighting has been brutal. We lost half of our forces in a night raid three moons ago. William was wounded, he will recover, but it was close, too close. I thought I would lose him and with him, the last piece of home I have here.
I am so tired, the letter continued. Tired of fighting, tired of watching good men die, tired of this endless winter that seems like it will never end. Sometimes, I wonder if we will ever see spring again, if I will ever see you again.
But then I touch the favor you made, and I remember that something is worth surviving, that someone is worth coming home to, that you are waiting for me. Hold on for me, my love, just a little longer.
You read the letter a dozen times, searching for reassurance you could not find. The tone was darker than any that had come before. The hope that had sustained his earlier letters had thinned to something desperate.
You wrote back immediately, pouring every ounce of love and encouragement to the parchment. You told him of the spring flowers blooming in Chansia, about how you had started learning Northern customs so you would be ready for your new life, about the names you had been considering for your future children.
You begged him to hold on.
Two months passed before the next letter arrived.
William saved my life again, fourth time now. I have lost count. There was a fever going through the camp, half the men were sick and some were dying. I caught it three weeks ago. I do not remember much of it. William says I was out of my mind for days, calling out your name, fighting men who were trying to help me.
I am recovered now, but weak. William watches over me like a mother hen, says he made a promise to Zayne and he will not break it. I am grateful for him, even if I am tired of being protected like a child.
The war feels different now, desperate. The wildlings are starving, which makes them more dangerous. They have nothing to lose, neither do we.
I love you. I will come to you. I swear it.
You wrote back with reassurances you did not believe.
You will come home. You will survive this. We will be married, and this war will be a distant memory.
That was the last letter you received.
You waited for the next one.
Days became weeks, weeks became months.
Every time a raven arrived at your father’s keep, your heart would leap, then sink when it was not for you.
A raven arrived on a morning in late autumn, when the first frost had touched the gardens.
It had been six months since Caleb's last letter.
Six months of silence.
Six months of telling yourself that he was simply too busy to write, that the fighting was too intense, that the ravens could not fly in the conditions.
Six months of lying to yourself because the truth was too terrible to face.
You were in your mother's solar, pretending to work on embroidery, when your father's steward appeared in the doorway.
His face was ashen.
"My lady," he said to your mother, and his voice cracked. "A raven from the North."
Your mother took the rolled parchment with steady hands, but you saw them trembling as she broke the seal. The parchment was edged in black.
Dark wings, dark words.
You watched her face drain of color as she read, watched her lips press into a thin line, watched her eyes close briefly as if in pain.
"No," you said, standing up so fast your embroidery hoop clattered to the floor. "No, what does it say?"
Your mother looked at you, and in her eyes, you saw the end of everything.
"There was a battle," she said quietly. "At Driftmere, Lord Caleb fell in combat."
The words did not make sense.
They were sounds, meaningless syllables that could not possibly mean what they seemed to mean.
"Fell," you repeated. "Fell does not mean dead. It means wounded. Injured. He could be…"
"Sweetling…"
"He could be recovering! The letter might be old, it might have taken weeks to arrive, he could be fine now, he could be…"
"He is gone," your mother said, her voice breaking. "I am so sorry. He is gone."
"No." You shook your head violently. "No, that is wrong. There has been a mistake. Check the seal, check the name, it is someone else, it has to be someone else…"
"There is no mistake."
"Then the information is wrong! Someone made an error, they thought they saw him fall but he was only injured, he is recovering somewhere, he will send another letter, he promised he would come back, he swore it…"
"Sweetling, please…"
"He swore it!" Your voice cracked, rose to something close to a scream. "By the old gods and the new, he swore he would come home to me! He would not break that oath, he would not, he is alive, he has to be alive…"
Your mother pulled you into her arms, but you fought against her, pushing away, backing toward the door.
"I need to go North," you said, your words tumbling over each other. "I need to find him. He might be wounded, he might need help, I need to…"
"Stop." Your father's voice, from the doorway. You had not heard him enter. "Stop this. He is gone."
"You do not know that!"
"The raven came from Lord Zayne himself," your father said quietly, holding up another letter. "He writes that his brother’s body was brought to him by the remaining men from Driftmere and that he will lay him to rest in the Li family crypts. There is no mistake, daughter, Lord Caleb is dead. "
The words hit you like a physical blow.
Zayne, who never lied, who was made of duty and honor and cold Northern stone.
If Zayne said Caleb was dead, then…
No.
No, no, no.
"He promised," you muttered weakly, and your legs would not hold you anymore. You sank to the floor, your hands pressed to your chest where it felt like something was tearing open. "He promised he would come back. He swore it. We were going to build our house, we were going to have children, we were going to…"
Your mother knelt beside you, pulled you close even as you tried to push her away.
"He loved you," she whispered. "He loved you so much. He would have come back if he could."
But he had not come back.
He had broken his promise.
He had left you.
Caleb was dead.
The truth of it crashed over you in waves, each one pulling you under until you could not breathe, could not think, could not do anything except keen like a wounded animal.
You do not remember being carried to your room.
You do not remember the maester being summoned, or the sleeping draught he made you drink.
The next thing you remember clearly is waking in darkness, your throat raw from screaming, your eyes swollen shut from crying.
On your bedside table, the black stone Caleb had sent you caught the moonlight.
They remind me of your eyes, he had written.
Beside it, carefully folded, was his last letter. The one where he wrote about the fever, about recovery, about coming home.
I love you. I will come home to you. I swear it.
He had lied.
Or the world had lied to him.
Either way, he was gone.
You reached for the letter with shaking hands, pressed it to your chest, and wished desperately that you could follow him into death.
They let you grieve for two weeks.
Two weeks of darkness and silence, of meals brought and left uneaten, of your mother's worried visits and your father's heavy sighs.
Two weeks of existing in a space between sleep and waking, where sometimes you forgot and reached for a letter that would never come.
On the fifteenth day, your father summoned you to his solar.
You went like a ghost, hollow and insubstantial.
He was standing by the window when you entered, his hands clasped behind his back, and he did not turn around immediately.
"Sit down," he said finally.
You sat.
He was quiet for a long moment, staring out at the gardens where you and Caleb had once walked together. When he finally spoke, his voice was carefully controlled.
"The war is over," he said. "Victory was declared four weeks ago. The wildlings have been pushed back beyond the Wall."
Four weeks ago.
Before you even knew Caleb was dead, the war had already ended.
"Lord Li fell in the final attack at the Eastern front," your father continued. "He died securing the victory, and William of House Poole…" He paused. "He fell with Lord Caleb in the same battle.."
William.
The friend who had saved Caleb four times, who had kept your kerchief tucked in his armor for luck, who had promised to protect him.
They had died together.
You felt nothing. You were too empty to feel anything more.
"Zayne is now Lord of Akso," your father said, and something in his tone made you look up. "The last surviving son of House Li. The last of his family."
The silence stretched.
"The betrothal contract must be honored," your father said finally, still not looking at you. "The alliance between our houses is too important to dissolve, particularly now. The North is in chaos…some of the lords and their heirs dead, succession unclear, the realm recovering from three years of war."
The words took a moment to penetrate the fog in your mind.
When they did, you felt ice slide down your spine.
"Honored?" you repeated. "Father, Caleb is…"
"Dead. Yes, but Lord Zayne lives. He is now Lord of Akso, and the contract requires a marriage between our houses."
The room seemed to tilt sideways.
"You will marry Lord Zayne instead," your father continued, finally turning to face you. His expression was set, immovable. "The ceremony will take place in three weeks, at Akso Castle."
"No." The word came out barely a whisper.
"It has already been arranged."
"No," you said again, louder now, standing on shaking legs. "I cannot. I will not. I was betrothed to Caleb, I loved Caleb, I cannot be given to his brother like…like it does not matter who…"
"Lord Zayne insists," your father cut in, and something about the way he said it made you stop.
"What?"
"The raven came from him directly, not from his steward or from one of his bannermen, from Zayne Li himself." Your father's jaw tightened. "He writes that the contract must be fulfilled. He will honor his family's commitment to the alliance. He expects you to do the same."
You stared at him, uncomprehending.
Zayne insisted.
Zayne, who barely knew you. Zayne, who had looked at you with cold eyes during that one brief visit and said nothing warmer than a polite greeting.
Why would he insist on marrying his dead brother's betrothed?
"Does he even want this?" you asked desperately. "Did anyone ask him if he wants to marry someone he does not fully know, someone who had loved his brother?"
"Want is irrelevant," your father said flatly. "This is duty. For both of you."
"I cannot," you pleaded. "Father, please. I cannot marry Zayne. I cannot go North and pretend to be a dutiful wife when Caleb…when he…"
"You will," your father said, his voice hard as stone. "You agreed to marry a son of House Li, that contract remains binding. The alliance must hold."
"But…"
"There are no exceptions. Your feelings are irrelevant. The questions about your virtue…"
"My virtue?" You inhaled sharply. "Caleb never... we never..."
"It does not matter what did or did not happen. It matters what people think." Your father's expression was unyielding. "The servants talked. You spent too much time alone with him. Your reputation has been questioned since. Lord Zayne is offering you his name and protection and does not care whether his brother bedded you or not. You will be the lady of a great house and wife of the Warden of the North. You should be grateful."
"Grateful," you echoed, the word tasting like poison.
"Many women in your position would be unmarriageable. Lord Zayne is being generous."
Generous.
As if marrying you was charity.
As if taking you to replace his dead brother was some kind of favor.
"You are selling me," you said blankly. "Like a horse."
"I am securing your future," your father stated firmly. "You will go North and marry Zayne Li. You will honor this contract. That is final."
There was nothing else to say.
No argument that would move him, no plea that would soften him.
You were a daughter of House Chansia, and you would do your duty.
Even if it killed you.
⚜ Def of terms (based on GOT wiki, awoiaf.westeros.org):
short note before proceeding: these definitions are already simplified but i also added links to the definitions just in case
warden - is the title given to the head of the great houses in the realms of the kingdom.
septa - women who are sworn to celibacy and sometimes serve noble houses as governess or tutors to the daughters of lords
godswood - wooded sanctuaries within castle walls that were set aside as places of worship to the old gods.
weirwood - as described in the fic, these are trees with white barks with red leaves and sap. weirwood found in the godswood are considered as heart trees and have faces carved on their barks.
old gods/new gods - old gods are the nameless gods that were worshipped in the North, the wildlings, and the crannogmen; new gods are the gods worshipped by most of the people in the South, these are the gods of the Faith of the Seven, Seven as in 7 gods (Father, Mother, Warrior, Smith, Maiden, Crone, and Stranger)
maesters - an order of men who are intellectuals (scholars, healers, and advisors) who the serve noble houses
wildlings - or the free folk are the people who live in the lands beyond the wall or beyond the northern border of the kingdom. they have no political authority or hereditary titles except for the leaders they have choosen. okay listen, i love love love the wildlings and i wanted to add the wanderers as House Li's enemies instead of them, but i can't find a good way to fit the wanderers in the story.
The Reach - second largest kingdom in Westeros (i am still unfamiliar with all the locations in the game so i decided to leave the name as is, Westeros is the name of the whole continent in GOT but in this AU, we will refer to the continent as Philos) also the most populated and the most fertile region. if you have watched GOT or read ASOIAF, reader's family is supposed to be based on the Tully's (iykyk) but for this au, i picture them as either the Tarlys or Redwynes.
⚜ a/n #2: i apologize to the people who expected the raf or xavier fics or the final part for warlord!sylus. i had a really bad case of writer's block for several days and i suspect that i also had a burnout, i was writing all the arranged marriage fics at the same time, alternating when i have an idea and i guess i ended up overworking myself. i am doing better now though. i am very sorry again, i don't want to make promises on when i can post them but they are coming.
EXTRA EXTRA READ ALL ABOUT IT CALEB’S IN HIS FEELINGS AND HE CAN’T GET OUT OF IT…
Sypnosis: Caleb x non!mc — you find out he only used you in this marriage of three, and only had a child with you to prove to the world that he, Caleb Xia, had moved on. 7k words. Warnings: HURT NO COMFORT no seriously, x reader is a stretch. mentions of pregnancy, birth and cheating. selfish caleb. I like exploring his ego. A/N: Sorry for the wait. I smoked 7 cigs in the process of writing this (working through my 8th now as I do the formatting). this stemmed from a little ask that was just too angsty to write a simple blurb on. highly suggest listening to mitski while reading this/earrings by malcolm todd (of which the title originates from) for the maximum angst experience.
There were three of you in this marriage, so naturally, it was a bit crowded.
Part of you felt unbelievably happy to be at the altar with Caleb Xia, yet another part of you couldn’t ignore the nudging feeling that something was very wrong with your husband-to-be.
To the spectators of the wedding, Caleb seemed perfectly composed. Not that most of them would know him any better than you did of the man you were about to dedicate the rest of your life to. The audience of the simple wedding at the courthouse consisted of your family and friends, and for Caleb…well, the only three people who he invited were Gideon and…
And her. MC. Of course.
You’ve always had an idea of who she was. It was hard not to acknowledge the woman your husband was obsessed with, is still obsessed with. You knew how much MC weighed on Caleb’s heart, and you could only guess how much that weight doubled when MC, instead of marrying him, married some cardiologist friend of hers. And you could piece together that you were nothing more than a trophy of proof for Caleb to show that he had moved on.
Yet, you still naively believed that, just like any good fairy tale, Caleb would eventually fall in love with you.
But one look into his empty, loveless eyes, as he signed your marriage certificate, told you otherwise. The chaste, brief kiss you exchanged felt like more of an obligation to show to the wedding guests rather than a genuine embrace of a husband and wife.
But then again, you didn’t think you expected much more.
In fact, Caleb looked happier when after the ceremony, MC bounded up with him with a grin, patting his hair and congratulating him for getting married and finally, finally moving on. To which he blushed and replied to her with something inaudible to you.
So from the very beginning, there’s always been three there has always been three in the spaces you occupied with your husband, three at the altar (you wondered if Caleb had imagined it was MC standing in your place on your wedding day), three in the bed (you could even imagine MC lying in empty space inbetween you and Caleb as you slept, and three at the table (at first before Caleb had learnt more about you, the dishes he served were all reminecent of MC’s favourites). You knew MC haunted, haunts, your marriage. But like any good wife, you looked the other way and hoped for the best.
Although it was not that you expected for Caleb to start acting like your husband right off the bat (you told yourself he needed time to heal). Not that you expected him to treat you like MC. Not that you never stopped praying that the underdog (you) of the story may prevail eventually. Yet the silence in his cold, gray penthouse, the lack of physical touch between the two of you, the meals consumed in harrowing conversation (you’d have to give it to him for always trying to ask you how your day was everyday), the nights spent so far away from each other, was slowly convincing you that this marriage was nothing but one of convenience. All you did was try your best to keep holding onto the hope that maybe things would change with Caleb for the better.
About two years into the marriage, Caleb surprised you by asking if you could have a child together.
You were shocked he was the one to ask.
Your remembered first attempt at intimacy had gone miserably. You could freshly recall on your wedding night when Caleb had loomed over you in the darkness of the bedroom, his chest heaving - though he hadn’t moved to do anything, anything at all - with spots of tears forming in the crease of his eye. After ten minutes of silence, he rolled off you.
‘I— I’m sorry…I- I can’t.’
You had told him it was okay. And you never mentioned it again, so you were coloured surprised when Caleb meekly asked you, as if he thought you might get upset, to try for a baby.
Fortunately for him, it only took about three times before you presented him with a positive pregnancy test. Fortunately for you as well, since each attempt was very awkward, terrifyingly so. You had no idea where you should have out your hands, your legs, if he even wanted your hands on him— and neither did Caleb know what to do with his touch. You’d think he didn’t want a baby by how hesitant he was acting. However, eventually when you did hand him that test with two pink lines, Caleb’s face practically glowed. You had never seen your husband, in all these years of marriage, look so…happy, so much more like his actual age than the cold, gloomy colonel you were married to. For the first time, you saw the sunny Caleb that you only got to know through photos stuck in dusty albums in the corners of your home. He hugged you, kissed you, and laughed in relief.
Relief?
Honestly, you were somewhat relieved too. Usually, Caleb would be away for prolonged periods of time, always muttering about something to to with the fleet, a mission, training, before departing for sometimes weeks at a time, but ever since you got pregnant, Caleb cut back on prolonged duties and stayed by your side if he could. There was one thing you could never complain about him, was that when it really came down to it, Caleb was not a bad husband by the books. He constantly cooks, cleans, cares and caters for you, and even more so now, he’ll drop whatever is on hand at moment’s notice to come running to you if you said you felt the slightest bit of discomfort. Plus, with all the baby essentials Caleb had purchased, they had really livened up the house much more. You watch as he assembles them without the need to look at the instructions whilst sitting on the floor of the living room. As he fusses about with you taking the right supplements, about getting enough sleep…it’s cute. It’s the closest feeling you’ve ever experienced to having a real husband, despite being married for well over two years now.
On a muggy afternoon, you inched out of Caleb’s grasp (he has now found it in himself to sleep closer to you with one hand usually over your stomach if you allow it) and wobbled your way to the walk in closet for some airier clothes. As you sifted through the racks, you accidentally knocked out a few photos from Caleb’s colonel service coat, which fluttered down to the bottom of the closet. Crouching down (whilst you still could), you inspected the photos.
Oh.
It was a laminated photo of your baby’s ultrasound. Not just that, but on the edges of the photo, written neatly in his handwriting in pen, were the words: [name]’s ultrasound appointment on xx/xx/xxxx.
Adorable, you thought, that Caleb carried this around with him. You privately wondered if he would proudly show it off to his co-workers or his underlings. You hoped he might, maybe even boast a little about how lucky he and his wife was. You couldn’t help but smile to yourself, wondering if this marriage was finally taking a step into the right direction.
But right next to that photo was that necklace. When U Come Back. You knew very well the story behind that necklace, how MC had given it to him before he left for the aerospace academy. How he used to wear it, 24/7, but had at least the decency to stop wearing it at all times and only keep it on him, after he married you. Yes, at least he had the decency to now never take off your wedding bands. Your eyes glazed over the necklace again. Bitterly, you wondered if he’d ever want to carry a photo of him and you someday.
Nevermind. You dried your eyes quickly. At least in this marriage, both he and you, are getting something that you both wanted, something that you will both cherish more than anything.
A bouncing baby girl.
He wanted your baby. He needed your baby. He wanted to be a father, because he wanted to be a father, a nurturing, loving figure, right? And not for any other reason? Right?
Right.
Two weeks later, whilst tidying up the kitchen, your hand bumped against a bright yellow lunchbox patterned with little apple stickers, long forgotten beneath a pile of documents and papers. Fondly, you picked it up.
In the very earliest days of your marriage, you had done the domestic, wifely thing of making your husband a lunchbox before he departed for work every morning. And he had returned an empty box everytime, down to the last grain of rice being picked clean. You still remember the fuzzy feeling of seeing Caleb smile at you, thanking you for such a delicious meal, how his subordinates had all fawned over the presentation, how delicious it was, how lucky the colonel was to have such a lovely wife…
So why not do it again? You thought merrily, after all, you haven’t made him a packed lunch in a while. Maybe showing up at his work with a delicious lunchbox might perk him up. Excitedly, you got into your car and made your way down into central Skyhaven.
Entering the fleet HQ, you were immediately guided to your husband’s office.
You were about to turn the handle and step in - usually there weren’t much visitors in his office in the middle of the day - but a chorus of loud voices stopped you.
“And to Caleb! The newest dad-to-be!”
“The first of all of us to be a father, actually.”
You heard a round of clinking cups. It must be Caleb, inviting his flight school friends to celebrate the impending birth of your child. At his office though…strange. But it must be because he’s been so busy, he hardly had any time to go anywhere except his workplace and his home.
“Woah…no, no more.” You recognised that as Caleb’s voice. You could imagine his hand gliding over to cover the surface of his glass.
Drinking? In the middle of the day? Seriously? You snorted, hand going down on the handle again, But at least it’s to a good cause. Caleb being a new dad and all.
“But seriously. Here’s also to your marriage not being a total disaster!”
Your stopped before you could push against the door.
“It’s not. A total disaster.” Caleb said, his voice a bit slurred though not completely drunk.
“Yeah, yeah…we all know you had the hots for MC, but she ended up marrying that sexy doctor instead of the big bad colonel, didn’t she, oof—!”
A thud. Caleb had probably slammed whoever said that against the wall. A series of ‘ooohs’ followed.
“Kidding, kidding…”
“You better be.” Caleb dusted his hands off, sinking back into his seat. “I’ve long moved on from MC. I even have proof.”
“Oh yeah? Don’t tell me it’s—”
He pulled out the ultrasound picture that he kept in his uniform pocket, showing it to everyone in the room.
“I had a child with my wife. Can’t you see how much I’ve moved on already? I can have a child with someone who’s not MC. See?”
Tears stung your vision.
So thats what he was using that picture for.
Not for a happy memory’s keepsake, no. But to show the world that he, Colonel Caleb Xia, the yearner, the lover, the oh-so-perfect man…has moved on from his sweet MC.
…
You quickly threw the lunchbox you made away, and fled the building. You needed to get away from him, in that moment. You didn’t want to linger on in this kind of feeling anymore.
…
Time passes a lot quicker, you found, when it wasn’t just you in the house all day. With Caleb by your side (more or less constantly in the final few months of your pregnancy) the days had quickly passed. And before you knew it, there was a living, breathing infant in your arms.
The birth was easy, and again, you were grateful for Caleb’s support (he never left your side in those six hours, plus you’ve heard far too many horror stories of baby daddies bringing their Xbox, or not showing up at all…) though admittedly you swore at him multiple times and eventually snapped at him to wait outside. However, part of you feared he might react to an actual baby, his and your baby, with regret and hesitation. You couldn’t shake the fear that Caleb might feel prejudiced against a baby you made with him instead of one borne from him and MC. But those fears quickly evaporated when you saw Caleb crying, sniffling, holding the little pink bundle in his arms.
Both Caleb and you were overjoyed, though also albeit scared, naturally like most first-time parents. He was seriously dedicated at every step. Again, you’d have to give it to him for being a good dad.
After returning from the hospital, he never allowed you to get up in the middle of the night to soothe the baby. He never complained about doing the messy work that came with babies, often willingly taking care of all her wants every day as if trying to prove a point. He now even tries to come home earlier and go on less long-distance fleet missions to spend more time with the baby, something he’s never done for you in the time you were married. You watched as he poured his whole heart into being a good dad for a tiny little girl. A perfect masculine figure. Ever so sensitive to what she needed.
But what about what you needed?
Sometimes when you come home after a day out with your friends or a solo trip somewhere, the moment you open the door to your home, you feel as if your entire world is behind that doorway. That despite all the freedoms Caleb has given you in this marriage (the financial freedom, ‘you can go anywhere you want’ , you can do whatever you wish), your world had drastically shrank to the man sitting in the grey parlour, who wasn’t even facing you.
On other days, he wasn’t even there.
Gone to MC’s. Emergency.
….you weren’t exponentially surprised by the reason. Caleb frequently rushed to MC’s house to deal with her emergencies. At this point, you simply shrugged it off and continued on as you usually would. Only that when you went to the nursery to check on your daughter…
The crib was empty.
Your heart dropped. You had frantically dialled his number. No response. You racked your head for thousands of possibilities. Did someone take her? Did he mention he was taking her anywhere? Did he…did he take your child? Taking off with MC to a place where you’d never find him again? Did Caleb pack up and leave altogether? With your baby?
You told yourself it couldn’t be true. That he’d never do something like that. He wouldn’t. That Caleb is a good, kind man. But to what distances he would go for MC, you had no idea. All you knew was that you’d like it to be you instead of her.
Ten minutes later, you were banging the front door of MC’s house.
Surprisingly, it was her husband, Zayne, who answered.
“[name]? What are you doing here?” Zayne asked, surprised.
He didn’t even get to answer before you shoved past him, calling Caleb’s name.
“Caleb, Caleb?!” Your mind flashed with possibilities of where he could be. Maybe he was already gone. Maybe he took MC and drove up to the airport already. But surely not, his car was parked outside, and, and…
There he was. In MC’s backyard, sleeves rolled up, that stupid grin on his face as he…tacked a nail into a piece of plywood, MC hovering over him with a tray of lemonade. You stopped in your steps where the stone of the house met grass, calming down, as you watched your husband beam up at MC, sweat glistening down his muscular arms, droplets forming on his healthy skin, a damp V soaking the top of his t-shirt. Time seemed to slow as Caleb reached up, took a sparkling glass, smiling at MC gratefully, a smile so bright you’ve never seen in all those times you ever offered him something.
“Caleb!” You snapped, finally loud enough that he whipped his head around, MC too. “Caleb! Where’s our daughter—“
Before you could even hear his reply, a beaming MC gasped in delight and smothered you in a hug.
“[name]! You’re here too! That’s perfect, you should stay and have dinner! Ooh, I’ll tell Zayne to set an extra space at the table.” She spun around, shouting into the open patio doors. “ZAAAAAYNIIIIEEEEE?”
She talked at such a fast pace, you barely even got to get a word in on how you didn’t really want to stay for dinner, how you just wanted to demand where your daughter is and go home. In that moment, you didn’t even really care if your husband went home with you. But just as you opened your mouth…
“Aw, pips, there’s no need, I’m almost done with building this part already.”
MC pouted, that little, pathetic, faux-childish pout she always made at her dear gege.
“C’mon, Caleb, staying for dinner is the least you could do for me, after rushing over on such short notice to build Zachary’s treehouse.” She said, referring to hers and Zayne’s son. She turned to you and smiled, dropping her voice to a whisper, “Zayne is so useless when it comes to things like this, and my gege is the best!”
She turned back to Caleb. “And bringing your adorable little daughter too! I’ve been dying to meet her. You know I’ve asked you so many times already.”
You paused. “Wait a minute. You…asked Caleb to…to bring…”
“Yes!” MC replied, “I know she’s only a few months old, but all I’ve been asking Caleb is to let me meet my adorable niece!”
It was almost laughable. The ‘emergency’ that required Caleb’s immediate attention was the construction of a treehouse for MC’s son. You couldn’t help but wonder how many other of these such trips to her house that Caleb took were also something else, something less significant but labelled as an ‘emergency’.
You turned to Caleb, absolutely pissed.
“You. You took my daughter just like that? You took her without asking me?”
“I told you I was going to MC’s—“
“You didn’t tell me you were taking her!”
“I thought you would have assumed—“
Right. Like you should assume, like every other little bit of your marriage, you should have assumed that Caleb’s judgement was right. That your husband is doing his best for you. For this marriage. That you should assume every step he did, he was thinking of you first, and not MC. You should always assume. You’d be happier off that way.
But obviously, you were much more headstrong than Caleb let on. You were no longer the nervous blushing bride that had once optimistically stood by his side.
“You have no right to take her and tell me, her mother, to just assume anything about the safety of her own child.” You replied, in a tone that surprised Caleb so much, that he wasn’t sure how to reply.
MC, caught in the middle, immediately pushed in to diffuse the tension.
“Aw, don’t be like that, my sister-in-law.” She smiled, holding onto your arm. “Don’t blame Caleb, it’s my fault. I asked him to bring the baby.”
“No, no.” Caleb cut in, standing up and putting a hand onto MC’s shoulder. “Don’t blame yourself.”
He turned to you, frowning. “[name], I think we’ve just blown this way out of proportion. No one’s been hurt and you’re acting if I’ve kidnapped someone!”
“You know that’s not what I—“
“Come on.” Caleb gently took your hand, herding you towards the house. “Our daughter’s fine. She’s asleep upstairs.”
He led you past the living room, past the kitchen where a frazzled Zayne stood, wordlessly watching as Caleb led you up the staircase and into the nursery, familiar with the layout as if it was his own house, to where your daughter was sleeping peacefully in their son’s old crib.
“See?” Caleb sighed, “Nothing’s wrong. You got all worked up over nothing.”
You wanted to yell and him and tell him that this wasn’t nothing. That somehow ‘nothing’ always seemed to be associated with his behaviour with MC, and that none of what happened concerning MC in your marriage could just be swept under the rug like that. Maybe that’s how he preferred it, you thought bitterly.
“I want to go home.” Was your only reply.
Caleb’s shoulders slackened. “C’mon, let’s just stay for dinner…”
“I want. To go. Home.”
Your husband seemed to give up this case, and sighed. “Alright.” He replied, “Let me get my jacket.”
Suddenly, both of your heads turned, as you heard MC rap her hand against the nursery doorframe.
“Caleb…can I just speak with you for a second before you go…?”
You wanted to question if she had been lurking outside, listening, but Caleb cut in front of you.
“Of course.” He replied.
He took MC by her shoulder“We’ll just be a minute.” He called to you.
“You don’t mind, do you?” MC asked graciously.
“Sure.” You replied evenly. “I’ll just be in here. Come get me when you’re done, okay? I’ll dress our daughter to leave.”
You saw Caleb nod, before escorting MC down the stairs. You made sure they both saw you close the nursery door.
You mad good on your promise to stay in the nursery and dress your fussy little daughter (who was looking more like Caleb by the day). Five minutes later, gently creaking open the nursery door, you snuck outside, thinking they’d finished their conversation already. But you realised they hadn’t gone far. As you stood on the stairs with your back against the side of the wall, you could clearly hear Caleb and MC talking in the living room behind the staircase.
Their words made your heart beat out of your chest.
“Is your wife always so…uptight?” You heard MC mumble, her voice suddenly sultrier than before.
“No, she’s just…” You heard Caleb began.
I’m just what, Caleb?
“…she’s just emotional, that’s all.”
You heard MC snort. “Emotional? Hardly. I seem to remember that at your wedding, she was ever so meek and crittery, so nervous, so deferent, so grateful to marry the big strong colonel…” She sighed, “And I thought that, y’know, hey! She might do a lot of good for you. She’s like a squeaky mouse, just like another version of me, how I was your ‘pipsqueak’…” Her voice suddenly dropped to a whine.
“I thought maybe you found a better replacement.”
You heard sounds that indicated that Caleb stepped forwards to hug her.
“MC…nothing and nobody could ever replace you.” Caleb said gently.
They were silent for a long time. Wetness had began to gloss your eyes.
“Well…on that happy note…” MC mumbled, “I have some news for you.”
“Hm? What is it?”
“I’m…” She giggled, “I’m expecting.”
“You’re what?!” You heard Caleb exclaim.
“Shhhh! I said I’m expecting. I’m going to have another baby.” MC replied hushedly.
“Oh wow…congratulations!” Caleb laughed. “Guess I’m ready to be uncle to another mini-zayne, huh?”
MC let out a small happy sigh. “Not quite.”
“What do you mean? Do you think this baby’s going to look more like you, or—”
“No, no…”
A pause. MC gazed up at your husband, clasping his hands.
“Caleb…the baby is yours.”
…
You couldn’t bear to hear the rest of the conversation. You sprinted back up the stairs, going back into the darkness of the nursery. You hated yourself for it, but you couldn’t help but sob, sob over this marriage which you’ve always held hope to, this marriage which, admittedly, up to that moment you were still clinging onto the hope that things may turn to the better, that your fate might change, that this wasn’t all a mistake, that your marriage wasn’t just a helpless fantasy on your part…
But look at you now.
Crying on the floor of the house which belonged to the woman who your husband was obsessed with. Crying with a baby that was only born into the world to prove a point for your husband, to prove that he had moved on. Or worse, your poor baby daughter wasn’t even born to prove a point anymore, she had only served to prove a lie, a lie that was quickly unravelling at the hands of the man who demanded her existence.
Caleb…oh, Caleb.
Your tears stopped when you heard someone coming up the stairs. Immediately, you dried your eyes and stood up, trying to slow down your breaths and calm yourself down. You refused to face your husband like this. You refused to make a scene. Not now, anyway.
“Ready to go?” He asked, pushing the door open.
You didn’t turn for a second. In that moment, time seemed to stop.
Slowly, you turned to him, your daughter held tightly in your arms.
“Sure.” You smiled, “Let’s go home.”
…
Home. Such a funny word.
As you watched the glowing skyscrapers pass you in the passenger seat, you suddenly felt very calm. The air was wet from rain, and a cool summer breeze had began to sweep through the night. You thought you might feel rage, or resentment, but instead…all you felt was a strange sense of sereneness. You were disappointed at Caleb, sure, but not as surprised as you thought you’d feel.
Which felt worse than being angry.
You’d rather feel that rush of adrenaline, make a scene, throw something at his face and scream at him and cry and slap him, maybe, but no, no, all you felt was a churning pit of emptiness in the pits of your stomach. Your belly empty, while MC’s swelled with life. His life.
“What do you want to have for dinner when we get back home?” Caleb asked you, breaking the silence.
You shrugged, wondering when, or if that all, he was going to confirm for you what you had overheard.
“Don’t be like that.” He nudged you with a half smile, “You can pick anything. Anything at all to eat, it’s up to you.”
You didn’t want to eat with him. Even the thought of sitting at the same table, across him, made you feel sick. The thought of your mouth wrapping around the utensils that once touched his mouth, his mouth that once warmed MC’s tongue. Biting into food prepared by his hands, his hands that once traveled across MC’s naked skin. A sickening scene.
You didn’t want anything to do with him.
“I’d rather you decide.” Came your firm reply. “Since you seem to decide everything that goes on around here.”
Caleb sighed, a long heavy drag. “[name], I don’t know what you want me to tell you.” He spun the wheel, pulling into the familiar street. “So can we please just drop the attitude?”
“What attitude?” You asked, fluttering your lashes as often MC did when she wanted to appease her dearest gege, “I really don’t mind what we eat. Why would I?”
“[name].” He said more seriously, “Please. I don’t want a scene. Our baby’s asleep in the back and I’d really like to keep it that way.”
Right, so you’d be fine having an argument if our daughter wasn’t here. Speaking of children…
“MC’s looked glowing today, don’t you think?” You mentioned, sliding out of the passenger’s seat almost the second Caleb rolled the car into the driveway.
He shot you a strange look as he unlatched your daughter from her baby seat in the back. “Yes…she did. Why do you ask?”
You shrugged innocently, unlocking the front door, “Nothing, I just meant that motherhood agrees with her.”
Caleb said nothing in reply. You watched as he carried your daughter inside, not a muscle in his face giving away a single hint of suspicion or anxiety. You knew what kind of man your husband was. It wouldn’t be so easy to gauge out the truth from him, or any semblance of emotion he didn’t want to express for that matter. But you were expecting this.
“Do you think she’s going to have another one?” You said coquettishly, shrugging off your coat.
He couldn’t help it this time. You watched from behind as his shoulder twitched, ever so slightly, for not even half a second.
“I wouldn’t know.” Caleb replied, his tone ordinary, “I wouldn’t be surprised if she did. She and Zayne are a happy couple, after all.”
Your husband would have made a great actor, you thought humorlessly. You wondered if he was tearing himself apart inside.
“Actually.” You raised your hand, smiling. “I don’t want dinner.”
Caleb turned, cocking an eyebrow at you. “What? But you—”
“I’m not hungry anymore.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.” You nodded, one foot on the stairs. “I’m going to bed early. It’s been a long day.”
“But it’s only—“
“Goodnight, Caleb.”
“…goodnight.”
…
Weeks had passed. You’ve continued to act as if nothing had gone wrong. Caleb went to work, came back from work, cooked, played with your baby girl (who was now crawling all over the place) and went to bed. The only aspect that he felt…off, about, was how pacified you acted now.
You didn’t pepper him with questions about his day anymore.
You weren’t there to ask if he was feeling alright the moment he came home.
You couldn’t even bring yourself to stand closer to him.
It was as if the marriage had undergone mitosis and split itself in two, as if the straining cell it had once been has finally pulled away from the other half. All that remained was two individuals, standing inches apart in the kitchen, sitting a meter away in the living room, sleeping in beds that felt miles away from each other at night.
Your scents didn’t even mingle together anymore. The air in your home felt stagnant. You were sure that if you hadn’t got used to it, if you weren’t you for a second and you had visited your current home for the first time, you would assume that there were no inhabitants in it at all.
You could imagine it now. The edge of the scissors pulling the winding umbilical cord into a taught triangular shape in the sterile air, about to snap shut, about to separate the two entities, mother snd baby, to deliver individuality and freedom to both…there just needed to be a little push. A little force. Just a little more, and you would be able to forever sever this rotting chord that ties you to this marriage .
Every day, Caleb would come home and wonder what changed your demeanor so much. And you’d wonder when your husband would grow the balls to tell you that MC is pregnant with his baby.
He didn’t on week one. Or two. Or three. Or four. And as you can guess…
He didn’t speak a word when MC posted a gender reveal (week 19) online, the cutting of the triple-tiered cake revealing flamingo-pink insides. Caleb liked that post, you saw.
He also didn’t mention a word when MC announced a baby shower (week 28), which you were also invited to (the gall. can you imagine the audacity?). You had acted perfectly amicable, presenting MC with a hug and a basket of gifts. Caleb had gone to congratulate Zayne. You couldn’t help but chuckle at the irony.
By the time the date hit 30 weeks after you overheard their conversation, you had had enough.
If Caleb was going to be a coward about it, then you would force him to confront the truth.
…
Week 34 was fast approaching. You knew a normal pregnancy would end at about 37 weeks to 40, so when Caleb, suddenly, in the middle of your morning shot up from his seat after answering a call, you were surprised.
“What’s wrong?” You asked.
“MC had th—her baby.”
“Already?” You hummed. “It’s a bit early, isn’t it?”
“Yes.” Caleb gasped, practically sprinting to put on his jacket hanging by the bannister, “That’s why I need to go see her. Now.”
“No wait!” You stood up, grabbing his wrist. “I’m coming too.”
“No.” He replied. “You shouldn’t. Someone needs to stay home with our daughter. And I won’t be long.”
“No, no!” You chirped merrily, picking up your daughter from her high chair. “Let’s bring our baby. After all, she should get to know her new half-sister.”
You enjoyed watching the colour suddenly bleach from his face.
“What?” His tone was chilling, shaken, almost boyish.
“You heard me.” You fished out the car keys from the little ceramic dish near the front door. “Come on.“
“[name]—“
“I thought you were in a hurry to go.”
“[name].” Firmer, now.
“So let’s go.”
“[NAME]!” Caleb yelled. It was the first time he had yelled at you.
“What is it?” You blinked back.
Caleb’s eyes were bloodshot. His shoulders heaved.
“How long…have you known?”
“I think the better question is, Caleb,” Your face, he thought, was frighteningly unreactive. “When were you planning on telling me?”
He threw his hands down, turning away from you. “I was going to tell you today. After the baby was born.”
“So you can force me to face the consequences of your actions? If I like it or not? Is that why?”
“No! Don’t put words in my mouth.” He faced you again. “I was going…I was going to…”
“To what?”
“To work something out.”
“And how was that going to end?”
“I—“
“I’ll tell you how that was going to end, Caleb Xia.” You stabbed your finger against his solid chest. “It would end in me having to make sacrifices. It would end up in me in pain, over and over again, just to cope with how you’ve decided to treat me! I will be the one at a loss while you, you will get what you’ve always wanted. Every decision you’ve made was never for me. It was always either for you or for MC! I don’t believe a word that comes out of your mouth when you tell me that you’ll ’work something out’. I know you’ll give me the short end of the straw. You already have, for every day we’ve been married. Yet you never realise, because of course in the end whatever happens would work out for you, because it always fucking does!”
“[name].” Caleb breathed, “Calm down.”
“Don’t tell me to—“
“I’ll be home as quick as I can.” He said, pulling on his shoes at the door. “And then we’ll settle this.”
You laughed.
“Oh, Caleb.”
You watched as he glanced at you from the corner of his eye.
“I’m sure you’ll find yourself right at home.” You said with a smile.
…
“Caleb, come quick!” MC giggled, waving her hand to usher him in. “I just sent Zaynie to go out to the cafe to buy me some lunch.”
Caleb looked over at the bassinet, where a tiny wriggly baby wrapped in white lay. His lips broke out into a smile, a little wider than when he had first met his daughter with you, before gently, very gently reaching into the blankets, prying them apart, to reveal the scrunched up face of his new daughter.
He instantly folded, a finger stroking her wrinkly cheeks.
“Hey there, sweetheart…” Caleb cooed, as the baby made an uncommitted sound.
She was tiny. Wrinkly. But to Caleb, she was one of the cutest things he’s ever seen. She was part of him, and part of MC, after all.
Caleb took an awed breath in, as she fluttered her eyelashes, opening her eyes to reveal…
Big, green eyes.
Her eyes were green.
A bright, mocking, hazel.
Just.
Like.
Her father’s.
Zayne.
…
“What the fuck?” Caleb spun to MC, “You said—“
“Well…” MC smiled devilishly, a telltale sign that she knew the entire time, “I assumed wrong, I guess.”
“But you told me it was from that one night when—“
“There’s no way I could have conceived her with you from just one night, compared to how many times I’ve fucked Zayne around the same time.” She noticed Caleb wince in uncomfort at the mention of her activities with her husband. “You were right. Aren’t you always, gege.”
“But—“
“Caleb, the baby isn’t yours.” MC snapped.
He stood by the beside, shellshocked.
She exhaled out of her nose, smoothing out her blankets. “There is no ‘but’ to it.”
Caleb let out an exasperated breath. “I can’t believe you lied to me. You lied to be about something this important!”
“I had to!” Suddenly, her voice turned an 180 and became a pitiful, little cry.
“Gege…I was trying to help you…you married [name] and seemed to be so upset all the time, so I had to think of a way to get you out of that marriage. And see, now…” She smiled, “She’s out of the picture and will never bother you again.”
“You don’t understand!” Caleb shook his wrist out of her grasp, “I would never have…have put [name] through all this if it wasn’t my child to begin with.“
“Come on, Cay, you’re just being selfish now.” MC picked at her nails, “It’s all for the best. You didn’t enjoy being married to her in the first place anyway. I can’t believe you went through all the trouble of having a kid with her just to prove that you were over me. You’re so pathetic, gege.” She chuckled.
Caleb felt as if he could not move. MC’s voice seemed to become a distant echo, until…
“Gege?”
He snapped back into reality. Caleb frantically began pulling on his jacket, turning his back to MC, his shallow breaths filling the room.
“Gege, don’t go.” She said softly, “It’s all for the best. You’ll still be an uncle to the baby. To our family. We’ll be together again, aren’t you happy about that?”
Caleb’s hand tightened on the door. He turned to look at MC, with the most hollow look in his eyes she’d ever seen him possess. Emptier even than the time she renounced him as her gege.
“No.” He replied curtly, pushing the door open.
“Caleb Xia.” MC barked. “Xia Yizhou!”
For the first time, Caleb didn’t look back to her.
…
Caleb wasn’t sure how many speed limits he broke while making his way home, but from the look of the bumper, he should be expecting a few tickets soon.
He was in a daze as he got out of the car, almost stumbling to the front door of the house, unlocking it.
He was ready. To apologise. To kneel before you and beg for forgiveness.
Anything at all.
To go back to the beginning. To make things right, as they should be between a husband and his wife.
To be a family. You, him and your precious baby, that you gave him.
He opened the door.
The house was silent.
Almost empty.
Empty…
The empty table. The empty living room. The empty bedrooms. The empty nursery. It was as if the house had reversed to its first day Caleb had moved in, where every inch was shrouded by plastic wrap and packed in cardboard. When no life had been breathed into his home.
A home without love is just a house, after all. How long had Caleb been trying to change that?
How long had he stayed, in denial, that his goal had actually been long fulfilled?
Where are the people who made his house a home?
“[name]?” Caleb called out. “[name]? Where are you?”
A prickling feeling creeped up against his spine as Caleb made his way back into the kitchen, where you had the fight just before he left. The plates had been cleared away, leaving only a sticky note taped onto the table.
You finally got your dream. I hope you can be happier with MC and your family with her. It’s all for the best. Love, [name] :)
Caleb fell to his knees.
A choked cry echoed through the house.
What dream? What family?
What had he forsaken to chase after his selfish needs?
EXTRA EXTRA READ ALL ABOUT IT CALEB’S IN HIS FEELINGS AND HE CAN’T GET OUT OF IT…
Sypnosis: Caleb x non!mc — you find out he only used you in this marriage of three, and only had a child with you to prove to the world that he, Caleb Xia, had moved on. 7k words. Warnings: HURT NO COMFORT no seriously, x reader is a stretch. mentions of pregnancy, birth and cheating. selfish caleb. i like exploring his ego. A/N: Sorry for the wait. I smoked 7 cigs in the process of writing this (working through my 8th now as I do the formatting). this stemmed from a little ask that was just too angsty to write a simple blurb on. highly suggest listening to mitski while reading this/earrings by malcolm todd (of which the title originates from) for the maximum angst experience.
There were three of you in this marriage, so naturally, it was a bit crowded.
Part of you felt unbelievably happy to be at the altar with Caleb Xia, yet another part of you couldn’t ignore the nudging feeling that something was very wrong with your husband-to-be.
To the spectators of the wedding, Caleb seemed perfectly composed. Not that most of them would know him any better than you did of the man you were about to dedicate the rest of your life to. The audience of the simple wedding at the courthouse consisted of your family and friends, and for Caleb…well, the only three people who he invited were Gideon and…
And her. MC. Of course.
You’ve always had an idea of who she was. It was hard not to acknowledge the woman your husband was obsessed with, is still obsessed with. You knew how much MC weighed on Caleb’s heart, and you could only guess how much that weight doubled when MC, instead of marrying him, married some cardiologist friend of hers. And you could piece together that you were nothing more than a trophy of proof for Caleb to show that he had moved on.
Yet, you still naively believed that, just like any good fairy tale, Caleb would eventually fall in love with you.
But one look into his empty, loveless eyes, as he signed your marriage certificate, told you otherwise. The chaste, brief kiss you exchanged felt like more of an obligation to show to the wedding guests rather than a genuine embrace of a husband and wife.
But then again, you didn’t think you expected much more.
In fact, Caleb looked happier when after the ceremony, MC bounded up with him with a grin, patting his hair and congratulating him for getting married and finally, finally moving on. To which he blushed and replied to her with something inaudible to you.
So from the very beginning, there’s always been three there has always been three in the spaces you occupied with your husband, three at the altar (you wondered if Caleb had imagined it was MC standing in your place on your wedding day), three in the bed (you could even imagine MC lying in empty space inbetween you and Caleb as you slept, and three at the table (at first before Caleb had learnt more about you, the dishes he served were all reminecent of MC’s favourites). You knew MC haunted, haunts, your marriage. But like any good wife, you looked the other way and hoped for the best.
Although it was not that you expected for Caleb to start acting like your husband right off the bat (you told yourself he needed time to heal). Not that you expected him to treat you like MC. Not that you never stopped praying that the underdog (you) of the story may prevail eventually. Yet the silence in his cold, gray penthouse, the lack of physical touch between the two of you, the meals consumed in harrowing conversation (you’d have to give it to him for always trying to ask you how your day was everyday), the nights spent so far away from each other, was slowly convincing you that this marriage was nothing but one of convenience. All you did was try your best to keep holding onto the hope that maybe things would change with Caleb for the better.
About two years into the marriage, Caleb surprised you by asking if you could have a child together.
You were shocked he was the one to ask.
Your remembered first attempt at intimacy had gone miserably. You could freshly recall on your wedding night when Caleb had loomed over you in the darkness of the bedroom, his chest heaving - though he hadn’t moved to do anything, anything at all - with spots of tears forming in the crease of his eye. After ten minutes of silence, he rolled off you.
‘I— I’m sorry…I- I can’t.’
You had told him it was okay. And you never mentioned it again, so you were coloured surprised when Caleb meekly asked you, as if he thought you might get upset, to try for a baby.
Fortunately for him, it only took about three times before you presented him with a positive pregnancy test. Fortunately for you as well, since each attempt was very awkward, terrifyingly so. You had no idea where you should have out your hands, your legs, if he even wanted your hands on him— and neither did Caleb know what to do with his touch. You’d think he didn’t want a baby by how hesitant he was acting. However, eventually when you did hand him that test with two pink lines, Caleb’s face practically glowed. You had never seen your husband, in all these years of marriage, look so…happy, so much more like his actual age than the cold, gloomy colonel you were married to. For the first time, you saw the sunny Caleb that you only got to know through photos stuck in dusty albums in the corners of your home. He hugged you, kissed you, and laughed in relief.
Relief?
Honestly, you were somewhat relieved too. Usually, Caleb would be away for prolonged periods of time, always muttering about something to to with the fleet, a mission, training, before departing for sometimes weeks at a time, but ever since you got pregnant, Caleb cut back on prolonged duties and stayed by your side if he could. There was one thing you could never complain about him, was that when it really came down to it, Caleb was not a bad husband by the books. He constantly cooks, cleans, cares and caters for you, and even more so now, he’ll drop whatever is on hand at moment’s notice to come running to you if you said you felt the slightest bit of discomfort. Plus, with all the baby essentials Caleb had purchased, they had really livened up the house much more. You watch as he assembles them without the need to look at the instructions whilst sitting on the floor of the living room. As he fusses about with you taking the right supplements, about getting enough sleep…it’s cute. It’s the closest feeling you’ve ever experienced to having a real husband, despite being married for well over two years now.
On a muggy afternoon, you inched out of Caleb’s grasp (he has now found it in himself to sleep closer to you with one hand usually over your stomach if you allow it) and wobbled your way to the walk in closet for some airier clothes. As you sifted through the racks, you accidentally knocked out a few photos from Caleb’s colonel service coat, which fluttered down to the bottom of the closet. Crouching down (whilst you still could), you inspected the photos.
Oh.
It was a laminated photo of your baby’s ultrasound. Not just that, but on the edges of the photo, written neatly in his handwriting in pen, were the words: [name]’s ultrasound appointment on xx/xx/xxxx.
Adorable, you thought, that Caleb carried this around with him. You privately wondered if he would proudly show it off to his co-workers or his underlings. You hoped he might, maybe even boast a little about how lucky he and his wife was. You couldn’t help but smile to yourself, wondering if this marriage was finally taking a step into the right direction.
But right next to that photo was that necklace. When U Come Back. You knew very well the story behind that necklace, how MC had given it to him before he left for the aerospace academy. How he used to wear it, 24/7, but had at least the decency to stop wearing it at all times and only keep it on him, after he married you. Yes, at least he had the decency to now never take off your wedding bands. Your eyes glazed over the necklace again. Bitterly, you wondered if he’d ever want to carry a photo of him and you someday.
Nevermind. You dried your eyes quickly. At least in this marriage, both he and you, are getting something that you both wanted, something that you will both cherish more than anything.
A bouncing baby girl.
He wanted your baby. He needed your baby. He wanted to be a father, because he wanted to be a father, a nurturing, loving figure, right? And not for any other reason? Right?
Right.
Two weeks later, whilst tidying up the kitchen, your hand bumped against a bright yellow lunchbox patterned with little apple stickers, long forgotten beneath a pile of documents and papers. Fondly, you picked it up.
In the very earliest days of your marriage, you had done the domestic, wifely thing of making your husband a lunchbox before he departed for work every morning. And he had returned an empty box everytime, down to the last grain of rice being picked clean. You still remember the fuzzy feeling of seeing Caleb smile at you, thanking you for such a delicious meal, how his subordinates had all fawned over the presentation, how delicious it was, how lucky the colonel was to have such a lovely wife…
So why not do it again? You thought merrily, after all, you haven’t made him a packed lunch in a while. Maybe showing up at his work with a delicious lunchbox might perk him up. Excitedly, you got into your car and made your way down into central Skyhaven.
Entering the fleet HQ, you were immediately guided to your husband’s office.
You were about to turn the handle and step in - usually there weren’t much visitors in his office in the middle of the day - but a chorus of loud voices stopped you.
“And to Caleb! The newest dad-to-be!”
“The first of all of us to be a father, actually.”
You heard a round of clinking cups. It must be Caleb, inviting his flight school friends to celebrate the impending birth of your child. At his office though…strange. But it must be because he’s been so busy, he hardly had any time to go anywhere except his workplace and his home.
“Woah…no, no more.” You recognised that as Caleb’s voice. You could imagine his hand gliding over to cover the surface of his glass.
Drinking? In the middle of the day? Seriously? You snorted, hand going down on the handle again, But at least it’s to a good cause. Caleb being a new dad and all.
“But seriously. Here’s also to your marriage not being a total disaster!”
Your stopped before you could push against the door.
“It’s not. A total disaster.” Caleb said, his voice a bit slurred though not completely drunk.
“Yeah, yeah…we all know you had the hots for MC, but she ended up marrying that sexy doctor instead of the big bad colonel, didn’t she, oof—!”
A thud. Caleb had probably slammed whoever said that against the wall. A series of ‘ooohs’ followed.
“Kidding, kidding…”
“You better be.” Caleb dusted his hands off, sinking back into his seat. “I’ve long moved on from MC. I even have proof.”
“Oh yeah? Don’t tell me it’s—”
He pulled out the ultrasound picture that he kept in his uniform pocket, showing it to everyone in the room.
“I had a child with my wife. Can’t you see how much I’ve moved on already? I can have a child with someone who’s not MC. See?”
Tears stung your vision.
So thats what he was using that picture for.
Not for a happy memory’s keepsake, no. But to show the world that he, Colonel Caleb Xia, the yearner, the lover, the oh-so-perfect man…has moved on from his sweet MC.
…
You quickly threw the lunchbox you made away, and fled the building. You needed to get away from him, in that moment. You didn’t want to linger on in this kind of feeling anymore.
…
Time passes a lot quicker, you found, when it wasn’t just you in the house all day. With Caleb by your side (more or less constantly in the final few months of your pregnancy) the days had quickly passed. And before you knew it, there was a living, breathing infant in your arms.
The birth was easy, and again, you were grateful for Caleb’s support (he never left your side in those six hours, plus you’ve heard far too many horror stories of baby daddies bringing their Xbox, or not showing up at all…) though admittedly you swore at him multiple times and eventually snapped at him to wait outside. However, part of you feared he might react to an actual baby, his and your baby, with regret and hesitation. You couldn’t shake the fear that Caleb might feel prejudiced against a baby you made with him instead of one borne from him and MC. But those fears quickly evaporated when you saw Caleb crying, sniffling, holding the little pink bundle in his arms.
Both Caleb and you were overjoyed, though also albeit scared, naturally like most first-time parents. He was seriously dedicated at every step. Again, you’d have to give it to him for being a good dad.
After returning from the hospital, he never allowed you to get up in the middle of the night to soothe the baby. He never complained about doing the messy work that came with babies, often willingly taking care of all her wants every day as if trying to prove a point. He now even tries to come home earlier and go on less long-distance fleet missions to spend more time with the baby, something he’s never done for you in the time you were married. You watched as he poured his whole heart into being a good dad for a tiny little girl. A perfect masculine figure. Ever so sensitive to what she needed.
But what about what you needed?
Sometimes when you come home after a day out with your friends or a solo trip somewhere, the moment you open the door to your home, you feel as if your entire world is behind that doorway. That despite all the freedoms Caleb has given you in this marriage (the financial freedom, ‘you can go anywhere you want’ , you can do whatever you wish), your world had drastically shrank to the man sitting in the grey parlour, who wasn’t even facing you.
On other days, he wasn’t even there.
Gone to MC’s. Emergency.
….you weren’t exponentially surprised by the reason. Caleb frequently rushed to MC’s house to deal with her emergencies. At this point, you simply shrugged it off and continued on as you usually would. Only that when you went to the nursery to check on your daughter…
The crib was empty.
Your heart dropped. You had frantically dialled his number. No response. You racked your head for thousands of possibilities. Did someone take her? Did he mention he was taking her anywhere? Did he…did he take your child? Taking off with MC to a place where you’d never find him again? Did Caleb pack up and leave altogether? With your baby?
You told yourself it couldn’t be true. That he’d never do something like that. He wouldn’t. That Caleb is a good, kind man. But to what distances he would go for MC, you had no idea. All you knew was that you’d like it to be you instead of her.
Ten minutes later, you were banging the front door of MC’s house.
Surprisingly, it was her husband, Zayne, who answered.
“[name]? What are you doing here?” Zayne asked, surprised.
He didn’t even get to answer before you shoved past him, calling Caleb’s name.
“Caleb, Caleb?!” Your mind flashed with possibilities of where he could be. Maybe he was already gone. Maybe he took MC and drove up to the airport already. But surely not, his car was parked outside, and, and…
There he was. In MC’s backyard, sleeves rolled up, that stupid grin on his face as he…tacked a nail into a piece of plywood, MC hovering over him with a tray of lemonade. You stopped in your steps where the stone of the house met grass, calming down, as you watched your husband beam up at MC, sweat glistening down his muscular arms, droplets forming on his healthy skin, a damp V soaking the top of his t-shirt. Time seemed to slow as Caleb reached up, took a sparkling glass, smiling at MC gratefully, a smile so bright you’ve never seen in all those times you ever offered him something.
“Caleb!” You snapped, finally loud enough that he whipped his head around, MC too. “Caleb! Where’s our daughter—“
Before you could even hear his reply, a beaming MC gasped in delight and smothered you in a hug.
“[name]! You’re here too! That’s perfect, you should stay and have dinner! Ooh, I’ll tell Zayne to set an extra space at the table.” She spun around, shouting into the open patio doors. “ZAAAAAYNIIIIEEEEE?”
She talked at such a fast pace, you barely even got to get a word in on how you didn’t really want to stay for dinner, how you just wanted to demand where your daughter is and go home. In that moment, you didn’t even really care if your husband went home with you. But just as you opened your mouth…
“Aw, pips, there’s no need, I’m almost done with building this part already.”
MC pouted, that little, pathetic, faux-childish pout she always made at her dear gege.
“C’mon, Caleb, staying for dinner is the least you could do for me, after rushing over on such short notice to build Zachary’s treehouse.” She said, referring to hers and Zayne’s son. She turned to you and smiled, dropping her voice to a whisper, “Zayne is so useless when it comes to things like this, and my gege is the best!”
She turned back to Caleb. “And bringing your adorable little daughter too! I’ve been dying to meet her. You know I’ve asked you so many times already.”
You paused. “Wait a minute. You…asked Caleb to…to bring…”
“Yes!” MC replied, “I know she’s only a few months old, but all I’ve been asking Caleb is to let me meet my adorable niece!”
It was almost laughable. The ‘emergency’ that required Caleb’s immediate attention was the construction of a treehouse for MC’s son. You couldn’t help but wonder how many other of these such trips to her house that Caleb took were also something else, something less significant but labelled as an ‘emergency’.
You turned to Caleb, absolutely pissed.
“You. You took my daughter just like that? You took her without asking me?”
“I told you I was going to MC’s—“
“You didn’t tell me you were taking her!”
“I thought you would have assumed—“
Right. Like you should assume, like every other little bit of your marriage, you should have assumed that Caleb’s judgement was right. That your husband is doing his best for you. For this marriage. That you should assume every step he did, he was thinking of you first, and not MC. You should always assume. You’d be happier off that way.
But obviously, you were much more headstrong than Caleb let on. You were no longer the nervous blushing bride that had once optimistically stood by his side.
“You have no right to take her and tell me, her mother, to just assume anything about the safety of her own child.” You replied, in a tone that surprised Caleb so much, that he wasn’t sure how to reply.
MC, caught in the middle, immediately pushed in to diffuse the tension.
“Aw, don’t be like that, my sister-in-law.” She smiled, holding onto your arm. “Don’t blame Caleb, it’s my fault. I asked him to bring the baby.”
“No, no.” Caleb cut in, standing up and putting a hand onto MC’s shoulder. “Don’t blame yourself.”
He turned to you, frowning. “[name], I think we’ve just blown this way out of proportion. No one’s been hurt and you’re acting if I’ve kidnapped someone!”
“You know that’s not what I—“
“Come on.” Caleb gently took your hand, herding you towards the house. “Our daughter’s fine. She’s asleep upstairs.”
He led you past the living room, past the kitchen where a frazzled Zayne stood, wordlessly watching as Caleb led you up the staircase and into the nursery, familiar with the layout as if it was his own house, to where your daughter was sleeping peacefully in their son’s old crib.
“See?” Caleb sighed, “Nothing’s wrong. You got all worked up over nothing.”
You wanted to yell and him and tell him that this wasn’t nothing. That somehow ‘nothing’ always seemed to be associated with his behaviour with MC, and that none of what happened concerning MC in your marriage could just be swept under the rug like that. Maybe that’s how he preferred it, you thought bitterly.
“I want to go home.” Was your only reply.
Caleb’s shoulders slackened. “C’mon, let’s just stay for dinner…”
“I want. To go. Home.”
Your husband seemed to give up this case, and sighed. “Alright.” He replied, “Let me get my jacket.”
Suddenly, both of your heads turned, as you heard MC rap her hand against the nursery doorframe.
“Caleb…can I just speak with you for a second before you go…?”
You wanted to question if she had been lurking outside, listening, but Caleb cut in front of you.
“Of course.” He replied.
He took MC by her shoulder“We’ll just be a minute.” He called to you.
“You don’t mind, do you?” MC asked graciously.
“Sure.” You replied evenly. “I’ll just be in here. Come get me when you’re done, okay? I’ll dress our daughter to leave.”
You saw Caleb nod, before escorting MC down the stairs. You made sure they both saw you close the nursery door.
You mad good on your promise to stay in the nursery and dress your fussy little daughter (who was looking more like Caleb by the day). Five minutes later, gently creaking open the nursery door, you snuck outside, thinking they’d finished their conversation already. But you realised they hadn’t gone far. As you stood on the stairs with your back against the side of the wall, you could clearly hear Caleb and MC talking in the living room behind the staircase.
Their words made your heart beat out of your chest.
“Is your wife always so…uptight?” You heard MC mumble, her voice suddenly sultrier than before.
“No, she’s just…” You heard Caleb began.
I’m just what, Caleb?
“…she’s just emotional, that’s all.”
You heard MC snort. “Emotional? Hardly. I seem to remember that at your wedding, she was ever so meek and crittery, so nervous, so deferent, so grateful to marry the big strong colonel…” She sighed, “And I thought that, y’know, hey! She might do a lot of good for you. She’s like a squeaky mouse, just like another version of me, how I was your ‘pipsqueak’…” Her voice suddenly dropped to a whine.
“I thought maybe you found a better replacement.”
You heard sounds that indicated that Caleb stepped forwards to hug her.
“MC…nothing and nobody could ever replace you.” Caleb said gently.
They were silent for a long time. Wetness had began to gloss your eyes.
“Well…on that happy note…” MC mumbled, “I have some news for you.”
“Hm? What is it?”
“I’m…” She giggled, “I’m expecting.”
“You’re what?!” You heard Caleb exclaim.
“Shhhh! I said I’m expecting. I’m going to have another baby.” MC replied hushedly.
“Oh wow…congratulations!” Caleb laughed. “Guess I’m ready to be uncle to another mini-zayne, huh?”
MC let out a small happy sigh. “Not quite.”
“What do you mean? Do you think this baby’s going to look more like you, or—”
“No, no…”
A pause. MC gazed up at your husband, clasping his hands.
“Caleb…the baby is yours.”
…
You couldn’t bear to hear the rest of the conversation. You sprinted back up the stairs, going back into the darkness of the nursery. You hated yourself for it, but you couldn’t help but sob, sob over this marriage which you’ve always held hope to, this marriage which, admittedly, up to that moment you were still clinging onto the hope that things may turn to the better, that your fate might change, that this wasn’t all a mistake, that your marriage wasn’t just a helpless fantasy on your part…
But look at you now.
Crying on the floor of the house which belonged to the woman who your husband was obsessed with. Crying with a baby that was only born into the world to prove a point for your husband, to prove that he had moved on. Or worse, your poor baby daughter wasn’t even born to prove a point anymore, she had only served to prove a lie, a lie that was quickly unravelling at the hands of the man who demanded her existence.
Caleb…oh, Caleb.
Your tears stopped when you heard someone coming up the stairs. Immediately, you dried your eyes and stood up, trying to slow down your breaths and calm yourself down. You refused to face your husband like this. You refused to make a scene. Not now, anyway.
“Ready to go?” He asked, pushing the door open.
You didn’t turn for a second. In that moment, time seemed to stop.
Slowly, you turned to him, your daughter held tightly in your arms.
“Sure.” You smiled, “Let’s go home.”
…
Home. Such a funny word.
As you watched the glowing skyscrapers pass you in the passenger seat, you suddenly felt very calm. The air was wet from rain, and a cool summer breeze had began to sweep through the night. You thought you might feel rage, or resentment, but instead…all you felt was a strange sense of sereneness. You were disappointed at Caleb, sure, but not as surprised as you thought you’d feel.
Which felt worse than being angry.
You’d rather feel that rush of adrenaline, make a scene, throw something at his face and scream at him and cry and slap him, maybe, but no, no, all you felt was a churning pit of emptiness in the pits of your stomach. Your belly empty, while MC’s swelled with life. His life.
“What do you want to have for dinner when we get back home?” Caleb asked you, breaking the silence.
You shrugged, wondering when, or if that all, he was going to confirm for you what you had overheard.
“Don’t be like that.” He nudged you with a half smile, “You can pick anything. Anything at all to eat, it’s up to you.”
You didn’t want to eat with him. Even the thought of sitting at the same table, across him, made you feel sick. The thought of your mouth wrapping around the utensils that once touched his mouth, his mouth that once warmed MC’s tongue. Biting into food prepared by his hands, his hands that once traveled across MC’s naked skin. A sickening scene.
You didn’t want anything to do with him.
“I’d rather you decide.” Came your firm reply. “Since you seem to decide everything that goes on around here.”
Caleb sighed, a long heavy drag. “[name], I don’t know what you want me to tell you.” He spun the wheel, pulling into the familiar street. “So can we please just drop the attitude?”
“What attitude?” You asked, fluttering your lashes as often MC did when she wanted to appease her dearest gege, “I really don’t mind what we eat. Why would I?”
“[name].” He said more seriously, “Please. I don’t want a scene. Our baby’s asleep in the back and I’d really like to keep it that way.”
Right, so you’d be fine having an argument if our daughter wasn’t here. Speaking of children…
“MC’s looked glowing today, don’t you think?” You mentioned, sliding out of the passenger’s seat almost the second Caleb rolled the car into the driveway.
He shot you a strange look as he unlatched your daughter from her baby seat in the back. “Yes…she did. Why do you ask?”
You shrugged innocently, unlocking the front door, “Nothing, I just meant that motherhood agrees with her.”
Caleb said nothing in reply. You watched as he carried your daughter inside, not a muscle in his face giving away a single hint of suspicion or anxiety. You knew what kind of man your husband was. It wouldn’t be so easy to gauge out the truth from him, or any semblance of emotion he didn’t want to express for that matter. But you were expecting this.
“Do you think she’s going to have another one?” You said coquettishly, shrugging off your coat.
He couldn’t help it this time. You watched from behind as his shoulder twitched, ever so slightly, for not even half a second.
“I wouldn’t know.” Caleb replied, his tone ordinary, “I wouldn’t be surprised if she did. She and Zayne are a happy couple, after all.”
Your husband would have made a great actor, you thought humorlessly. You wondered if he was tearing himself apart inside.
“Actually.” You raised your hand, smiling. “I don’t want dinner.”
Caleb turned, cocking an eyebrow at you. “What? But you—”
“I’m not hungry anymore.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.” You nodded, one foot on the stairs. “I’m going to bed early. It’s been a long day.”
“But it’s only—“
“Goodnight, Caleb.”
“…goodnight.”
…
Weeks had passed. You’ve continued to act as if nothing had gone wrong. Caleb went to work, came back from work, cooked, played with your baby girl (who was now crawling all over the place) and went to bed. The only aspect that he felt…off, about, was how pacified you acted now.
You didn’t pepper him with questions about his day anymore.
You weren’t there to ask if he was feeling alright the moment he came home.
You couldn’t even bring yourself to stand closer to him.
It was as if the marriage had undergone mitosis and split itself in two, as if the straining cell it had once been has finally pulled away from the other half. All that remained was two individuals, standing inches apart in the kitchen, sitting a meter away in the living room, sleeping in beds that felt miles away from each other at night.
Your scents didn’t even mingle together anymore. The air in your home felt stagnant. You were sure that if you hadn’t got used to it, if you weren’t you for a second and you had visited your current home for the first time, you would assume that there were no inhabitants in it at all.
You could imagine it now. The edge of the scissors pulling the winding umbilical cord into a taught triangular shape in the sterile air, about to snap shut, about to separate the two entities, mother snd baby, to deliver individuality and freedom to both…there just needed to be a little push. A little force. Just a little more, and you would be able to forever sever this rotting chord that ties you to this marriage .
Every day, Caleb would come home and wonder what changed your demeanor so much. And you’d wonder when your husband would grow the balls to tell you that MC is pregnant with his baby.
He didn’t on week one. Or two. Or three. Or four. And as you can guess…
He didn’t speak a word when MC posted a gender reveal (week 19) online, the cutting of the triple-tiered cake revealing flamingo-pink insides. Caleb liked that post, you saw.
He also didn’t mention a word when MC announced a baby shower (week 28), which you were also invited to (the gall. can you imagine the audacity?). You had acted perfectly amicable, presenting MC with a hug and a basket of gifts. Caleb had gone to congratulate Zayne. You couldn’t help but chuckle at the irony.
By the time the date hit 30 weeks after you overheard their conversation, you had had enough.
If Caleb was going to be a coward about it, then you would force him to confront the truth.
…
Week 34 was fast approaching. You knew a normal pregnancy would end at about 37 weeks to 40, so when Caleb, suddenly, in the middle of your morning shot up from his seat after answering a call, you were surprised.
“What’s wrong?” You asked.
“MC had th—her baby.”
“Already?” You hummed. “It’s a bit early, isn’t it?”
“Yes.” Caleb gasped, practically sprinting to put on his jacket hanging by the bannister, “That’s why I need to go see her. Now.”
“No wait!” You stood up, grabbing his wrist. “I’m coming too.”
“No.” He replied. “You shouldn’t. Someone needs to stay home with our daughter. And I won’t be long.”
“No, no!” You chirped merrily, picking up your daughter from her high chair. “Let’s bring our baby. After all, she should get to know her new half-sister.”
You enjoyed watching the colour suddenly bleach from his face.
“What?” His tone was chilling, shaken, almost boyish.
“You heard me.” You fished out the car keys from the little ceramic dish near the front door. “Come on.“
“[name]—“
“I thought you were in a hurry to go.”
“[name].” Firmer, now.
“So let’s go.”
“[NAME]!” Caleb yelled. It was the first time he had yelled at you.
“What is it?” You blinked back.
Caleb’s eyes were bloodshot. His shoulders heaved.
“How long…have you known?”
“I think the better question is, Caleb,” Your face, he thought, was frighteningly unreactive. “When were you planning on telling me?”
He threw his hands down, turning away from you. “I was going to tell you today. After the baby was born.”
“So you can force me to face the consequences of your actions? If I like it or not? Is that why?”
“No! Don’t put words in my mouth.” He faced you again. “I was going…I was going to…”
“To what?”
“To work something out.”
“And how was that going to end?”
“I—“
“I’ll tell you how that was going to end, Caleb Xia.” You stabbed your finger against his solid chest. “It would end in me having to make sacrifices. It would end up in me in pain, over and over again, just to cope with how you’ve decided to treat me! I will be the one at a loss while you, you will get what you’ve always wanted. Every decision you’ve made was never for me. It was always either for you or for MC! I don’t believe a word that comes out of your mouth when you tell me that you’ll ’work something out’. I know you’ll give me the short end of the straw. You already have, for every day we’ve been married. Yet you never realise, because of course in the end whatever happens would work out for you, because it always fucking does!”
“[name].” Caleb breathed, “Calm down.”
“Don’t tell me to—“
“I’ll be home as quick as I can.” He said, pulling on his shoes at the door. “And then we’ll settle this.”
You laughed.
“Oh, Caleb.”
You watched as he glanced at you from the corner of his eye.
“I’m sure you’ll find yourself right at home.” You said with a smile.
…
“Caleb, come quick!” MC giggled, waving her hand to usher him in. “I just sent Zaynie to go out to the cafe to buy me some lunch.”
Caleb looked over at the bassinet, where a tiny wriggly baby wrapped in white lay. His lips broke out into a smile, a little wider than when he had first met his daughter with you, before gently, very gently reaching into the blankets, prying them apart, to reveal the scrunched up face of his new daughter.
He instantly folded, a finger stroking her wrinkly cheeks.
“Hey there, sweetheart…” Caleb cooed, as the baby made an uncommitted sound.
She was tiny. Wrinkly. But to Caleb, she was one of the cutest things he’s ever seen. She was part of him, and part of MC, after all.
Caleb took an awed breath in, as she fluttered her eyelashes, opening her eyes to reveal…
Big, green eyes.
Her eyes were green.
A bright, mocking, hazel.
Just.
Like.
Her father’s.
Zayne.
…
“What the fuck?” Caleb spun to MC, “You said—“
“Well…” MC smiled devilishly, a telltale sign that she knew the entire time, “I assumed wrong, I guess.”
“But you told me it was from that one night when—“
“There’s no way I could have conceived her with you from just one night, compared to how many times I’ve fucked Zayne around the same time.” She noticed Caleb wince in uncomfort at the mention of her activities with her husband. “You were right. Aren’t you always, gege.”
“But—“
“Caleb, the baby isn’t yours.” MC snapped.
He stood by the beside, shellshocked.
She exhaled out of her nose, smoothing out her blankets. “There is no ‘but’ to it.”
Caleb let out an exasperated breath. “I can’t believe you lied to me. You lied to be about something this important!”
“I had to!” Suddenly, her voice turned an 180 and became a pitiful, little cry.
“Gege…I was trying to help you…you married [name] and seemed to be so upset all the time, so I had to think of a way to get you out of that marriage. And see, now…” She smiled, “She’s out of the picture and will never bother you again.”
“You don’t understand!” Caleb shook his wrist out of her grasp, “I would never have…have put [name] through all this if it wasn’t my child to begin with.“
“Come on, Cay, you’re just being selfish now.” MC picked at her nails, “It’s all for the best. You didn’t enjoy being married to her in the first place anyway. I can’t believe you went through all the trouble of having a kid with her just to prove that you were over me. You’re so pathetic, gege.” She chuckled.
Caleb felt as if he could not move. MC’s voice seemed to become a distant echo, until…
“Gege?”
He snapped back into reality. Caleb frantically began pulling on his jacket, turning his back to MC, his shallow breaths filling the room.
“Gege, don’t go.” She said softly, “It’s all for the best. You’ll still be an uncle to the baby. To our family. We’ll be together again, aren’t you happy about that?”
Caleb’s hand tightened on the door. He turned to look at MC, with the most hollow look in his eyes she’d ever seen him possess. Emptier even than the time she renounced him as her gege.
“No.” He replied curtly, pushing the door open.
“Caleb Xia.” MC barked. “Xia Yizhou!”
For the first time, Caleb didn’t look back to her.
…
Caleb wasn’t sure how many speed limits he broke while making his way home, but from the look of the bumper, he should be expecting a few tickets soon.
He was in a daze as he got out of the car, almost stumbling to the front door of the house, unlocking it.
He was ready. To apologise. To kneel before you and beg for forgiveness.
Anything at all.
To go back to the beginning. To make things right, as they should be between a husband and his wife.
To be a family. You, him and your precious baby, that you gave him.
He opened the door.
The house was silent.
Almost empty.
Empty…
The empty table. The empty living room. The empty bedrooms. The empty nursery. It was as if the house had reversed to its first day Caleb had moved in, where every inch was shrouded by plastic wrap and packed in cardboard. When no life had been breathed into his home.
A home without love is just a house, after all. How long had Caleb been trying to change that?
How long had he stayed, in denial, that his goal had actually been long fulfilled?
Where are the people who made his house a home?
“[name]?” Caleb called out. “[name]? Where are you?”
A prickling feeling creeped up against his spine as Caleb made his way back into the kitchen, where you had the fight just before he left. The plates had been cleared away, leaving only a sticky note taped onto the table.
You finally got your dream. I hope you can be happier with MC and your family with her. It’s all for the best. Love, [name] :)
Caleb fell to his knees.
A choked cry echoed through the house.
What dream? What family?
What had he forsaken to chase after his selfish needs?
hey so i am going to start my first series and i am very excited about it! please be patient with me while i write it out. and please let me know if you want to be tagged when each story comes out:)
join my taglist
concept: you (reader) are the player of lads and you somehow get transported into the game as an npc. once you are there you already know to look for your li but theres a problem...mc. oh and the metaflux flunctuations that have happened since you arrived. now i'm not trying to villianize mc in anyway its just for plot purposes. shes a hunter after all so of course shes going to be a bit sus of you.
genre: self-aware li's not at first but eventually with a mix of isekai (i just learned what that word meant).
warnings: reader might seem a bit parasocial i guess at times but its only bcs she has played the game and feels like she knows them. if there is anything else it will be included in the fic itself when released.
a/n: anyway i created some teasers/introductions to each of the li's plots so you can kinda get more of a feel of what im going for. these ideas might be subject to change as this is just brainstorming so the final product may look a little different. i also don't think this will be smut focused but i am still working out all the details. without further ado enjoy the sneak peeks.
zayne
you wake up injured in a world you were never meant to touch, and the first face you see is zayne. his hands are steady, clinical but something lingers in his gaze, like recognition buried under years that never happened.
at AKSO hospital, your existence becomes a quiet anomaly. records don’t align. your injuries don’t match any known incident. and yet, he feels tied to you in a way he can’t justify.
then she appears, the one who was always meant to stand where you are not. his partner, the constant in his life. her presence sharpens everything. her instincts are immediate, precise, and unrelenting. the more she watches you, the more the world begins to feel unstable.
and somewhere deep in zayne’s past buried beneath ice, research logs, and forgotten expeditions something begins to surface. not a memory. a fracture.
read full story here!
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xavier
you shouldn’t have survived the first night. the only reason you do is because xavier finds you before the wanderers finish the job. he brings you to the Association, where everything is measured, recorded, analyzed. you fail every category. your origin doesn't exist.
and yet, you keep reappearing. in places tied to him, in routines he never shared with anyone but one person. to him, coincidence is a myth. patterns mean something and you are becoming one.
the girl who belongs here notices too. where he sees irregularity, she sees intrusion. but unlike her, he understands what it means to not belong to this world. because he doesn’t either. the question isn’t who you are — it’s why the universe keeps placing you in his orbit.
read full story here!
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rafayel
the story was supposed to begin with her. instead, it begins with you standing on the shoreline, where rafayel was meant to meet someone else. from that moment, everything shifts. his attention locks onto you first, his curiosity, his interest, it all redirects and something subtle but catastrophic unfolds beneath the surface. because the world notices.
events begin to misfire, timelines hesitate, encounters happen out of order. and somewhere within the system of this reality, the one who was meant to find him feels it immediately —a disconnect.
you weren’t written into this moment but now that you’re here, the story doesn’t know how to correct itself and rafayel doesn’t know how to stop his shifting feelings.
read full story here!
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sylus
you fall into the worst place possible and somehow ironically in your circumstances — the safest. the n109 zone isn’t meant for survival, yet it’s where you remain unseen. hidden within a fragile routine, protected by people who shouldn’t trust you but do anyway.
luke and kieran become your cover, your silence, your proof that you exist. but sylus knows from the beginning. not how you got there but that you don’t belong.
unlike the others, he doesn’t question your presence he accepts it as a problem to solve. while the world above reacts to the massive metaflux disturbance your arrival caused, he works in the shadows to understand it —to understand you.
and when she’s assigned to uncover the truth, the balance fractures. because for the first time, he withholds something from her. and you become the reason.
read full story here!
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caleb
you arrive too early. before the explosion and the version of caleb the world remembers. at the aerospace academy in skyhaven he’s still becoming someone sharpened by discipline, shaped by expectation, but not yet broken.
and you meet him there as something unexplainable that slips past every system unnoticed. nothing flags your arrival —no alarms, no containment. your presence doesn’t disrupt a system, it rewrites a possibility. he gravitates toward you without knowing why. just an instinct that feels almost like a choice.
somewhere else, the version of the story that was meant to unfold starts slipping out of reach. the one who was supposed to be with him since they were children feels that absence. and for the first time his future is not inevitable. because if he chooses you he never becomes the man shaped by loss. he never walks the path that leads to ruin. he becomes someone else entirely. someone the world was never written to hold. and that makes you more than an anomaly. it makes you a fracture in fate itself.
Organized Love and Deepspace Non-Mc Fic Recommendations
Sylus
☆ Angel of Her Own Making - by bwennie (link here)
☆ Dragon!Sylus x Non-MC!Reader - by clairewritesfanfics (link here)
☆ Heartbreak Anniversary with Sylus - by mephisto-reporting (link here)
☆ Sylus with non!mc reader - by yukithestar (one, two, three, four)
☆ enough - by captivating-flavors (link here)
☆ away (loosely part 2 of enough) - by captivating-flavors (link here)
☆ wilted promises - by shaiyasstuff (one, two, finale)
☆ delayed beginnings - by shaiyasstuff (one-shot, sequel, epilogue, bonus)
☆ The Great (Unnecessary) Divorce Incident - by mangooes (link here)
☆ The Winner Takes it All - by misshuntereevee (one, two)
☆ one in the head, two in the chest - by comatosebunny09 (link here)
☆ hurst so good - by comatosebunny09 (link here)
☆ The Sin & The Sinner - by saintobio (link here)
☆ Calm and Serenity - by blueivyy99 (masterlist)
☆ Impartial Hearts - by ladsonlads (link here)
☆ A Blooming Predicament - by subliminalwish (link here)
Zayne
☆ Nocturne of Twilight - by chuluoyi (part one)
☆ Dawn's First Light - by chuluoyi (part two)
☆ pit-a-pat - by shaiyasstuff (one-shot)
☆ Heartbreak Anniversary with Zayne - by mephisto-reporting (link here)
☆ Heart of Glass - by shaisuki (part one)
☆ The Snowflakes on your Shoulders - by shaisuki (part two)
☆ My Wedding Vow Is To Divorce You - by kira-loves0905 (link here)
☆ Claiming Something That's Not Yours - by authorssmc (link here)
Caleb
☆ Rotten Apples - by rcvcgers (masterlist)
☆ mine - by captivating-flavors (link here)
☆ The Colonel's Keeper - by saintobio (link here)
☆ The Colonel's Saint - by saintobio (part two)
☆ weightless paradise - by huxhsz (masterlist)
☆ back to friends - by hxlxnaaa (link here)
Xavier
☆ glass half full - by shaiyasstuff (drabble)
☆ 3:07 a.m. - by shaiyasstuff (one-shot, sequel)
☆ we can't be friends - by kitimeq (link here)
Rafayel
☆ Heartbreak Anniversary with Rafayel - by mephisto-reporting (link here)
☆ Ocean Memories - by yuansie (masterlist)
☆ fate - by shaiyasstuff (one-shot, sequel)
☆ Loathe To Paint You - by rcvcgers (masterlist)
◇ There's probably a lot of non-mc fics out there that i haven't read/seen BUT these are the ones that I'm currently reading and re-reading / already read!
◇ To the authors mentioned THANK YOU FOR YOUR AMAZING WRITING/WORKS AND I LOVE YA'LL 🙈💗
₊⊹Synopsis: All it takes is one act of cruelty to unravel everything you’ve been forced to be. When you, the daughter of a political leader, land in Akso Hospital after an assault attempt triggers your congenital heart disease, Dr. Zayne is assigned to your case. As you begin to reclaim your sense of self, your life, and your voice, you find Zayne becoming more than just your doctor.
₊⊹Pairing: Zayne x politician's daughter! Reader
₊⊹Content: Mentioned attempted assault, mentioned self harm, reader has heart issues, hurt/comfort, mild angst, medical terms used in a few scenes, I hope that's all, if not lmk.
₊⊹Word Count: 5.4k
₊⊹Notes: Been a long while since I've worked on this again so here it is. I'm currently aiming for total 8 or 10 chapters for this. I hope that this doesn't feel too bleak because I promise you reader's character has not fully shown in the initial stages, there's still room for development. This series is more inclined medically, and although I've done my research, I could still make mistakes. So if you find some practical things messed up, do call me out. Lmk if you want to be added to the tag list of this series. Hope y'all enjoy reading ♥
The next morning arrived softly, almost deceptively so, with pale sunlight filtering through Akso Hospital’s glass corridors and laying a muted sheen over the polished floors. The building itself seemed to breathe in disciplined silence, every surface clean, every sound measured, every movement carrying the polished urgency of a place that never truly slept.
Zayne had been awake long before the sun rose.
By the time his first cup of coffee was sent to his desk, he had already reviewed your charts twice over. Your vitals had remained stable through the night, the ECG tracing consistent, the arrhythmia resolved for now. Yet the clinical steadiness on paper did little to ease the unease that had settled somewhere deeper — something that had nothing to do with cardiac function.
He was aware of what awaited.
The requests had begun early that morning — forensic specialists, psychiatric evaluators, senior consultants, each one briefed and prepared. They had approached him with professional urgency, asking for updates, for clearance, for access. It was routine in cases like this, necessary even, but the memory of last night lingered too vividly for him to reduce you to procedure alone.
He knew what had to be done.
But he also knew you had not been given the space to choose anything yet.
With that thought, he closed the file on his tablet and made his way toward your suite.
Tessa was stationed nearby, carrying a neat tray and a stack of fresh linens. When she noticed him, she straightened at once. “Dr. Zayne.”
He gave a small nod. “How has she been?”
“Quiet,” Tessa said in a lower voice, glancing toward the door as though even speaking too loudly might disturb the hush inside. “She hasn’t called for anyone. She slept for a while, then woke briefly, but she’s been mostly resting.”
Zayne’s gaze lingered on the door handle for a beat longer than necessary. “All right. Let me know if anything changes.”
He stepped inside.
The harshness of last night had softened into something quieter, almost fragile. The room was dim, the curtains still drawn from the night before, leaving the light softened and almost bluish at the edges. The steady rhythm of the monitor broke the stillness in low, regular beeps, a sound so constant it had become part of the room itself.
And you—
You were asleep.
Your hair was a disordered spill across the pillow, tangled at the crown and swept over one shoulder in uneven strands. A thin line of drool marked the side of your face, careless and unguarded, the sort of detail that would have made someone younger laugh if the situation had not been so painfully fragile. Your hands were tucked close to your chest, fingers half-curled, the pose of someone asleep but still prepared to defend yourself. Even in rest, your body had not forgotten fear.
Something in Zayne’s expression softened before he could stop it.
He had seen many patients sleep in hospitals, some peaceful, some drugged, some feverish and twitching beneath the weight of their own symptoms. But this was different. There was an exhausted kind of innocence in the way you lay there, as if your body had finally surrendered because it had run out of ways to stay alert. He stood at the doorway for several long seconds, simply watching you breathe, the rise and fall of your chest faint but steady beneath the hospital gown.
A quiet thought passed through him, unspoken and fleeting.
Resilient.
He exhaled slowly, as if reminding himself where he stood, and stepped further into the room.
Crossing toward the windows, he reached for the curtains and drew them back in one smooth motion.Sunlight spilled in at once, pooling across the floor and over the edge of the bed in warm gold. The room brightened all at once, and you stirred almost immediately, your face tightening in mild distress as the light touched your eyelids. A small, groggy noise escaped you, and you lifted one hand to shield your face, your fingers splaying across your forehead as though the brightness itself had offended you.
Zayne paused, watching the movement with a quiet, almost imperceptible curve at the corner of his lips.
Then the expression faded, replaced by the careful alertness that never really left him. He looked around the suite with a surgeon’s instinct for order, taking in everything with one measured sweep. Anything sharp, breakable, or potentially harmful should not remain where it could be reached easily.
Without making a sound, he began clearing the room.
A glass paperweight on the side table disappeared into a drawer, then a fountain pen, even the small razors on the sink — each was quietly removed, assessed, and stored away. When he stepped into the bathroom, his movements were just as thorough. Anything that could be used with intent, even unintentionally, was taken away. He removed the items one by one, storing them in a drawer outside and locking it once he was finished.
Only after that did he turn back.
You were stirring more fully now, blinking through sleep, one hand still half-raised to your face before slowly lowering. Zayne stepped a few feet away from the bed, deliberately keeping his distance so as not to startle you. He had noticed yesterday how sharply you reacted to sudden movement, and he had no intention of undoing the fragile progress, if there was any to speak of, by being careless.
“Good morning, miss,” he said gently.
You blinked up at him, then sat a little straighter, the motion slow and uncertain. There was a trace of embarrassment on your face at once, perhaps from being seen in such a state, perhaps from the knowledge that you had been sleeping so deeply you had not heard him enter.
“Good morning,” you murmured, your voice still rough with sleep.
Zayne’s gaze dropped briefly to the monitor before he approached the bedside. He checked the IV line first, then the pulse reading, the blood pressure cuff, the oxygen saturation, and the fine print of the night chart. His movements were calm and practiced, each adjustment made with the same precision he used in surgery, only gentler here, less commanding.
You smoothed your gown with both hands, then dragged your fingers through your hair in an attempt to tame it. He noticed, of course, but did not comment. He merely adjusted his glasses and took out his tablet.
Once he was done, he took a seat beside your bed, tablet resting lightly in his hand.
The quiet between you lasted only a beat before he spoke.
“It’s been a day,” he began, his tone careful, each word chosen with intent. “There are a few procedures that need to be considered now.”
Your fingers stilled.
“A SAFE examination,” he continued, watching you closely, “will help document injuries and collect evidence.”
The shift in you was immediate. Your shoulders tensed, your gaze dropping, your breath catching just enough for him to notice.
At once, Zayne realized the words had landed too heavily, and he moved to soften them before the silence could turn into panic.
“You have the absolute right to decide whether you want to report this to law enforcement,” he said, his voice quieter now, more deliberate. “If you need time, that is also an option. The exam can be done anonymously, and the evidence can be preserved while you think it through. There is no need to decide under pressure.”
Your hands found a loose thread at the hem of your gown, picking at it absently as your thoughts drifted elsewhere.
Your father’s voice echoed in memory — sharp, commanding, threaded with frustration as he spoke into his phone. Words about reputation, about opponents waiting for weakness, about damage control. Even now, you could almost feel the weight of that expectation pressing down on you, suffocating in its familiarity.
If you reported this… the consequences would not be yours alone.
You stayed quiet for a long time.
Zayne watched you in silence, giving you the space to breathe. He could see the conflict settling over your face in layers, subtle but unmistakable.
You had not yet spoken of your father, but the fear sat in the room with you anyway.
Maybe it was in the way your shoulders tightened. Maybe it was in the way your jaw hardened briefly as though bracing for a blow that had not yet come. Or maybe Zayne simply knew enough about human behavior to recognize the shape of dread when it was trying not to show itself. The name attached to your file carried influence, that much was obvious. Powerful people had a way of making even the safest choices feel dangerous.
When he spoke again, his voice cut gently through the spiral of your thoughts.
“As I said, there is no urgency to decide everything now,” he reminded. “You can take your time.”
You swallowed, the movement small but visible.
Then you nodded once. “I’ll do it.”
There was no dramatic flourish to the words, no visible relief in your posture afterward, only a kind of exhausted submission to necessity. Still, Zayne’s expression eased by the barest degree, and he allowed himself a small reassuring smile, more encouraging than bright.
“Good. After that, there will also be a psychiatric evaluation,” he said. “It is routine, and it is there to help, not to interrogate you.”
He stood then, adjusting his glasses, the conversation shifting naturally toward closure.
“I’ll have the nurse assist you with getting ready,” he said. “And your meal will be brought in shortly. I’ll see you downstairs in fifteen minutes.”
You nodded again, quieter this time. “Okay.”
Zayne gave a brief inclination of his head in return, then turned toward the door. He had barely taken two steps before you slipped from the bed in your own small, hesitant way, and he heard the rustle of the blanket behind him as Tessa entered a moment later, her movements careful as she began preparing you for what lay ahead.
----
By the time you came downstairs, the hospital had shifted into its busiest rhythm, the kind that made every corridor feel busier than it really was. Stretchers moved past in quiet bursts, phones rang behind glass partitions, and nurses crossed paths with charts pressed to their chests. Zayne was standing near one of the consultation rooms, speaking with a SANE nurse in a low, efficient tone when he saw you appear at the far end of the hallway, accompanied by Tessa.
You looked smaller than he remembered from the morning, not in size, but in the way your body seemed to hesitate before each step. Your gown was held carefully in place at one shoulder, as though even the fabric itself had become a thing to manage, and your gaze kept moving, lifting and dropping in quick, uncertain sweeps of the corridor. Not quite panic. Not quite calm either. Something in between, brittle and watchful.
The SANE nurse noticed you at once. Her posture changed immediately, her expression warming as she stepped forward with the sort of practiced gentleness that only came from experience.
“You must be the patient,” she said softly, offering a smile that was meant to be reassuring rather than intrusive. “I’m Nurse Alina. I’ll be helping with the exam today. We’ll go slowly, all right?”
You gave a small nod, polite, careful, but Zayne noted the way your shoulders remained slightly tense, the way your gaze flickered from the nurse to the hallway and back again, as if searching for an exit that did not exist. Still, you were responding. That alone, given the previous day, was something.
The nurse did not press. Instead, she turned slightly and gestured toward the examination room. “I’m just going to go in and make sure everything is ready for you.”
She disappeared through the door ahead of you, leaving the hallway quieter in her wake.
Zayne watched you stand there for a moment longer than was probably comfortable, your weight shifting from one foot to the other and back again. He stepped closer, careful not to crowd you.
“This is purely a matter of your own consent,” he said, his voice even and low enough that it would not carry beyond the two of you. “Every procedure will be explained before it is done. If at any point you do not wish to continue, you can stop or decline. There is no obligation to continue beyond what you are willing to endure.”
You lifted your gaze to him then, just briefly, and nodded again, slower this time, as if the words were being absorbed piece by piece.
Before anything more could be said, the Alina’s voice called softly from inside. “We’re ready.”
You drew in a breath that felt shallow even to yourself, then stepped forward. At the doorway, you paused, your fingers brushing lightly against the frame as though anchoring yourself. For a fleeting moment, your eyes found Zayne’s again, and that brief exchange said more than either of you would have been able to voice. He gave you a small, steady nod, the kind meant to say ‘go ahead, I am still here’, before you followed the nurse inside.
Zayne stayed outside.
Tessa hovered nearby for a few seconds, glancing between him and the closed door before speaking in a tentative voice. “Dr. Zayne, you can return if you have any pressing matters. I’ll be sure to take care of her properly.”
He shook his head at once, the motion firm but not abrupt. “No. I’m free.”
It wasn’t entirely true. There were always other patients, other responsibilities waiting to be addressed, charts to review, consultations to attend. But he remained where he was, his gaze occasionally shifting to the clock on the wall, marking the slow passage of time.
Eventually, the door opened.
Nurse Alina stepped out first, followed by two assistants carrying sealed containers and labeled packets, each item handled with the careful precision of evidence that could not be replaced. Her expression was composed, but there was a small crease between her brows that told him enough before she even spoke.
“Dr. Zayne,” she began quietly, stepping closer so her words wouldn’t carry unnecessarily, “we were able to collect partial evidence. However…” she hesitated for a moment, choosing her words with care, “some of the DNA has been compromised. It appears it was washed away prior to the examination.”
Zayne’s expression did not shift, but his gaze lowered briefly, a silent acknowledgment of what that meant.
“We’ll rely on the clothing that was collected earlier,” she continued. “That should make up for some of the loss.”
“Understood,” he said. “Take what you need.”
Alina gave a small, respectful incline of her head and moved away with the other staff, the evidence secured in their hands.
A moment later, you came out.
You were still fixing your gown at one shoulder, your movements smaller now, as though the exam had drained whatever spare strength you had been carrying into it. Zayne noticed the difference immediately. There was no overt distress on your face, no visible breakdown, but your expression looked dimmer somehow, touched with a sadness that had settled deeper than before.
Tessa was still waiting nearby, but Zayne dismissed her with a quiet look.
“You can return to your station,” he said. “I’ll handle things from here.”
She nodded and left without argument.
When Zayne turned back to you, he kept his voice measured. “You’ll be going for the psychiatric evaluation now.”
You gave a wordless nod and fell into step beside him.
You nodded, your response wordless, and fell into step behind him.
He did not hurry you. That would have helped no one. Instead, he matched his pace to yours, allowing the corridor to open around the two of you as you moved past the quiet blur of hospital life. Zayne could sense, even before you spoke, that there was something sitting heavily on your mind, something you had been turning over since the exam ended.
You kept your eyes forward for several more steps before finally speaking, your voice controlled in the way of someone determined not to sound shaken.
“Did…” You paused, the word catching slightly at the edge of your breath. “Did what I did yesterday make things hard for you? I’m sorry.”
Zayne’s shoulders loosened at once, relief arriving before anything else. Not because the question was easy, but because you had spoken it at all, because you were still reaching outward rather than folding entirely inward.
“Some partial evidence was recovered,” he responded without delay. “The rest should still be collected from your clothing. So no, it was not a matter of too much concern.”
He let the words settle before continuing, his tone steady and certain in the way he hoped yours might lean into.
“The important thing is that the examination was done, and the evidence has been secured. What matters now is your next step, not what was lost.”
You did not answer immediately, but your shoulders eased by a degree so small it would have been invisible to anyone who had not been watching closely. Zayne took that as its own kind of response and allowed the silence to remain between you as the hallway ahead led them toward the psychiatric wing, where the next part of the day was waiting.
The psychiatric wing of Akso Hospital was quieter than the rest of the building, the air carrying a different kind of stillness — less urgent, more watchful. The lights were softer here, the walls lined with neutral tones meant to calm rather than intimidate, yet the moment you stepped inside, your body refused to register any of it as safe.
The color drained from your face in a single breath. Your shoulders stiffened, your fingers tightened around the edge of your gown, and a fine sheen of sweat gathered almost instantly along your brow. Your gaze fixed on the psychiatrist standing in the consultation room beyond the glass panel, and for a second Zayne could not read what had struck you so sharply.
The psychiatrist was already turning toward you with a polite, expectant expression. But you did not see him as he was.
You saw the resemblance. Not exact but close enough to make your blood run cold.
A mole on his chin.
Your fingers curled into the fabric of your gown as your vision tunneled for a moment, the edges of the room blurring while your mind tried to reconcile what it was seeing. You knew — logically, clearly — that this man was not the same person. His features were different, his posture composed, his gaze warm rather than predatory. And yet your body did not care for logic. It reacted first, faster than thought, dragging you back into a memory you had not yet escaped.
The body did strange things when fear had once been taught to it. It took fragments, not facts, and made monsters out of ordinary features.
Zayne followed your line of sight, then looked back at you, taking in the faint sheen of sweat forming at your temples, the shallow rise and fall of your chest. He turned slightly toward the man and introduced him before the tension could deepen further.
“This is Dr. Vincent,” Zayne said calmly, his voice smooth and professional. “He’ll be conducting your psychiatric evaluation.”
Dr. Vincent dipped his head in greeting, a faint smile curving his lips. “Miss. It’s a pleasure to meet you, though I wish circumstances were better.”
But his words seemed to slide past you, unheard. They hovered somewhere at the edge of your awareness, drowned out by the sound of your own heartbeat picking up again, that familiar, suffocating rhythm pressing against your ribs. You swallowed, your throat dry, your gaze still fixed too long on that single detail you could not unsee.
You stared at the psychiatrist as though every instinct in your body was shouting at you to step back, to leave, to vanish.
Without thinking, Zayne stepped half a pace in front of you.
It was a small movement, but deliberate, partially blocking your direct line of sight. Quietly, his hand came to rest against the middle of your back, light and brief, a steadying point more than a touch. He could feel the startled tension in you at once, the way your breath caught at the contact, but he kept his palm there just long enough to remind you that you were not alone in the room.
“Focus on me,” he said softly, his voice lowered just for you. “You’re safe. Nothing here will harm you.”
You looked up at him then, and the expression on your face was so raw that it briefly disrupted the usual order of his thoughts. Your eyes were glassy with unshed tears, not yet spilling over, but close enough that your lashes clung together. There was fear there, yes, but also embarrassment, and something else layered under it, something that looked like pleading.
For a moment, Zayne had an irrational urge to abandon the entire evaluation, escort you back to your room, and shut the door on everything that disrupted your peace and threw your heart in a whirlwind.
The thought startled him so much that he almost frowned at himself.
He had never once considered disregarding a medical procedure this way, not even for the most delicate cases.And yet, standing here, watching you struggle to hold yourself together, the idea had come uninvited.
He withdrew his hand, careful not to make the moment feel abrupt, and gave you a little space to collect yourself. Dr. Vincent said nothing, though Zayne caught the slightest lift of his brows, as if he too had noticed the shift and was waiting to understand it.
After a few seconds, you steadied enough to speak.
“I…” Your voice was very small. “I can do it.”
There was no certainty in the words, but there was intention, and that mattered.
Zayne drew in a quiet breath, steadying himself as much as he was steadying you. “Take your time.”
You moved forward on your own then, though slowly, and took the seat across from Dr. Vincent. Zayne remained standing a moment longer before entering after you. Dr. Vincent offered him a brief sideways glance, curious but not yet intrusive.
“I’ll explain later,” Zayne said before the other man could ask.
The psychiatrist gave a tiny shrug that suggested he had already expected as much, then turned back to you with a gentler smile.
He began with the simplest questions first, his tone measured and calm, as if trying to give the room a stable rhythm to follow.
“Can you tell me your name?”
You answered softly.
“Your age?”
“Twenty-four.”
“Family?”
Your gaze lowered a little. “Just my father and me. My mom died after I was born.”
The answer was quiet, flat with old grief, and though the sentence was simple, it struck the room harder than a longer confession might have. Dr. Vincent’s face softened at once, but he did not linger there.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “Thank you for telling me.”
He tapped a few notes into his tablet and then folded his hands lightly over it. “This evaluation is to help us understand what you’re experiencing and what support you may need. My team is always around if you feel overwhelmed at any point, or if you want to stop.”
You nodded, but your gaze drifted to the window beside the desk, where a grey patch of sky glowed behind the glass.
Out of the corner of your eye, Zayne saw his own reflection in the pane, upright and still, and almost immediately he noticed your attention flicking toward him as well, as though you were checking whether he was really staying. He had already turned once toward the door, out of intention more than thought, when your voice stopped him.
“Can he be here?”
Zayne glanced back over his shoulder, surprise flickering across his face. Dr. Vincent straightened slightly, clearing his throat.
“Dr. Zayne is part of your surgical care team,” he said. “This is a psychiatric evaluation, so it is usually conducted—”
“I’ll only answer if he stays.”
This time, your voice carried more weight. Not loud, but resolute.
Zayne was already moving back into the room before Dr. Vincent could think of a response.
“It’s all right,” Zayne said, taking the seat at an adjacent corner, a little distance away from you, not close enough to intrude, but present enough to anchor the room. “I can stay. Please continue.”
The psychiatrist looked between the two of you one more time before deciding not to ask whatever had clearly become obvious to him. He lowered his gaze to the tablet again and began typing.
“All right, then. How are you feeling right now, physically and emotionally?”
You took a little longer to answer this one. Zayne watched the way your fingers interlaced and then separated, over and over, as though your hands could not decide whether to hold on or let go. At last you said, “Physically… I don’t feel the same pain as yesterday. It’s manageable. Emotionally…” Your voice thinned. “Compromised.”
He noted that down, then asked, “Can you tell me what happened before you were brought here?”
Your fingers dug into the soft flesh of your palm, not enough to hurt visibly, but enough for Zayne to see the strain. You looked down and away, then began in a halting voice, as if choosing each word carefully before letting it leave your mouth.
“I was returning home and a man grabbed me, forced me into a car…” You stopped, swallowing. “There was an emergency button on my watch. I managed to trigger the emergency button on my watch… and my guards intervened before…”
Dr. Vincent could see the slight narrowing of your brows. The psychiatrist was listening not only to the words, but to what your body was doing while saying them. You were sitting upright, yes, but every muscle in you looked prepared to flee.
He gave you a moment, then continued gently. “Do you feel afraid right now? Or more disturbed?”
You stared at the window as if something in the glass might answer for you.
“I think…” You paused again. “I don’t feel like myself. My mind is a blank slate most of the time. Thoughts come in for a moment, then disappear again. Like I can’t hold onto anything long enough to feel it properly.”
You hesitated, then added quietly, “Like a deer that escaped a hunter… but still feels like it’s being chased.”
The words were quiet, but Zayne felt them land with a weight that made his chest tighten. He kept his face still, though inside, something in him turned cold with anger on your behalf. It was the kind of anger he disliked most because it had nowhere useful to go. Anger at the man who had done this. Anger at whatever had built such fear into you long before this incident. Anger at the helplessness in your voice as you described it.
Dr. Vincent’s pen paused for a fraction of a second but his tone stayed gentle. “Yesterday it was reported that you attempted to harm yourself. Is that correct?”
The shame that crossed your face was immediate and painful to witness. “Yes.”
“Why?”
Your lips parted, then pressed together. Your gaze slid to the window again, and this time your hands moved toward your own forearm, not touching hard enough to injure, but hovering over the skin as if memory itself had become itchy.
“I thought…” Your voice faltered, then steadied with difficulty. “I thought if I could just shed the feeling on my skin, it would hurt less than keeping it.”
“So you felt disgusted?” Vincent prompted.
You did not answer verbally.
Zayne heard the unspoken part of the sentence all the same: disgusted, dirty, wrong, trapped inside your own body. He had treated enough patients to know that some wounds aimed inward long before anyone else had a chance to touch them. He said nothing, but his jaw had gone tense enough that the muscle there shifted once.
The questions continued after that, one after another: sleep, appetite, nightmares, panic. Whether sounds startled you or whether you had been having trouble being alone. And even whether your thoughts ever moved toward hurting yourself again. To each, you answered with honesty that was sometimes slow and sometimes reluctant, but always present. It became gradually obvious that what had happened recently was not isolated, not wholly born of one violent event. There was history in you, layered and old, even if nobody in the room had said so aloud.
Dr. Vincent noticed it too.
“Do you often feel like this?” he asked at one point. “As though you’re waiting for something bad to happen?”
“Sometimes.”
“Before the assault?”
A pause. Then, softer, “Yes.”
The room seemed to still after that. Even Zayne held his breath for a beat, not because he was startled, but because your voice had carried something so raw and practiced at once. As though you had long since learned how to make pain sound ordinary.
Then the psychiatrist asked, “Does having Dr. Zayne present make you feel safer?”
You did not look at him directly, but you nodded.
“Why?”
For the first time, the silence that followed was not defensive. It was almost shy.
“He is…” You swallowed, voice almost inaudible. “He is like a friend.”
Zayne felt something unhelpfully warm and unexpectedly human tug at the edge of his expression. He managed, with effort, to keep it from becoming anything visible. A ridiculous thought surfaced, uninvited, that perhaps he ought to be embarrassed by how relieved he felt at such a simple answer. But there it was all the same, quietly settling in his chest.
Dr. Vincent turned his gaze briefly to Zayne, then back to you. “And what about me? You seemed quite startled when you first came in.”
You fidgeted with a strand of your hair, twisting it once around your finger before letting it fall again. “You looked a little like him… the man who assaulted me,” you admitted, and the apology in your tone came almost immediately. “It’s nothing personal.”
For a second, Dr. Vincent blinked in obvious surprise. Then he gave a short, awkward laugh that softened the tension rather than thickening it. “Ah. I see. No offense taken.”
The evaluation moved toward its end after that. Dr. Vincent asked a few final questions, then closed his tablet and set it down beside him.
“You’ve done well,” he said. “That will be enough for now.”
You stood, your movements slower than before, and stepped out into the corridor.
Zayne followed, but Vincent stopped him briefly, lowering his voice.
“She’s showing signs of an acute trauma response,” he said. “It’s being concealed fairly well on the surface, but the instability is there. Her reactions are sharper than her presentation suggests, and there are signs this isn’t entirely new. There may be an older mental history at work here.”
Zayne listened without interruption, each word sinking into place.
“In some ways, her behavior is regressing, more childlike,” Dr. Vincent continued, gesturing toward you at the end of the corridor, where you stood with your arms wrapped around your abdomen as if holding yourself together by force, feet rocking lightly. “The childlike behaviour, the heightened startle, the avoidance, the self-directed harm yesterday, none of that points only to this incident, it suggests prior emotional strain. I would recommend extending the observation period. We cannot risk her being left alone with this level of vulnerability.”
Zayne nodded once, committing every word to memory. “Understood.”
He did not need to be told twice. The conclusion was not a surprise, only a confirmation of something he had already begun to suspect. You were not merely frightened because of one assault. Something in you had already been cracked before it happened, and this event had struck the fracture open.
He thanked Dr. Vincent, who gave him a brief, acknowledging smile before moving off down the corridor.
When Zayne turned back toward you, your arms had loosened slightly from around your middle. He didn’t miss the way your alertness ceased and you properly met his gaze instead of looking around.
He was about to speak when Greyson came hurrying toward them from the far end of the hall, breathing a little harder than usual, his expression tight.
“Dr. Zayne,” he informed, slowing as he reached them, “Miss’ father — Statesman Arthur — he’s here. He wants to see her this instant.”
CW: Murd3r. Angst. Masturbation. Daddy kink. Oral s3x. P in V sex. 🔞MDNI🔞
WC: idk but it's long 😮💨
Repost from my old account (Applecaviar)
Pomegranate Masterlist
The rain hammers against the floor to ceiling windows, each droplet racing down the glass like tears he hasn't allowed himself to shed in years. Two years. Two years since his wife's funeral, since the coffin closed and the priest spoke words that felt hollow in his mouth.
He's pacing, tie loosened, the top two buttons of his shirt undone. The agency representatives sit across from him in the living room, one of them has a tablet clutched in her hands as she scrolls through profiles. She looks uncomfortable, and well she should, this is the fifth candidate this week.
"I'm sorry, Mr. Qin, but—" she starts, but he cuts her off with a sharp gesture.
His voice is flat, emotionless "Send the next one in."
"She's... She's really not—"
"Send her."
The woman exchanges a helpless glance with her colleague before nodding. She begins typing furiously on her tablet. Sylus turns away, staring out at the storm. The city lights blur through the rain, and for a moment, he allows himself to remember. His wife's laugh. The way she'd hum while cooking. How she'd read bedtime stories to the children, her voice soft and warm.
He closes his eyes. Focus. He has three children who need him. Three children he's failing.
Twenty minutes later, there's a knock at the door. Sylus straightens his tie and opens it to find...
This is the person the agency sent?
To him you look barely out of your teens, with hair that's slightly disheveled and eyes too tired for someone so young. An agency representative hovering anxiously behind you.
"Mr. Qin, I need to apologize in advance, she doesn't have formal nanny experience, but..."
"I don't care about experience," Sylus interrupts, his eyes sweeping over you. "What I care about is whether she can handle three very difficult children. Are you qualified?"
You shift your weight nervously. "I... I need the money. Desperately. I'll do whatever it takes."
There's something raw in your desperation that resonates with him on a level he doesn't want to examine.
"Come in," he says curtly, stepping aside. You step inside and Sylus closes the door behind you. The house is immaculate, everything in place, expensive furniture arranged with precise symmetry but it feels cold despite the warmth from the fireplace.
He walks toward the window, hands clasped behind his back. "Luke and Kieran are seven. They are angry. Rose..." His voice drops lower. "Rose is five and hasn't spoken a word since her mother died. None of the other nannies were able to handle that."
He turns to face you again, and there's something almost vulnerable in his expression before it hardens. "Let me be clear about the situation. My children don't want a replacement for their mother. They've driven out every nanny I've hired because they think I'm trying to fill a void that can't be filled. If you can't handle that reality, leave now."
The agency representative behind you shifts nervously, clearly uncomfortable with how this interview is going.
He crosses his arms, waiting for an answer. There's something almost predatory in the way he's looking at you now, like he's assessing whether you are worth keeping around.
You stand frozen, the weight of what Sylus just said crashing over you. The tone in his voice when he talks about his children, about Rose especially, makes your chest tighten.
You can't afford to fail at this job. Can't afford to lose this income, no matter how difficult the situation might be.
"I won't run," you say then add softly, "I understand they don't want a replacement for their mother. I'm not going to try to be her. I'm just... me. Someone who needs this job and who will give your children the attention they deserve."
The representative behind you seems to relax slightly, clearly hoping you might actually last longer than the last twenty nannies.
"Well then," Sylus says after a long moment, studying you with an unreadable expression. "Welcome to the family, I suppose.
—
Widower! Sylus who lost his wife two years ago, leaving him as a single father to their three young children, 7 year old twin boys (Luke and Kieran) and a silent 5 year old girl (Rose) who hasn't spoken a word since her mother's passing. The sudden absence of his wife has left Sylus struggling to navigate fatherhood alone.
Widower! Sylus who has gone through more than 20 nannies, none of whom have lasted more than a few weeks. His children, still mourning the loss of their mother, have rejected each and every one of his attempts to find a suitable caregiver to help him with the difficult task of raising them.
Widower! Sylus who in desperation turns to an agency to hire a new nanny, praying to find someone who can connect with his children and provide them with the stability and care they need. By some mistake or twist of fate, you find yourself hired for the job, with no prior experience in childcare. Sylus, grasping at straws and desperate for any shred of hope, is drawn to your apparent enthusiasm during the interview.
Widower! Sylus who takes you to meet his kids "There they are," he murmurs, gesturing to the three children seated on a sofa. The twin boys, with their shock of dark hair and eyes that mirror their father's, eye you with open hostility. They sit with their arms crossed, scowls etched on their small faces, clear defiance and rejection Sylus had warned you about.
He clears his throat, drawing the attention of the children. "Kids, this is... what was your name again?" He glances at you and you quickly remind him "Right. This is... Miss Y/N"
"We don't want a new nanny!"
"She can't replace Mom!"
Sylus sighs heavily, running a hand through his hair in exasperation. But then, his gaze softens as it falls upon his youngest. She sits quietly, her small hands folded neatly in her lap, her head tilted just slightly as she observes you with wide, curious eyes.
His heart leaps when he sees a glimmer of a smile tug at the corners of his little girl's mouth. It's faint, but it's something, a spark of connection in a sea of rejection and hostility.
He takes a step towards his daughter and crouches down to her height, his hand coming to rest on her small shoulder.
"Sweetheart, this is... Miss..." He glances to you again, silently begging you to remind him once more.
You remind him again and he nods, turning back to his daughter with a soft smile.
"Yes, that's right. She's going to be staying with us for a while, sweetheart. To help me take care of you and your brothers." His thumb gently strokes over his daughter's small shoulder.
Rose looks up at you, her big blue eyes wide and assessing. For a moment, she simply studies you, her small brow furrowed slightly, then slowly her rosebud lips curve into the faintest of smiles.
Widower! Sylus who frowns slightly as you refuse his offer of a room "Are you certain? It's quite a distance from the city center. I wouldn't want you to have to make the journey home at such late hours." You nod firmly, assuring him that you can manage, and he seems to accept your decision, albeit reluctantly.
Widower! Sylus who observes your interactions with his children from the hidden cameras placed throughout his estate. The twins, true to their word, prove to be an unrelenting menace, pulling every trick in the book to thwart your efforts and make your time as their nanny a living nightmare. Their antics range from the merely annoying like hiding your belongings or refusing to cooperate with even the simplest requests to attempting to disable the security system, sneaking off during outings, and even staging elaborate tantrums that would make most adults throw their hands up in exasperation.
But it's with his youngest daughter, little Rose, that Sylus sees a change. Where her brothers remain a constant source of frustration she blossoms under your gentle care. She begins to smile more freely, her silent world expanding to include moments of pure joy.
He sees you sitting together, engrossed in a storybook, Rose's eyes wide with wonder as she listens to your animated voice. He watches as you play with her in the garden, her tinkling laughter carrying through the house, a sound he hadn't heard in longer than he can remember. But the most touching of all, the moments where she seeks you out, her small arms wrapping around your waist in a tight hug.
Days turn into weeks and he begins to notice subtle changes in his sons as well. Their pranks become less frequent, their tantrums shorter lived. He sees you sitting with them, talking in low, serious tones, and wonders at the magic you're weaving. Slowly but surely, their scowls give way to thoughtful frowns, their anger to confusion, and sometimes, to a reluctant but real smile.
Widower! Sylus whose gaze lingers on your image on the screen long after his children have retreated to their rooms for their afternoon naps. He tells himself he's just checking in, ensuring everything is quiet and peaceful.
He finds himself looking forward to the moments when you're not occupied with his children, those rare instances when you're simply being yourself. He watches you sit quietly in the library, reading a book, your eyes scanning the pages with a focus that he finds strangely alluring. He sees you curled up on the sofa in the late afternoons, a mug of tea cradled in your hands as you gaze out at the rain soaked garden with a thoughtful expression on your face. When you sit by the fireplace, the flickering light casting a warm glow over your features, your eyes reflecting the dance of the flames. He sees you wrapping a soft blanket around your shoulders and he feels a sudden, overwhelming urge to wrap his arms around you.
He knows he shouldn't be watching you like this, shouldn't be letting his eyes linger on your body, on the way your hair catches the light or the curve of your smile. But he can't help himself, drawn in by a force he doesn't fully understand.
Widower! Sylus who tosses and turns in his four poster bed, the silk sheets tangling around his long legs as he tries in vain to find sleep. But the same memory from that morning, keeps replaying in his mind like a broken record.
You had been standing by the front door, Rose's small hand tucked in yours, Sylus's eyes lingering on the two of you as he prepared to leave. Rose had looked up at you, her eyes wide and trusting, and you had smiled down at her with a warmth that made his heart clench.
Then, in a voice soft and gentle, you had asked his little girl, "You wanna give daddy a kiss before he leaves?"
It was just question, one that Sylus had heard countless times before, usually uttered by the parade of nannies that left his home in the past year. But when the word 'daddy' fell from your lips, Sylus felt an inexplicable surge of heat rush through his veins.
He had tried to shake it off, attributing it to the early hour and the caffeine already coursing through his system. But as the day wore on his mind kept drifting back to that moment over and over.
NOW, in the darkness of his bedroom, he can't escape the memory. He remembers the way his body had reacted, the way his pants had suddenly felt too tight, too constricting. It was a visceral reaction to a word that was innocently spoken, leaving him feeling off balance and horny.
Widower! Sylus who grows increasingly aware of your nightly routine, a routine that sees you leaving his estate at the same time each evening. He's noticed how you decline any requests for you to extend your working hours, offering up various excuses, a previous engagement, an appointment you can't miss, a family matter that requires your attention. At first, he brushed it off but when his requests for you to stay longer were met with the same polite yet firm refusal, he couldnt help but feel a flicker of curiosity, and perhaps something more.
He's a man used to getting what he wants, to having his wishes granted with just a snap of his fingers. The fact that you, a lowly nanny in his employ, can so easily deny him is something that both frustrates and intrigues him. He's tried to sweeten the deal, offering you a substantial bonus for each night he asks you to stay later, but you remain unmoved. Your answer is always the same, a gentle smile, a graceful refusal, and a soft, "I appreciate the offer, but I'm afraid it's simply not possible."
He doesn't know about your secret life in the heart of the N19 Zone. He's unaware of the glitzy nightclub where you spend your nights, pouring drinks and dancing, all to pay off a debt that's not even yours. He doesn't know that the money he offers, the bonuses he tries to tempt you with, are paltry in comparison to the staggering sum you owe to a notorious loan shark.
Every night you walk past the seedy bars and the shadowy alleyways, your heart pounding in your chest as you make your way to the one place you know you can earn enough to chip away at your mother's debt. The bouncers at the club, hardened men with cold eyes and a fierce loyalty to their boss, let you pass with a nod and a knowing smirk. They've been watching you every night for months, always making sure you leave with a hefty tip from the men who can't resist your charm.
But the money you earn, the sweat and the tears, are not for your own gain. No, every penny goes towards the growing pile of cash you owe, to the man who's known for his ruthless business practices and his even more ruthless methods of collection.
You dance, you pour, you smile, and you take the money, knowing that every dollar brings you one step closer to being free. But the price of your freedom is a heavy one, and each night, as you step out of the club, you feel the weight of your choices pressing down on your shoulders.
Sometimes, in the early hours of the morning, as you make your way back to Sylus's estate, you can't help but wonder what he would think if he knew the truth. Would he still look at you with that mix of curiosity and intrigue, or would he be disgusted?
The longer you keep your double life a secret, the more Sylus grows curious. He starts to notice the subtle changes in your demeanor, the way your eyes are sometimes rimmed with red, the way you sometimes jump at the slightest sound. He doesn't know about the loud music and the crowded club, the way the bass vibrates in your chest and the sweat drips down your skin. He doesn't know about the leering men and the groping hands, the way you have to plaster a fake smile on your face and endure their unwanted attentions. No, all Sylus knows is that you're tired, and he can't help but feel a flicker of concern, a desire to understand the reason behind your exhaustion.
—
Widower! Sylus who one day gets home after an interminably long day filled with meetings, negotiations, the never ending demands of keeping his business running smoothly and takes a step towards the staircase, soft whispers catching his attention. Curious, he follows the sound down the hallway towards the living room.
There, sprawled out on the expansive, over sized couch were his three children and you. The twins curled up on one end, their small bodies nestled into the soft cushions. It was quiet, save for the gentle rustling of pages being turned and the occasional whisper from his sons. Their voices were barely audible, as if they were sharing secrets not meant for grown up ears.
His eyes then moved to the other end of the couch, and his breath caught in his throat. Rose lay curled up on your chest, her body rose and fell with each breath you took, her lips parted slightly, a thin string of drool dampening the fabric of your shirt .One of her tiny hands was curled up near her cheek, the other draped casually over your waist, as if claiming you as her own in her sleep.
The twins, sensing his presence, looked up from the photo albums on their laps. They caught sight of their father and immediately pressed a small finger to their lips, their eyes wide with warning. Sylus nodded as he walked closer to the couch, his footsteps muffled on the plush carpet. He reached out, his hands gentle and careful as he slid his arms under Rose's small body, lifting her up and cradling her against his chest. She nuzzled instinctively into the crook of his neck, her hand curling up to rest on his chest.
His gaze moved to you, noting the way your eyes had flown open at his approach. He saw the surprise on your face and he felt a pang of something akin to guilt for startling you, but he couldn't bring himself to voice an apology. Instead, he simply turned away, carrying his daughter towards her bedroom.
The twins carefully closed the photo album and slid off the couch to follow Sylus, casting glances back at you, watching as you gathered your sweater that had slipped off during your nap, and your phone that had tumbled to the floor. You didn't see Sylus again that night.
Widower! Sylus who stands in the doorway of the kitchen the next morning, one shoulder leaned against the frame as he watches you work, following your every move as you prepare his kids their favorite breakfast.
You were reaching for a plate to stack the golden, syrup drenched stack of pancakes when you saw him. Glancing up, your eyes met his, and a rush of emotions washed over you, surprise, embarrassment, and a sudden urge to apologize for the previous evening.
"Oh, good morning, Mr. Qin," you began, a slight flush coloring your cheeks as you set the plate down "I'm so sorry about yesterday I...I didn't mean to fall asleep while the children were under my care. It won't happen again, I promise."
Your words tumbled out in a rush, feeling guilty for letting your exhaustion get the better of you, for not maintaining the level of alertness and vigilance that Sylus had surely expected from you.
"Please, don't apologize, It's not a crime to be human, it's perfectly normal to feel the need for rest after a long day of caring for energetic children," His lips curved into a small, almost indulgent smile, and he pushed off from the doorframe, taking a step into the kitchen. "But I would like to discuss how we can make things more comfortable and manageable for you. We can adjust your schedule, or provide additional staff to assist with some of the more time consuming tasks. I want to make sure that you have the time and energy to give your full attention to the children when you are here."
He paused, as if considering his next words carefully. "And perhaps, if you're open to it, we could share a meal together sometime, to discuss the children's progress and... other matters."
The invitation caught you by surprise, and you felt a flutter of something warm and unexpected in your chest "I... I would like that very much, Mr. Qin" you found yourself saying, a soft smile spreading across your face.
"Please, call me Sylus, I think we've earned a bit of familiarity, don't you?"
Widower! Sylus who gets a call from you a couple of weeks later to let him know you'll be late to work for the first time since he hired you. Later that day you step into Rose's room, heart still heavy from the morning meeting with your "other boss", and there in the middle of her room, was Sylus.
It was a sight that defied all expectations. Sylus was seated in a small, pink velvet chair, his shoulders hunched to fit into the tiny seat meant for a child. His long legs were folded at an awkward angle, knees nearly touching his chest as he tried to make himself fit into the diminutive furniture. Despite his obvious discomfort, his face held a look of pure patience and indulgence, his eyes soft and warm as he gazed at his daughter.
But it was the rest of his appearance that truly caught you by surprise. Gone was the impeccably dressed, always put together man. In his place was a father who had allowed his daughter to adorn him with a glittering tiara, the jewels and sparkles perched precariously atop his hair. The most astonishing detail was the makeup smeared across his face, Rose had clearly been busy with her collection of colorful eye shadows, and Sylus's left eye was currently a brilliant shade of purple, the glittery shadow extending in bold strokes across his high cheekbone. It was a look that would have been comical on anyone else, but on Sylus, it was somehow endearing in its unexpected vulnerability.
You just stood there, taking in the surreal scene, hearing the sound of Rose's delighted laughter.
When she stepped back to admire her handiwork, Sylus turned to look at you, the corners of his mouth twitched with the beginning of a smile. "What do you think?" he asked "Do you approve of my new look?"
You smiled back at him "You look... pretty"
Then, as if remembering where he was, Sylus turned his attention back to his daughter "Alright, let me see, have you finished your masterpiece yet?"
Rose nodded, her eyes sparkling with pride and excitement as she held up a tiny mirror.
Sylus leaned forward, pretending to examine his reflection, his brows shooting up in mock surprise. "Well, I think you've outdone yourself this time, Rosebud."
The little girl clapped her hands, her laughter ringing out like a bell as she watched her father's playful antics. Sylus, in turn, chuckled softly, his chest rumbling with mirth as he reached out to scoop Rose up into his arms.
When Sylus stood, the tiny chair creaked in relief at being freed of his weight and when he turned to face you there was a softness in his eyes, a warmth that had nothing to do with the glittery eyeshadow "I take it your family matter has been resolved?" he asked as he cradled Rose against his chest.
"Yes, thank you for asking," you replied softly. "I'm sorry for the short notice"
Widower! Sylus who sat in his home office, the dim glow of the computer monitor illuminating his face as he stared intently at the live feed from the security cameras outside his estate. He watched you emerge from his front door, his eyes narrowed when he saw you glancing around furtively, your eyes darting from side to side as if checking for prying eyes.
His breath caught in his throat when he saw a man on a motorcycle pull up to the curb, he saw how you hesitated for a moment before straddling the bike behind the unknown man, the way your body pressed against the stranger's back, arms wrapped around his waist.
He knew, instinctively, that this was not a casual acquaintance, this was something else. His instincts told him that whatever was happening, it was something you didn't want him to know about.
Little did he know that, an hour later, you would be sitting across from Marco, the loan shark and owner of the nightclub where you work .He couldn't hear the cold, menacing tone of Marco's voice as he spelled out the terms of your "employment".
"You belong to me, the only place you're allowed to work is under me. I own you, and I won't have you playing nanny to some rich brats."
He leaned in closer, his breath hot and stale against your face. "If you think you need more money to pay off that debt faster, well..." He let out a harsh, mocking laugh. "There's an easy solution for a pretty little thing like you. Start spreading your legs for the right customers, and I'll make sure you're swimming in cash.
Revulsion churned in your stomach at the thought, but you couldn't let Marco see how much his words affected you. Taking a deep breath, you met his gaze with a defiant one of your own. "I won't do that, I can't sink that low."
His eyes flashed with anger at your refusal, and he slammed his fist on the table, making you jump. "You don't have a choice," he snarled. "You're mine, and you'll do as I say. Unless..." He paused, a cruel smirk twisting his lips. "Unless you want me to pay a little visit to your boss, hmm? Let him know what a dirty little liar you've been, working for him during the day and warming strange men's laps at night. He might even decide he doesn't need your 'services' anymore. Wouldn't that be a shame?"
Fear gripped your heart at the thought of Sylus finding out the truth. The shame and disappointment in his eyes would be too much. Tears pricked at the corners of your eyes, but you blinked them back, refusing to let Marco see you cry.
"Please," you begged, hating the desperation in your voice but unable to keep the plea from spilling out. "Please don't tell him. I... I'll quit, on my own terms. Just... just give me a week to figure something out."
"Fine, you have one week to quit that ridiculous nanny gig" he continued "And while you're pondering your options, I want you to really consider my offer. I'm not a cruel man, you know. I'm just a businessman who knows a good opportunity when he sees one." He chuckled, an unpleasant sound that grated on your nerves.
"Think about it, you could have your debt paid off in no time, just by being a good girl and making some of my...special customers happy. I could set you up with only the best, the most generous ones. Men who would pay top dollar for a chance to spend some alone time with you." His voice was a sick combination of false flattery and lecherous intent.
"In fact, I might even sign up to be one of your regulars myself. I can show you a real good time. Teach you things that a clumsy virgin like you could never learn on your own."
With a shaking hand, you pushed your chair back from the table, standing up on unsteady legs. "I won't be your whore, no matter how much money you offer me."
He leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers under his chin as he regarded you with a look of cold amusement. "Suit yourself, but mark my words, sweetheart, you'll be back. They all come crawling back to me eventually."
Widower! Sylus who gets the bad news the next day. He was poring over some documents when the sudden sound of a soft knock at the door startled him from his thoughts. Looking up, he saw you standing in the doorway, your expression unreadable in the dim light.
"Come in" his smooth voice filled the room. He set the papers aside, giving you his full attention as he leaned back in his chair. His eyes, usually intense and piercing, softened slightly as he took in your hesitant stance.
"Is everything alright? you look... troubled."
You took a deep, steadying breath, steeling yourself for the conversation to come. "I... I need to talk to you, it's about... it's about my position here."
Swallowing hard, you took a couple of steps inside, the heavy wooden door closing behind you.
"I... I've decided to quit and leave at the end of the week" You couldn't bring yourself to meet his eyes so you stared down at the carpet beneath your feet, fingers twisting nervously in the fabric of your skirt.
The room fell silent for a long, agonizing moment and you could almost feel the weight of Sylus's confusion hanging heavy in the air. Finally, he spoke, his voice measured "May I ask why?" he inquired "What has happened to cause you to make such a sudden decision?"
You took a shaky breath "It's... it's family issues again" you managed to say, hating the way the lie tasted on your tongue. "I... I'm afraid I have no choice but to leave."
"I see, family comes first, I understand that more than anyone." He paused, his eyes turning distant for a moment before snapping back to focus on you "I won't lie to you and say that this isn't inconvenient timing. The children... they've grown so fond of you. And I..." He trailed off "I've come to rely on your presence here, in more ways than one."
"I'm so sorry..."
Sylus was a man who had learned to control his emotions, to channel them into action and decision rather than allowing them to control him. So he sat there, his jaw clenched and his hands curled into fists at his sides. "Very well, I'll make sure that your payment is settled in full on your last day here" he paused, his jaw working as he searched for the right words. "As for my children...I would prefer to be the one to break the news to them. They adore you, and the news of your departure will be difficult for them to hear."
Widower! Sylus who jolted awake in the dead of night, his eyes adjusting to the darkness of his bedroom as he sat up in bed, silk sheets slipping off his bare chest. The clock on his nightstand glowed a faint blue, the numbers illuminating in the blackness 2:37 AM
He had talked to his children just a few hours earlier, on the same evening you left. To his surprise, the twins had simply nodded, their faces unreadable as they processed the information. Even little Rose had merely looked up at him with wide, tear filled eyes before turning and silently leaving the room, her small hand slipping from his as she toddled off to her bedroom.
Just as he swung his legs over the side of the bed, a soft, muffled sound caught his attention. At first, he thought it was just the wind, the bitter winter breeze slipping through the cracks. But as he listened closely, the sound grew louder, until he could make out the unmistakable sound of a child's sobs.
When he reached Rose's room he took a deep breath and pushed the door open. He stepped into the room and saw her curled up on her bed, her small body trembling with each sob, her little hands clutching her favorite doll, a doll you had given her.
He knelt down beside her, his hand gently cupping her shoulder as he tried to soothe her. "Rose, sweetheart, is everything...?"
He froze, his heart leaping into his throat at the sound of Rose's next words. Between her hiccuping sobs he heard her cry out your name.
Rose looked up at him "Y/N is gone" fresh tears spilled down her chubby red cheeks. "She's not coming back, Daddy."
—
"Is it bring your kid to work day and nobody told me about it?" Marco leaned back in his chair, a fake smile on his lips as he eyed the duo sitting across from him.
Sylus's jaw clenched, his eyes narrowing as he fixed Marco with an icy stare. He could feel Rose squirming on his lap, her small hands fidgeting with the fabric of his suit jacket.
"I didn't come here to discuss my personal life. I came here because I've heard there is trouble brewing between our organizations. I want to know if there's something going on that I should be aware of."
"Nothing that should concern you. Just a little... misunderstanding between the staff."
"Well, I suggest you pay close attention to what's happening in your own backyard. Or perhaps I need to remind you that this place still stands because I allow it."
Marco's bravado faltered for a moment, a flicker of unease passing over his face. He shifted uncomfortably in his seat, the leather creaking beneath him
"If there are more misunderstandings I expect you to bring it to my attention. Immediately. Do I make myself clear?"
"Crystal clear, but I don't expect any further trouble, Sylus."
Sylus stiffened when a woman's voice cut through the tense atmosphere.
"Uncle Marco..."
Sylus pulled Rose closer to his chest as he turned to face the door. The woman standing there was strikingly beautiful, with a cascade of red curls tumbling down her back and piercing green eyes.
"Isabella," Sylus acknowledged coolly, his voice clipped and not entirely welcoming. "I didn't realize you'd be gracing us with your presence today."
Isabella stepped closer, her heels clicking on the floor. "Sylus, darling, it's been ages!" she exclaimed, her voice ringing with false cheer. Her eyes flicked to Rose, a look of forced affection on her face as she tried to reach out and tousle the little girl's hair. "And this must be little Rose, she's grown so much since I last saw her. Aren't you just the prettiest little thing?" her smile was too bright, too forced, and her presence here too convenient to be a coincidence.
But Rose was having none of it. She pulled away from Isabella's outstretched hand, burying her face in the crook of Sylus's neck as if seeking shelter from the unwelcome advance.
"We were just leaving, if you'll excuse us, I have important matters to attend to at home." Sylus nodded to Isabella and started to walk away, butstopped when he heard Marcos' voice.
"If you ever need help with your kids, Isabella here was a great nanny to my kids and...you know each other pretty well."
"Isabella? a nanny?" Sylus repeated with a low chuckle "I appreciate the thought, Marco, but I have my doubts about her ability to keep up with my kids in those..." He paused, gesturing to Isabella's feet with a smirk. "...stilettos."
He could see the indignation flashing in her eyes, the way her full lips parted as if to argue. But he was not in the mood for small talk, especially not with someone from his past that he had long since put behind him.
"Thank you for the suggestion, though," Sylus added, as he turned to leave again. "I'll keep it in mind." with that, he strode out of the room.
He was so lost in his own thoughts, he failed to notice the figure that slipped quietly into the hallway behind him, the sleepy child in his arms didn't.
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Sylus watched as the new nanny tried in vain to wrangle his twin boys. They darted and slipped away around her, their laughter echoing through their room as they played a game of tag, the poor woman chasing after them. He could see the frustration on her face, the way she stumbled when trying to keep up.
A wry smile tugged at the corner of his lips as he recalled his exchange with Marco and Isabella. He had to admit, the thought of a nanny in fashionable attire struggling to keep up with his children was almost comical.
But the humor was short lived, his gaze moving to another screen, his heart clenching when he saw Rose sitting quietly in the corner of her room, her small body curled up with a book in her lap. She hadn't spoken a word again since that night.
The memory of her tear streaked face as she sobbed for you, was seared into his mind. He knew that he had to be patient, that healing would take time, but it didn't make her silence any easier to bear.
He had considered sending his men to track you down and bring you back, to make you stay by whatever means necessary. He could offer you triple, quadruple the amount he had paid you before. Anything, everything, to see his little girl smile again.
He knew that it was not about the money or the material things. It was about the connection you had forged with his children, the love and care you had shown them, the way you had brought light and laughter back into their lives.
But he resisted because it would be dangerous territory, because he didn't want to acknowledge the feelings that had begun to bloom in his chest. Feelings that went beyond gratitude and appreciation, feelings that he had tried to suppress and deny for months.
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You sat at your vanity, the soft glow of the lamp illuminating your reflection in the mirror. With a weary sigh, you dipped your brush into the blush, the rosy hue a stark contrast to the paleness of your skin. The past few weeks had taken their toll, the constant pressure and demands from Marco grating on your nerves like the harsh rasp of sandpaper.
You missed the children, more than words could express. Little Rose sweet smile, her giggles, the way her eyes sparkled with innocent joy. And the twins, with their boundless energy and curiosity, their constant chatter and playful antics. They had wormed their way into your heart, and the ache of their absence was a constant pain.
As you brushed the soft pink hue across your cheeks, you caught a snippet of conversation from the other room. Your ears perked up, your curiosity piqued by the mention of a name that made your heart skip a beat.
Sylus.
Suddenly the sound of Isabella's voice drifted through the open door and in a matter of seconds she was standing behind you with Marco by her side.
"Well, if it isn't the star of the show, I thought you'd be downstairs already. Earning your keep like the rest of those desperate little sluts? I'm sure at this rate, you'll be paying off your debt..." She turned to Marco and made a show of counting her fingers "when you're practically a hag in your fifties!"
"I did offer her the opportunity to work downstairs" Marco said, shrugging his shoulders in a gesture of feigned innocence. "But she refused. Again."
You tried to tune them out, to block out their voices as you focused on your reflection in the mirror. You couldn't let them get to you, you had thicker skin than that, had weathered far worse than their petty insults and jabs.
But Isabella was not so easily deterred. She stepped closer, her hand reaching out to pluck the brush from your hand "A little birdie told me you were working for Sylus, did you offer him some sort of...special services?" She raised a perfect brow, her implication clear and degrading.
"That's none of your business, Isabella"
"We'll see about that, you can't run from your debts forever you know? Sooner or later, you'll have to pay up. One way or another." she turned to Marco. "Come on, let's leave her to her makeup. I'm sure she has a looooong night of work ahead of her."
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The crisp autumn breeze nipped at your heels as you walked through the park, your breath misting in the cool air with each exhale. You pulled your coat tighter around your shoulders, wishing you had worn your heavier winter coat instead of this lightweight thing.
The park was nearly deserted at this time of day, the usual crowds of families and children having long since departed for the warmth and comfort of their homes. You had chosen this particular spot deliberately, knowing that the chances of running into him were slim to none. You had been so careful, so meticulous in your avoidance of anything and anyone connected to Sylus.
But of course the universe had conspired to shatter your peace and quiet. Lost in thought you almost didn't notice the small hand that wrapped around your leg, tiny fingers curling into the fabric of your pants. Your heart leapt into your throat, those little arms, so soft and warm, had wrapped around you countless times, their embrace filled with trust and love that never failed to steal your breath away.
"Rose," The little girl looked up at you, her eyes wide and wondering. She was adorable, even more so than you remembered, her cheeks flushed pink and her hair a tangle of curls that had escaped from the messy bun atop her head.
"Y/N" her voice was barely above a whisper, as if she was afraid that speaking too loudly might make you disappear like a figment of her imagination.
You turned around slowly, heart pounding in your chest as you braced yourself to see Sylus standing behind you. But your gaze landed on two small figures before you. Luke and Kieran, their eyes wide with the same shock and astonishment that you felt. They stared at you, their mouths agape, as if they couldn't quite believe their eyes. The color had drained from their faces, leaving them looking like two porcelain dolls, frozen in a moment of disbelief.
Behind them, a woman hurried to catch up, her breath coming in ragged puffs as she jogged towards the stunned children. She looked exhausted, her hair disheveled and her clothes rumpled, as if the weight of the world rested heavily upon her shoulders.
For a moment, no one moved, no one spoke. The world seemed to hold its breath. The only sound was the distant chirping of birds and the gentle rustling of leaves in the crisp autumn breeze.
The nanny, breathing heavily, finally caught up to the twins "Boys, let's go," she said, her voice strained and impatient. "We shouldn't be bothering this...lady."
"Why did you leave?" Luke asked "Daddy was sad after you went away."
You took a step back, your hands coming up in a gesture of supplication. "I'm sorry," you said softly, "I can't...I don't..." You shook your head, at a loss for words, your heart breaking all over again when you felt Rose let go of your leg.
"I'm sorry, but I have to go. Please, take good care of them." The words felt inadequate, a Band Aid on the ache that throbbed in your chest. Then you turned to leave, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes as you hurried away from the shocked and confused twins, and a sobbing Rose.
—
Widowed! Sylus who comes home to his kids crying, their nanny could only offer a vague explanation about the children spotting someone at the park and falling apart emotionally the moment that person left.
Widowed! Sylus who, after talking to the twins and hearing about them seeing you at the park, barks orders to his most trusted men, he instructs them to scour the city and find you. In his desperation he fails to give his men specific instructions on how to bring you back to his estate. This oversight leads to a scene of confusion and misunderstanding, with you arriving at his home bound and unconscious, a far cry from the peaceful reunion he had envisioned.
Widowed! Sylus who paces the length of his study, the moment you stir, your eyes fluttering open, he is by your side in an instant. Words of apology spill from his lips "I'm sorry, I had no idea they would bring you back like this. It was never my intention to frighten or harm you."
Widowed! Sylus who, after hours of apologies and a breathtaking offer of five times your original salary, finally hears the words he had been desperate to hear from your lips. "Yes". You will work for him again. Keeping the same hours on the weekdays but this time you accept to stay in the room he had previously offered, just on the weekends.
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Marco's face turns a mottled shade of red, his eyes bulging with rage as you tell him you have decided to return to Sylus's employ as well as your decision to continue working at the club only on the weekdays. His hands clench at his sides, knuckles turning white as he grapples with the realization that he is losing his grip on you, his means of control slipping through his fingers.
"You can't be fucking serious" He takes a step towards you, his finger jabbing the air in your direction, his intent to intimidate clear.
"Don't," you say, a thread of steel running through the soft melody of your tone. "Don't threaten me, Marco. You know as well as I do that Sylus would not take kindly to anyone, let alone you, threatening the well being and safety of his children's favorite nanny."
You take a step forward, closing the distance between you and Marco, your eyes never leaving his as you drive your point home. "I am not one of your possessions, and I will not be spoken to like one. I have made my decision, and I expect you to respect it, I will continue to uphold my end of our agreement. You will receive your money, on time and in full, but you do not own me."
The color drains from his face, he knows, as well as you do, that crossing Sylus is a line he cannot afford to toe. To threaten you, to jeopardize the wellbeing of his children, would be to sign his own death warrant.
He steps back, his hands raised in a gesture of surrender, a bitter sneer twisting his lips. "Fine," he grits out, voice dripping with anger. "Have it your way. But this isn't over." His eyes turn cold as he turns on his heel and storms out of the room, slamming the door behind him with a resounding bang.
—
Widowed! Sylus who sits at the head of a conference table, his brow furrowed in concentration as he listens to the droning voices of his business partners. A headache pulses at his temples, the result of hours spent on endless reports and negotiations. He rubs at his eyes, weary from the strain, when his phone begins to vibrate on the table beside him.
"What?" he barks into the receiver, his tone sharp with exhaustion and irritability.
There's a pause, a moment of static, before a small, sweet voice pipes up from the other end. "Daddy, are you busy? Wanna go get some ice cream?"
"I can't go get ice cream right now, Rose, I'm bu-" He stops mid-sentence, his eyes widening as realization dawns on him. She is talking to him.
"Did you hear that?"your voice comes through the line.
Without hesitation, he stands abruptly, the screech of his chair against the floor drawing startled glances. "That's all for now," he says as he strides towards the door, leaving the stunned silence of the meeting room behind him.
Widowed! Sylus who returns home from a short business trip on a Sunday morning to the smell of pancakes and the sound of laughter.
He finds you twirling and dancing around the kitchen, an oversized shirt hanging off your body, the hem brushing just above your knees. Wild hair bouncing with each step as you sway to the music. Your socks, colorful and playful, allow you to glide across the floor with ease. Rose and twins, watch you with wide eyes, their giggles ringing through the air like the sweetest music.
Sylus leans against the doorframe, his arms crossed over his chest as he watches the scene unfold. When the song ends he finds himself slowly clapping. The sound echoes through the kitchen, drawing your attention to his presence. Your face, flushed and glowing from your performance, turns a shade of red that rivals the ripe tomatoes in his garden. The children turn to look at him, their laughter reaching a new pitch at the sight of your flustered expression.
"I must say, I've never seen such a...vivacious performance in my kitchen before."
Rose points a small finger at you "Y/N was dancing all over, Daddy! Like a silly goose!"
Sylus chuckles, a rich, warm sound, his eyes never leaving yours. "Is that so?" he asks, his tone playful and teasing. "Well, I must say, I've never seen a more delightful sight than my children's nanny prancing about in my kitchen, wearing what I presume is one of my shirts." His gaze flicks down to the shirt in question, a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes before he meets your eyes again. "I must commend you on your...choice of attire. It's certainly a new look for you."
"I-I'm so sorry, I didn't think you'd be back so soon. I forgot to pack my pajamas and I found this shirt in the closet. I thought you'd be back later tonight, so I just threw on the first thing I could find."
Widower! Sylus who notices your restlessness during the weekends. He sees the way you slip out of your room, bare feet padding softly against the hardwood floor as you make your way to the kitchen, seeking solace in the warmth of a steaming cup of tea.
One night, as he passes by the kitchen, he finds you there. Barefoot, your toes curling against the cool marble floor, eyes distant.
"Y/N"
His words, meant to catch your attention, startle you. You jump, your body tensing as the mug slips from your fingers shattering against the floor, the sound of breaking ceramic piercing the silence.
"I got it," he says, but you, driven by an instinctive need to right the wrong, step towards the shattered remains of the mug, bare foot connecting with a sharp piece of ceramic.
"I said I got it," Sylus repeats, his voice firmer this time, exasperation creeping into his tone. He moves, his long legs eating up the distance between you. Before you can say anything, before you can steady yourself, he is upon you, strong arms wrapping around your waist, lifting you effortlessly onto the cool marble countertop.
The sudden change in elevation startles you into stillness "I-I'm sorry, I was just-" you begin, but he silences you with a sharp shake of his head.
He turns on his heel, striding out of the kitchen only to return moments later with a small first aid kit clutched in his hand.
He kneels before you and takes your ankle in his hand, his fingers curling around the delicate bone with careful pressure. "Let me see"
The sight of this powerful man who commands respect and fear from all who know him, kneeling at your feet, sends a shiver racing down your spine.
He removes the piece of ceramic carefully and the soft sound of a pained gasp reaches his ears. His fingers pause, a tremor running through his hands at the unintentionally erotic nature of it. He swallows hard, his throat suddenly dry.
He works efficiently, his brow furrowed in focus as he cleans the small cut, his touch sending sparks of electricity with every brush of his fingers against your flesh. The silence between you is heavy, filled with the sound of your breathing and the soft rustle of a bandage he secures around your ankle.
"There" he examines his handiwork "All done." He keeps his hand wrapped around your ankle, his thumb tracing small circles on your skin, as if unable to let you go just yet.
"Thank you"
He finally stands but his eyes linger on your face. You swear the space between you starts to shrink, the oxygen thinning, making it hard to breathe, hard to think. He is close, so close that you can see him blushing, but maybe its the dim light of the kitchen.
His eyes move to your parted lips, to the way they glisten in the soft light. The tightness in your chest, the ache in your lungs, could be mistaken for fear...
"Dad, I'm thirsty" The sound of Luke's voice jolts you both from your trance. You leap down from the counter so fast that you would have tumbled to the ground if not for Sylus's quick reflexes.
"I got it"
Widowed! Sylus who finds himself unsettled by frequent visits of Isabella. Her excuses for dropping by, always some vague business matter. She always waits for him to get home.
You feel her gaze boring into you, a weight that's almost tangible, heavy with unspoken recrimination. Her silence more unsettling than any cutting remark. Of course she knew you were working for Sylus again.
When he returns home, you watch as he greets her with a tense smile, his body language guarded as he leads her towards his office. The door closes behind them, muffling their conversation, leaving you to wonder at the nature of their discussion. You don't catch sight of her leaving until hours later.
Each subsequent visit you see her lingering longer, and each time you cross paths at the club her mean words find their mark.
"Still playing the perfect little nanny, are we?" she sneers "Does he know about your little...indiscretions? The way you throw yourself at anything in a suit?"
You bite back the retort that rises to your lips, knowing that engaging with her only fuels her spite.
Until one day while Rose is napping and you are playing with the twins, she begins to wander about the house, while she waits for Sylus, and finds your room. She doesn't expect little Rose to walk in while she is going through your things, so she pushes Rose out of your room as soon as she sees her, causing her to trip and fall on her butt. Rose watches ,with tears swelling in her eyes, as Isabella smirks at her and turns to leave without helping her up.
Isabella doesn't see the hit coming. She watches as you approach her, but the slap across her cheek is unexpected.
She stumbles back, her hand flying up to cradle her face as she stares at you in disbelief.
"What the f-"
"Shut up," you hiss "You don't get to touch them. Any of them. Ever again." Your words are clipped, each syllable dripping with a venom you didn't know you possessed.
Isabella's eyes narrow, her gaze flicking between you and Rose, who cowers behind your legs, her small body shaking with sobs. "Is that so? Well, I think Sylus would be very interested to know about this little display of violence from his precious nanny."
"Go ahead, tell him. Go ahead and watch him react when he finds out you laid a hand on his daughter." Your eyes flash, a dangerous glint that makes Isabella take a half step back. "I might lose my job, but you? You'll be lucky if you still have the use of your arms after he's done with you."
Isabella's jaw clenches, a muscle ticking in her cheek as she weighs her options. She grabs her designer purse from the table, fingers tightening around the expensive leather and walks away. She may be a bitch, but she's not stupid.
Her visits stop after that.
Widowed! Sylus who feeds on every glance, each accidental brush of your hands. He loves the way your clothes hug your curves, the way your laughter lights up the room when you play with his children.
Late at night when he lies in bed, his mind wanders to you, his body aching with a need he's long since forgotten. His cock, hard and throbbing, demands his attention, but he refuses to indulge. Instead, he settles for stolen moments, for the way your eyes meet and the air crackles between you. It's a sweet torture, a delicious agony that leaves him in a constant state of blue balls.
And you crave his presence just the same, your eyes flickering to his whenever you think he's not looking.
It all comes to an end on a quiet Saturday evening, as the sun dips below the horizon and the house settles into peaceful sleep.
You've just tucked Rose into bed, you try to slip out of her room quietly, the door clicking softly. When you turn around he's already there.
He acts on instinct, his body moving before his mind can catch up. He's on you in an instant, his lips crashing against yours in a kiss that steals your breath away.
Your initial instinct is to pull away, but the heat and hunger in his touch ignites a matching flame. Your lips part, allowing him to deepen the kiss, and he takes advantage, his tongue delving into the sweet cavern of your mouth.
Large hands grip your hips, pulling your body flush against his. A low moan escapes your throat when his thigh pushes between your legs, the firm muscle rubbing against the ache building at the center of your being.
Lost in the haze of the moment, you grind your core against his thigh, seeking friction, pressure, anything to alleviate the throbbing need that's taken over your body. Your fingers tangle in his hair, anchoring him to you as he devours your mouth, his teeth nipping at your bottom lip.
Just as the kiss reaches a fever pitch, the door to Rose's room creaks open. The sound pierces through the fog of lust clouding your mind, a reminder of where you are and what you're doing. With a gasp, you wrench yourself away from Sylus, chest heaving as you try to catch your breath.
He takes a step back, putting distance between your bodies "Rose, sweetheart, what are you doing up?"
Widowed! Sylus who can no longer hold back. Whenever the opportunity arises, during naptime or when the kids play in another room, he pounces. He's a man on a mission, his hunger for you growing with each passing day. In the library a brush of his fingers against yours as you turn the page of a book becomes an excuse to intertwine your hands, to pull you closer until you're sharing the same armchair.
In the kitchen, as you chop vegetables or stir a pot of simmering sauce, Sylus appears at your side. A hug, meant to steady you as you reach for a heavy pan, becomes a lingering embrace, his hands roaming over your curves, tracing the dip of your waist, the flare of your hips. His breath, hot and heavy against your neck, sends shivers down your spine as he whispers praise for your culinary skills.
At first, you're startled by his boldness, but as the days turn into weeks, you find yourself growing accustomed to the way your body responds to his touch, your skin flushing, heart racing, core aching.
There's no need for a title, no need for grand declarations or pretty speeches. The unspoken understanding hangs heavy between you, a silent pact sealed with heated glances and stolen caresses.
He knows his children are his priority, their happiness the guiding light of his life. So he's careful, always mindful to steal his moments with you when they're not around.
It was all kisses and soft touches until one day...It was a silly thing that had started as a joke. You had been reading a particularly steamy scene from a book, your cheeks flushed and your breath coming a bit faster. Sylus had noticed, of course he had, his keen eyes missing nothing, especially not the way your fingers trembled slightly as you turned the page.
And so, when he reached out and plucked the book from your hands, you had reacted on instinct, moving to straddle him in an attempt to get your book back. When you found yourself seated on his lap, your thighs bracketing his hips, you felt a shock of awareness that left you breathless.
Before you could prepare yourself he dipped down until his lips connected with the sensitive skin of your jaw. His lips parted, and he kissed your skin, his mouth hot and hungry as it trailed along the column of your throat. A sharp inhale, a harsh exhale, and then his lips were on your ear, his teeth grazing the delicate lobe before he drew it into his mouth, suckling gently.
In that moment, your thighs slipped open, your body moving on pure instinct, seeking the source of the ache that had taken up residence between your legs. And as you shifted, you felt it, the hard, thick length of him straining against his pants, pressing urgently against the damp fabric of your panties.
He made a move to push you back, his hands gripping your hips tightly as he tried to create some distance, some much needed space between your bodies. But it was too late.
"We...we should slow down. We need to..." But even as the words left his mouth, his hands slid up your sides, his thumbs brushing the underside of your breasts.
You rolled your hips against his, core pressing down against his cock. A groan tore from his throat, his head falling back against the cushions of the armchair "Fuck".
"Sy..."
His eyes flew open, his gaze locking with yours as he stared at you with shock and awe. His hair was falling across his forehead in a way that made him look younger, more vulnerable. But there was nothing vulnerable about the way he was looking at you.
When you rolled your hips against his again, you watched as his lips parted, a silent moan caught in his throat. His hands slid to your face, gripping your jaw gently, angling your head to kiss you.
Your hands roamed the hard planes of his chest, feeling the way his muscles rippled beneath your fingertips as he thrust up against you.
You felt the head of his cock press against your clit and you cried out into his mouth, he did it again and again and you couldn't stop panting against his lips. His hips moved faster, almost there, your toes curled and your vision swam...
"Y/N? Are you in there?"
A sharp rap sounded at the library door. This time it was Kieran.
Widowed! Sylus who receives a phone call from Marco on the same evening you made the decision to quit your job at the club and intended to discuss your debt situation with Sylus.
You knew you couldn't keep living this double life any longer. Sylus needed to know the truth about how you were paying off your debt.
Marco had been strangely understanding when you told him it was your last night working for him. Too understanding, in fact. His easy acceptance of your decision set off alarm bells in your head, but you pushed the unease aside, attributing it to exhaustion. So you got ready for your final shift, steeling yourself for the long night ahead.
Sylus found Isabella sitting in Marco's office, she informed him that he was waiting for him in the main room. Intrigued, Sylus made his way inside taking in the writhing bodies on the dance floor, the flash of skin and the glint of jewels in the strobing lights.
Marco greeted him with a wide, shark-like grin. They discussed business matters, despite the loud music Sylus was able to hear every word and an hour later he turned to take his leave. His mind was already racing with thoughts about the implications of his discussion with Marco when he heard Marco speak again.
"Did you know," Marco asked, his tone casual and conversational "that your nanny has a rather sizable debt pending with my organization?"
Sylus froze, his brows furrowing in confusion. "What?"
Marco pointed across the room, his finger landing on you as you stood behind the bar, pouring a drink. You were dressed in the skimpy lingerie required by the club. "That right there is your nanny, she works for you during the day and warms men's laps at night."
The punch Sylus threw was no ordinary one. It was fueled by rage and betrayal. The force of the blow sent Marco flying backwards, his body crumpling to the floor in a heap.
You spun around at the commotion, your heart leaping into your throat when you saw Sylus standing over Marco, his fists clenched and shaking at his sides. Your eyes met his, and the fury you saw there made your blood run cold.
The world around you faded away, the music receding into a distant hum until it was only the two of you, locked in this moment
—
Sylus stood rooted to the spot, his anger starting to morph into something else, something darker and far more terrifying. Disappointment, betrayal and a deep sense of possessiveness, all swirled in the crimson depths of his eyes as he stared you down.
He could see the way your chest heaved, the way you struggled to catch your breath in that revealing lingerie that left little to the imagination.
His men had already surrounded Marco, their hands resting on the butts of their weapons, ready to spring into action at a moment's notice. But Sylus barely noticed them, his focus solely on you and the embarrassment that stained your cheeks a mortified red.
"Take her home" Sylus commanded, each word dripping with cold authority. The two men at his side moved first, their grips tightening around your arms as they began to lead you away from the chaos of the club and into the uncertain embrace of the night.
Sylus watched as you were dragged away, struggling to reconcile the woman he thought he knew with the one before him now. He had trusted you, had come to care for you, and in return, you had kept this secret from him.
When you disappeared into the shadows, Sylus turned his attention back to Marco, his eyes narrowing as he took a menacing step towards him. Marco, despite the blood dripping down his chin and the obvious pain he was in, had the audacity to smirk at him, his eyes mocking and taunting.
"All you had to do was not mess with me and you couldn't even do that."
"She doesn't belong to you," Marco spat, wiping blood from his split lip with the back of his hand. "She's just your fucking nanny. Or are you going to pay the rest of her debt?"
"How much?"
Marco threw his head back and laughed "You've got to be fucking kidding me" he said, wiping more blood from his face.
Sylus's eyes darkened, his patience wearing thin. "I asked, how much?"
"The bitch still owes me five hundred grand. I expect you to pay every penny, you son of a bitch."
Five hundred thousand dollars. It was a fortune to some, and a mere drop in the bucket to a man of Sylus's means.
His phone felt heavy in his hand as he pulled it out, fingers flying over the screen as he input the necessary commands. Seconds later, Marco's phone pinged with an incoming notification.
Sylus felt a grim satisfaction as he watched Marco's face pale, the color draining from his face as he stared down at his phone. The notification, a transfer of funds. Five million dollars, a sum ten times what the wretched man had demanded, was now sitting in his account, waiting to be claimed.
Marco's last words, a pathetic attempt at mockery, rang out through the club. "That was the most expensive prostitute I ever sold." he sneered, too foolish to realize the gravity of his situation.
Sylus's expression never changed "Get the girls out," he ordered, cold and commanding. "And then take out the vermin that are still running amok."
The first shot rang out, the bullet finding its mark between Marco's eyes with unerring accuracy. Chaos erupted as people screamed and fled, desperate to escape the impending violence.
Sylus's eyes fell on Isabella, who stood frozen in shock and horror a few steps away. She opened her mouth to speak, but Sylus silenced her with a single, sharp gesture. "Except that one," he said, pointing at her. "Get rid of her too. Her days of pushing people around are over."
With that, Sylus turned on his heel and strode out of the club, leaving the screams and gunshots behind him.
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It was late. Way too late. The clock glaring 4:02 AM. You sat on the edge of your bed, your suitcase packed and ready. You had to explain, had to make him understand. It was too late to run, too late to hide from the consequences of your actions.
The door to your room creaked open, and there he was, his body filling the doorway. His eyes searched for you and then he stepped inside, the door clicking shut behind him.
"I can explain..." you stood up, voice trembling with fear. The words felt clumsy on your tongue, inadequate to convey the tangled web of secrets you had spun.
He approached you, his long strides eating up the distance between your bodies until your back hit a wall, leaving you nowhere to run.
"I was going to talk to you about it today, I swear. About everything, about my mother's debt, about me working at the club to pay it off. I needed the money-"
"Did you let them touch you?" He moved closer, his chest nearly brushing against your own.
You hesitated, your throat constricting around the truth. "Sometimes" you admitted, barely able to force the word out, a whisper of sound.
His thumb swiped over your trembling bottom lip and you leaned into his touch, starved for the comfort and reassurance only he could provide.
You couldn't help but notice the toll the night had taken on him. Dark shadows lingered beneath his eyes and the scent of blood and sweat clung to him.
His eyes flickered and you moved an inch closer to him "I'm sorry, Sy"
A second later his lips were on yours. His fingers tangled in your hair, gripping the strands tightly as he angled your head to deepen the kiss, his other hand slid down the curve of your waist, his fingers splaying across the rounded globe of your ass.
He squeezed the soft flesh, pulling you flush against him as he devoured your mouth, swallowing your soft moans and mewls.
His lips trailed a path of fire along your jaw, teeth grazing the sensitive skin, tongue laving over the reddened flesh.
He listened to your ragged breaths, felt the way your body trembled against his. His hand slid under the hem of your skirt, fingertips skimming along your inner thigh until they brushed against the damp fabric of your panties.
You sighed his name, hips rocking forward, seeking more of his touch, craving his possession. His eyes darkened and in one swift movement, he scooped you up into his arms.
Your legs automatically wrapped around his hips as he carried you towards the bed. He kissed you breathless, his lips moving over yours with a hunger that stole the air from your lungs leaving you dizzy and wanting.
He pulled back and stared at you "Do you want to be mine?"
Lost in a haze of desire you simply nodded, a silent promise of your devotion.
He set you down on the edge of the bed, his hands never leaving your body. With a deft tug, he removed your skirt and your shirt followed. His fingers trailed up to unclasp your bra, the straps sliding down your shoulders before he tugged it free, tossing it carelessly to the side. His hands cupped the weight of your breasts, thumbs brushing over the hardened peaks, drawing a sharp intake of breath from your parted lips.
Then he dipped his head, his mouth replacing where his thumbs had just been, tongue swirling around a stiff nipple before drawing it into the wet heat of his mouth. He suckled greedily, one hand kneading your soft breast, the other sliding down to the waistband of your panties.
Two of his long fingers stroked over your soaked entrance, teasing your wet folds before thrusting them inside, drawing a keening cry from your throat. He hummed against your nipple, the vibrations adding to the overwhelming pleasure coursing through your body. Your toes curled, head lolling back in ecstasy, desperate for more of his touch.
"Sylus..."
He released your breast with a final, lingering suck, a string of saliva connecting his lips to your flushed skin.
His fingers moved inside you, shallow thrusts that had you clenching around them, your body greedy for more. His other hand pulled your underwear down your legs and then nudged your legs wider, allowing him to slip deeper, to stroke along hidden spots you didn't know existed.
With each thrust of his fingers, you could feel yourself growing wetter, your arousal dripping down your ass. The moment he withdrew his fingers you whimpered at the loss, but he was back inside you in an instant, his fingers sinking deeper.
Your own fingers made quick work of the buttons of his shirt, desperate to feel his skin against yours. You kissed across his sternum, lips brushing over his nipple when he pressed down on your clit.
Your breath hitched and his thumb began to rub slow, deliberate circles. Your hands dropped to his belt, fingers fumbling with the buckle and he watched as your hand delved into his boxers, wrapping around his hard cock, feeling it throb against your palm.
"Fuck, sweetie-"
Without warning, he grabbed you under the arms, lifting you effortlessly to toss you back onto the mattress. You propped yourself up on your elbows, panting and flushed, watching as he kicked off his pants, leaving his boxers tented and straining.
"I can't hold back anymore" he crawled up the mattress and his eyes skated up your body, locking with yours as he hovered over your core, his breath ghosting across the soft curls there. You bit your lip, holding your breath in anticipation.
He began to rub your clit and at the same time, his other hand slid down your leg, encouraging you to bend your knee, to open yourself fully.
You threw your head back as heat began to pool low in your belly, body coiling with tension. And then, his mouth was on you, his tongue parted your puffy folds in one long, flat swipe. Instinctively, you clamped your hand over your mouth to muffle the sound, not wanting to risk waking the children.
But Sylus seemed unconcerned, his hand moving to gently remove yours as he murmured, "There is no need. The room is soundproof" before diving back in.
You fisted your hands in the blankets beneath you, your toes curling tightly as you tried to close your legs but his hands held your thighs open.
"Give it to me, let go" he pushed your legs even wider, the stretch sending fire through your veins.
You shuddered, feeling your pleasure coiling tighter and tighter. Your knees curled up to your chest, your body instinctively turning in on itself as the tip of his tongue teased your clit in small licks.
The coil within you snapped, your eyes fluttering closed, fingers twisting the sheets into knots.
You heard someone scream and it was only when your vision swam back into focus that you realized the scream had been your own. Your chest heaved, lungs burning as you struggled to catch your breath, your body still trembling with the aftershocks.
He trailed kisses along your hipbone, his lips soft and warm against your skin. His eyes flicked up to meet yours as he moved his hands, only to replace them with his body. He slithered up your curves, pressing open mouthed kisses to your breasts, your collarbones, your throat, until finally, his lips found yours.
His forehead lowered to rest against yours as he pulled his underwear down and gripped his dick, circling your clenching pussy with the fat head of his cock.
Then he pressed forward, stretching you open around him, your walls squeezing him as he slowly sheathed himself inside you. Your hands scrambled to grip his shoulders, nails digging into his skin as you locked your legs around his waist, anchoring yourself to him.
His hips began to move, withdrawing and pressing back inside you faster and deeper. His mouth grew sloppier with each thrust, panting and groaning against your lips as he lost himself in the exquisite feel of your body.
When he pulled back, his eyes immediately moved to your bouncing breasts, drinking in the sight of you beneath him, lost in pleasure. His breath came in short gasps, his jaw clenching as he fought to maintain control.
You curled your leg higher, and suddenly, he slid deeper, striking a spot inside you that had you gasping. "Ooooooh god" you moaned, your back arching off the bed. Sylus cursed, his eyes squeezing shut struggling to keep still, buried deep inside your fluttering heat.
His fingers moved to your clit once more, rubbing and circling, keeping time with the thrusts of his hips.
"Fuck, I'm go- fuck... I need you to cum on my cock, Let me feel you cum around me."
"Oh god, oh god, oh god. Yes, fuck, yes!" you cried out, your voice breaking on a whimper as your walls clenched down around him, your body arching up to meet his as he slammed into you again and again.
"I know, I fucking know" he said on a moan, the sound of skin slapping against skin blocked out by the blood rushing in your ears.
His pelvis pressed against you as his fingers kept moving over your clit, pushing you higher, demanding that you ride out the crest of your climax.
His thrusts grew erratic, his rhythm faltering as he chased his own release. With one final slam of his hips, he buried himself deep, his cock pulsing and throbbing as he found completion.
Nanny! Reader who wants to take things slow with Sylus but 9 months later finds herself standing beside him, their shoulders brushing as they gaze into the nursery. Their twin girls, Sylvia and Sylvana, lay in their shared crib, tiny hands tucked under their chins.
Seeing the two little ones, with their silver hair, long lashes casting shadows on rosy cheeks and their pouty lips parted slightly with each soft, even breath, was like looking at miniature versions of Sylus.
The nights now were still and quiet, the perfect backdrop for the peaceful scene before them, and the promise of a future filled with love and endless possibilities
synopsis ; you finally get your big break but sylus doesn't show up for opening night.
word count ; 12k words
author's note ; this idea has been in my drafts for so long...anyways this is my food for y'all since i won't be here this weekend! enjoy! also a big ty to @cheezeandkrackers for helping me with this <3
also this ending is supposed to be ironic since hindsight is 20/20…so pls keep that in mind when going in and reading
content warning ; angst w/ comfort! mentions of depression, death. lmk if i missed anything!
The weight on your back is indescribable. It physically forces your shoulders down, your back hunched as you keep your forehead pressed against the painted wood of the vanity. The bright lights of the dressing room pierced your eyes. A dull ache formed in the front of your head and you aren’t sure how well you are going to perform tonight. A quiet groan falls from your lips, a subtle marker of your exhaustion and depletion over the past month of performing.
Not to mention that your mind has been rather preoccupied with the empty void that haunts you in the audience. Your thoughts always move back to him, wondering if he’s okay and has been keeping with his schedule. It pains you to still care for him when you damn well that he has most likely not even thought about you at all.
You miss him but he hasn’t even bothered to show up to any of your shows. He’s probably busy with work, anyways. He’s always busy with work. Maybe it was a good thing you left his home — a place you used to consider your own home — while his job kept him…occupied. At least the resentment that built up in your heart had the chance to dissipate, even if it was a minuscule amount.
It didn’t help either that Sylus hasn’t even bothered to call or text. Not even a whisper of his voice in your ear before you step out onto the stage. He was your biggest supporter, or so you thought. But in the days that followed your argument — the same one that left you a crying mess in your old apartment, knees hugged to your chest, wondering why your boyfriend couldn’t attend a single show — you felt indifference take control of your body, causing you to go numb.
Your back straightens as soon as there is a knock on the door. Tremors overtake your hands. The familiar shake of anxiety and pre-show jitters. You have performed the show with flawless execution for its month long run. Eight shows a week with one day off — Monday, to be exact — and you are finally starting to feel the ache in your bones and head from the constant exposure of the stage lights and same demanding screeches of powerful dialogue that shakes the audience to their core.
Your character’s anguish masks your own. What was that saying again? That life imitates art? You tried to ignore that feeling, that the words on the page didn’t reflect the same torment that you feel towards your relationship with Sylus. That the married couple in the play are not indicative of your relationship with Sylus and that the two of you can somehow find a way out of the fog.
The door creaks open. Your gaze flits to the stage manger’s reflection, their black clothing and headset catching your attention. They don’t even have to say a word. You simply nod and watch as the door closes behind them, leaving you behind in the deafening silence. Your ears ring. The dull ache behind your eyes grows in size but you ignore the feeling, pushing through as you bring yourself back up to your feet.
A slow exhale leaves your mouth. You close your eyes, trying to settle your nerves.
Breathe in. Hold. Open your eyes. Exhale.
Dark bags hang under your eyes. The sunken in look from your lack of sleep and constant worry over a man who simply hasn’t bothered to support you. Sylus has claimed that Onychinus and his work has kept him away from seeing you on stage. Well, that’s what he told you when you first came home after opening night. After that, it’s been complete silence on his end. It’s not like you made an effort to reach out either, but you truly do not believe that it should be you to be the one to mend the bullet hole that ripped your heart in half.
You know that you are bound to face him sometime soon. At least it won’t have an effect on your ability to act like a tired and worn out wife who wishes to have a better life for herself. It’s not like he’ll be sitting in the seat you have reserved for him every showing. The empty seat pushes you towards desperation, towards a place of agony that only a woman in pain could feel.
You breathe in one last time. Your lungs burn as you hold in the breath. You exhale. Slow and timid. Your nails dig into the palms of your hand, rough enough to draw blood. A quick turn on your heel, feet carrying you towards the door. You push through with tears brimming your eyes and a new found determination lit up in your heart to make this the best performance of the play’s run — even if it is the last show.
Excitement bubbles throughout your body. A smile has been etched into your face ever since you woke up that morning. Despite the bed being empty beside you, you are determined to make today a great day because, you guessed it: it’s your opening night!
The play that you have dedicated so many endless nights and weekends to is finally here. The play has been a blessing to you. While Sylus worked and dealt with business deals for Onychinus, you were ready to take that shot in the dark and audition for the show. Turns out, they loved the devastation that you brought to the character. The raw authenticity of heartbreak and resignation showed through the tremor in your voice, the way your hands shook on stage as if you were truly the one contemplating divorcing your husband.
You would never do that, though. You love Sylus with your entire being. There is no way in hell that you are letting him go.
Your phone vibrates on the side table. You reach for it without looking, fingers curling around the device as you bring it to your face. Sylus’s name graces the screen. There is a flutter in your heart at the sight. You quickly openly up the messages and toss your hair out of your eyes, the smile on your face faltering once you read his words.
Work has me busy today. I’ll see you later tonight.
That’s okay. You know that he’ll be at the Orpheum Theater when the doors open. If anything, your boyfriend will be the first one through the doors with an extravagant bouquet of flowers in his arms, subtly bragging to all of those with ears that his lovely partner is in the play — and as the lead no less!
I hope work goes well! I can’t wait to see you tonight! I saved you the best seat in the house! I love you!
Your fingers dance across the screen at lightning speeds, a small chuckle bubbling on the inside of your chest. The phone is tossed to the side and you spread yourself across the king sized bed, arms and legs spread out as far as you can reach. An excited squeal leaves your body. You kick and punch the air as your laughter fills the room. A surge of anticipation — the kind that leaves the tips of your fingers tingling from excitement and joy and happiness.
Sylus is finally going to be able to see you perform. He is finally going to watch you in something that isn’t humiliating, like that smoothie commercial you booked where you were dressed up like a pomegranate, and you can feel the anticipation blossom inside of your body.
The thought itself excites you! For Sylus to see you on stage. It has you smiling throughout dress rehearsal, all throughout an interview the theater scheduled with you and your co-star, and you even found yourself smiling right as the theater doors opened.
The familiar buzz of excitement fills the theater. The audience slowly pours into the theater. A low hum is heard in the air. Quiet and indistinct conversations heard as the nicely dressed people make their way towards their assigned seats, the red material of the chairs calling their names, beckoning for them to move forward and closer to the stage.
The ensemble cast giggles and talk amongst themselves as you and your co-lead take your place on stage behind the deep red curtain. The two of you sit on a couch, one that looks like it has seen better days. Your knee bounces up and down. The remnants of your anxiety showcased in the erratic movement trapped in your legs.
“Nervous?” The man beside you asks.
You stiffly nod, forcing a smile across your face while you play with the hem of your costume’s skirt. The rest of the ensemble cast remain tucked away in the wings, watching as the curtain trembles, ready to be lifted for the first show of the play’s runs — and your career. Just to the side, you notice as the house lights breathe. One moment it’s bright, the next it’s dark, signaling the beginning of the show.
You close your eyes one last time, slowly inhaling as much air as you possibly can. The slight tension in your muscles slowly vanishes. The quiet creak of the curtain being raised forces you to open your eyes, back straightening as you and your scene partner ready yourselves for the beginning of the play.
The director wants you to stare straight ahead, to peer into the spotlight that illuminates your bodies. You force your gaze away, though, and allow yourself to look in the direction of Sylus’ reserved seat.
The director was so excited when you came to her with the news of your boyfriend requesting the best seat in the house. You had talked him out of sitting in a box seat for your first performance, claiming that box seats are for the rich who do not truly care for art. If Sylus wants to be a true connoisseur, then he needs to sit in the center of the theater, to sit among other people and to allow himself to be fully immersed in the story’s plot.
You frequently spoke of Sylus to the rest of the crew of ensemble. Let’s be real: you told anyone who was willing to listen about your relationship with Sylus. Every single person who works on the play built an image of him inside of their minds, ready to meet the man who has their leading lady so deep in love that she can barely focus whenever he sends a message. Sylus had become someone that the cast and crew were looking forward to meet and invite into the life of the theater — even the owner of the theater wished to meet him to try and secure new funds for their next play.
The curtains raise and the sly smile is wiped off of your face. The character’s persona is draped across your body, your mind making that switch into taking on the character’s life. Your eyes remain fixed on the seat. The one place in the theater where the sound and view is the best.
Your body goes cold. The air in your lungs is yanked free from your body. It is as if you have just been body slammed into a cement wall. A quiet ring forms in your ears. The terrifying sound of disappointment and whiplash deafens you even as your co-star speaks out his opening lines.
The chair is empty.
Tears brim your eyes and your force your gaze away from the sight, blinking away the tears as you take your cue to stand and address the crowd. You’re stuck, though. The words remain trapped on your tongue, the bitter taste of being letdown and frustration spreading across your mouth. An iron ball forms in your throat. You’re unable to force it away, to swallow the weight that forms in your neck.
“I’ve been married to Dean for five years.” Your voice shakes as if you are the character herself, bearing your soul to the audience to see under the lights of the stage. “And in those five years, he has let me down five times.”
The rest of the show goes as smooth as the last few dress rehearsals. You push through the stabbing pain in your heart, ignoring the way your body feels like it is being ripped open from the inside out. The ache in your throat grows but you force it away whenever you have to speak, forcing the words out of your mouth. It is only when you exit off into the wings of the stage that you allow yourself to crumble, your face breaking as you try to hide your tears. The makeup artists desperately try to save your makeup, helping talk you through the warfare that has formed inside of your heart.
It was only a matter of minutes before you were pushed back onto the stage again, forcing a smile onto your face as you pretend to be happy in a loveless marriage. You ignored the empty space in the audience. The seat you had reserved for him. With every turn and flick of the head, you are always so tempted to stare at the space. You force your mind to stay on task, to proclaim the lines that have been bestowed upon you but all you want to do is go home — not to his — and cry into your pillow until your body gives out.
Where the hell is he? What excuse can Sylus give to you that can make up for the fact that he isn’t here in the audience. What could he possibly say that can dispel the tremor in your heart, the burning ache that has tightened around your throat. Is he truly preoccupied with work?
Or has he found a comfort in the hunter he met when Onychinus’ path crossed the Hunter Associations?
The play continues and you numb the feeling of sadness that formed in your heart. While your voice remains bright and vibrant, showcasing the character’s emotionality and the devastation that she feels, you remain calm and collected under the mask. You trick the audience into think that you, the actress, take your job so seriously. That you are a professional who isn’t on the verge of having a breakdown onto the stage.
You sit on stage right. Your eyes try not to stare at the empty seat but the temptation of pain and angst is just unbearable. Slowly but surely, your eyes move inch by inch — moving mere millimeters — towards the space. An older couple sits on the left side of the chair while on the right is a burly man who looks as if he is about to pop out of his tailored suit. You suck in a breath while your scene partner recites his lines with ease, walking across the stage while you remain isolated on the couch.
“All I wanted was for the party to go well,” you say in response, picking at the fabric of your skirt.
“Nobody cares about the damn party,” he exhales loudly. You glance at the actor, replacing his face with Sylus’. You watch as he moves around the fake kitchen, slamming the cabinets shut and tossing the silverware across the countertop. He turns around and you swear you see the red shade of your partner’s eyes in him. A sharp inhale has you clutching your chest, turning away from the man. “Nobody cares about you, quite frankly. Always trying too hard but it will never be enough.”
“Dean, please,” you choke back the tears.
“When will it be enough for you?” The actor’s eyes meet your glossy ones. His fingers curl around the edge of the fake countertop, knuckles white.
Your bottom lip trembles. You slowly push yourself up to your feet, a sudden lightness overtaking your body as the lights begin to dim on the other sections of the stage. You face the audience. A single tear runs down your cheek, the ticking time bomb of your own cache of despair ready to explode.
“I don’t love you anymore.”
The words make your ears ring. Although they fell from your lips, it feels so surreal to even speak them aloud. To even say the damned phrase when your heart is in shambles. The feeling of falling out love is overwhelming. While you still hold onto the hope that your worst fears won’t come true, they still scratch at the back of your mind. Slowly countering the defenses that you have established to protect yourself.
That’s when the tears begin to fall. You allow yourself to breakdown and sob for all to see. You try to fight when away, furiously wiping your eyes and capturing the tears on your fingers. The once perfect and thick makeup begins to streak. The black mascara runs down your face, your fingers now black.
It was supposed to be an emotionless speech. One about your character finding peace and solace in her husband’s disinterest. That she has finally broken free from the spell that the man had placed on her. His final words being the straw that breaks the camel’s back. The accumulation of your stress and frustration have into fruition, taking the form of salty tears that land at your feet.
You can feel the character’s pain. When you first read the script, you were curious as to how horrible a man could be to the woman he claims to love. You wondered why he would step out on his wife, to find comfort in a younger and prettier woman. Why he would berate the woman who has remained so loyal and faithful then turn around and convince her that it was her fault for not keeping him interested.
You’ve seen her before. Just in passing, a fleeting moment in Sylus’ garage where their loud laughter suddenly faded as soon as you entered the room, tired from that day of rehearsals. Sylus introduced you. His ruby eyes remained on her, though, his lips curling up into a ghost of a smile. It made your body go cold. You remembered her smile, how it was so infectious it made you want to grin despite her closeness with your partner.
She’s younger too. Of course, she is. Just a couple years but still…her youthful spirit has yet to be crushed like yours. She wore pretty clothes and her perfume was intoxicating; spiced vanilla with an underlying scent of everything that you are not.
Is that the case with Sylus? Is he not interested in you anymore? Has that hunter from the Association finally turn his head away from you?
You collapse to the ground, legs unstable and feeling like jelly. Sobs take over your body. The familiar sharpness returns to your heart. It turns rotten.
You listen to the audience’s cries from the stage as you remained hunched over, your tears soaking into the floor beneath you. The crowd remains quiet as you cry and choked out the words. You covered your face and muttered quiet apologies to yourself, continuing with the speech. You sniffle and wipe the snot away from your nose while you speak on the devastating nature about loving a man who simply doesn’t care.
Silence falls over the auditorium. No one dares to move while you slowly recover, your arms and hands shielding your face from the blinding lights. The silence causes you to shiver. Slowly, you look up from your hands, staring into the darkness of the auditorium. In the front row, you can see the glossy sheen to the audience’s eyes.
The stage lights go black. You feel your tears stop. The lights no longer warm your skin. The audience’s applause fade and you are left alone as the stage crew and ensemble gather around you. They lift you to your feet and praise your performance. Even the director is astonished with your work, commenting that the tears added a hefty gravity to the scene that they never could have imagined.
You smile at them but quickly excuse yourself to your dressing room. The door closes with a quiet click of the turning lock. The lights remain off, the light from the outside world spread across the floor. Your back remains pressed against the door. Deep and heavy breaths cause your head to go dizzy. You push away from the door and rip the costume off of your body, tossing the fabric to the side as you gather your belongings and post-show clothes. Quickly putting them on, you sneak out of the dressing room and slip free from the back stage door, just barely missing the crowd that rushes to see you.
His face is not among those in the crowd. Another knife to the heart. Another notch in the grievances that you are about to file against your partner.
You tear your gaze away, tears streaking down your cheeks as the shrieks and cheers from the audience pierce your ears. You don’t look back, though, and instead push forward as fast as you can, finding your nearby car.
The drive to the N109 Zone is silent. You focus on the road, barely paying attention to the turning street lights and stop signs. You recklessly brake at the last second and swerve in and out of the lanes, just barely missing cars that you are about to collide with.
Danger and fury runs through your veins. Instead of the familiar heat of frustration, your anger is ice cold. Indifferent. Intolerant of how Sylus has fallen away from your grip these last few months.
Maybe you should have seen this coming. All of the signs are there, right?
While you were off parading as a different person, your boyfriend became acquainted with his new connection at the Hunter’s Association. She was the one who took your place by his side when rehearsals ran late. She was the one who took your spot on the back of his motorcycle. She was the one who took his attention away from you.
You shove away your emotions, forcing your feet to carry you inside of Sylus’ skyscraper. The elevator quietly dings with every passing floor, the nausea inside of your stomach becoming overwhelming. The doors slide open and you step out, looking around.
The lights are turned off. The click of your shoes is faintly heard as you move deeper into the main living space. The sound of a woman’s laughter causes you to stumble. You hold onto the wall for support, placing your bag onto the floor.
A chill overtakes your body. Goosebumps form on your skin. The hair on your arms and back of your neck stand up. You sulk closer towards the sound, listening to Sylus as he chuckles at a joke she said.
You peer at the two of them from the corner, remaining as hidden as you can. They sit beside each other on the living room couch, a feast of takeout food laid out before them. The smell causes you to drool. The lights are off, the only light source coming from lit candles — which are yours, by the way — that are scattered throughout the room. They sit close to one another, their arms brushing against each other as they laugh and share food, leaning in to whisper something into their ear as if they aren’t the only ones inside of the Onychinus skyscraper. Sylus faces you while she faces away. You stare at her back, the long and black hair that cascades down her back. She wears stealth clothes, ones that you recognize from the Hunter’s Association’s ads that play all over Linkon City. You go still, unable to move as you sneakily watch.
“Are you sure that it’s okay that I’m here?” she asks. Her voice is as sweet as honey.
“Of course,” his voice is as husky as you remembered it to be, “there’s nowhere else I’d rather be.”
A tender smile is spread across Sylus’ face. You want to slap it off and scream in his face. You want to yell and scream, to hit him and make him feel the same exact emotional torment that he has put you through.
You slowly draw in a breath. The heat from the anger you once felt is gone. Ice takes over your body, freezing your heart. You can’t even feel the beats. The air is drawn out from your lungs. They burn, the only hint you have to let you know that you are still alive.
Is this how your character felt? Is this what complete and utter betrayal look like? Is this how it feels to watch as the love of your life slips free from your fingers, dropping into the palm of a woman who probably doesn’t even know who the true Sylus is. Would it be ignorant of you to think that nobody will know him like you did? Would it be ignorant to think that this new reality you find yourself in is one that you do not wish to be a part of anymore?
This is how your relationship dies. With the smell of spiced vanilla and two bodies close together under the dim candlelight.
Tears run down your cheeks. You don’t have the energy to stop them from falling. Turning on your heel, you walk away, heading in the direction of your shared bedroom with Sylus. Your footsteps are no longer quiet or sneaky. You walk with the confidence of a determined woman. The determination to leave this place — and the man you thought you were going to spend the rest of your life with — behind.
You shove the door open with more force than you intended. The wood slams into the wall, the sound echoing across the floor. You swear you can hear Sylus and her’s laughter die as soon as you step foot into the bedroom. You don’t really care, though, and head towards the closet. Your fingers curl around the handle of a suitcase. You toss it onto the bed, the case splitting open, empty and ready to be used.
Whatever you come across, you toss it into the suitcase. You don’t even bother to fold the clothes, allowing them to knot together as the pile grows higher and higher. White noise fills your head. There’s ringing in your ear. You don’t even hear Sylus when he walks into the bedroom, too tunnel visioned to notice him. You turn around, a pair of slippers in your hands. You collide with Sylus’ hard chest, the man resting his hands on his hips as you barely look up at him.
“I asked you what you’re doing.” There’s annoyance in his voice. Irritation, even.
You don’t even look up at him, stepping around his frame as you toss the slippers into the suitcase. There’s movement in the doorway. The figure is gone before you can catch it. Eh. Whatever. You’re leaving anyways. It simply is not your problem anymore.
“I’m talking to you,” Sylus says. He groans and watches as you brush past him again. He snatches your wrist in his hand, his fingers hot against your skin. You try not to wince or flinch. The single look he gets of your face makes him pause. The streaked and ruined makeup. The way your fingers are covered in the remnants of red lip stick and black mascara from your efforts to wipe your face clean. It makes his heart ache at the sight, the man wanting to reach for you and bring you into his embrace just like he has always done when you needed him to be there. Oh, the irony. “What’s wrong? Where are you going?”
“I’m leaving,” you breathe the words out, “I don’t belong here anymore.”
“Leaving?” He’s baffled, a light scoff leaving his mouth. He waits for you to show him a sign — any sign — that this is some kind of overreaction. That you are waiting for him to stop you before you can step foot out of the base’s doors.
You keep moving, though. Your movements are robotic at best. There is no emotion on your face as you continue to shove your belongings into the suitcase. He watches, as still as the period after a brutal and deadly battle. You continue to move, packing away the life that you had built together, purposefully leaving behind the items and clothes that he happily bought for you.
“What’s going on?” Sylus asks, bewildered. “Did I miss something?”
“No,” you shake your head, venom prominent in your voice. “You wanted to be here, remember? There’s no other place you would rather be.”
The way you throw his words — words that were never meant for you, by the way — right back into his face make Sylus pause. His red eyes scan your face, trying to silently peel back the layers of your mind to see what it is that he has done wrong. His lips pucker, eyes narrowing. So you know that his Hunter friend is here. Did you misinterpret the situation? Did you think that there were traces of romance and affection in his actions?
“Talk to me,” Sylus says, his eyes fixating on you. “Tell me what happened.”
“You didn’t show up,” you say.
You casually shrug as if this is common information, as if Sylus abandoning you is now a common occurrence. Wasn’t it you who decided to act? To give yourself away for months for an audience of people who don’t even know who you are? He follows you as you walk to the bathroom. The cabinets are opened up and you pluck your hair care products and skincare regimen into your hands, walking back out just to dump them into your bag.
“What didn’t I show up for?” He asks, truly confused as to why you are suddenly holding this grudge against him.
“My play, Sylus,” the words are as bitter as your voice, “you missed my play. Not like you would care anyways since you’d rather be here with her instead of supporting your fucking girlfriend—”
“So you’re jealous,” Sylus comments, “that’s what this is about?”
“Jealous?” you turn around and stare at him as if you were just struck by a bolt of lightning. Your body feels as if it was. A tingling sensation spreads across your skin and you are sure that if you were to touch him, he would explode from the electricity of your fury. “You think I’m leaving over jealousy?”
“Isn’t that what this is about?” he shakes his head, already ready to dismiss this whole argument.
“You missed opening night, Sylus.”
“No,” the white haired man shakes his head, taking a step closer to you, “I didn’t. That’s next week.”
“It was tonight.”
His body goes cold. He opens his mouth to say something, red eyes piercing into yours. You swear you can see the vibrancy and color fade when he finally realizes. You wait a couple more seconds for him to speak but he says nothing. You scoff.
“I got a standing ovation, by the way,” you comment as you step towards the bag. You zip it up, using as much effort as you can to close the stuffed bag. “The director called me a visionary. Said my performance of a wife scorned felt real.”
“Babe…”
“Who knew that my boyfriend ditching me for some woman he met a few months ago would be the perfect motivation to have a breakdown on stage? Not me,” you laugh. Actually laugh. It’s both bitter and angry, the sound ready to snap like your emotions. The bag is zipped shut and you push it onto the ground, lifting the handle.
“I didn’t ditch you,” Sylus tries to reason. It only makes you laugh.
“Didn’t you?” you are quick to counter, an expert on keeping him accountable. “I thought you were dead at some point. Your empty seat made me think that one of your business deals went wrong. So I rushed home as fast as I could to come see you but you,” you let out a bitter laugh. One that is filled with anger and resentment. “You just had to be with her. So yes, Sylus. You fucking ditched me.”
You turn and stare at him, your gaze sharp enough to kill. Sylus easily meets your gaze, allowing the blade of your fury to rest along his neck. His expression softens, the weight of his guilt finally resting upon his shoulders. He only wishes that you would gift him the weight of your anger so that he may hold it for you, even if it means giving you just one minute of peace where the sins of his actions don’t poison your blood.
“I…” you begin but fall quiet. Your fists ball at your sides, nails digging into your palm. The pain grounds you, the stinting feeling of torn flesh rooting you into the earth. “I needed you tonight, Sylus, and you weren’t there. Ever since I was cast, you drifted away. You found comfort in another—”
“Don’t finish that sentence.” His red eyes burn into yours, his own anger and passion coming into play. “Don’t you dare finish that sentence. I have not found comfort in another woman.”
“Do you really believe that?” you whisper. “Do you honestly expect me to believe that you paid more attention to her than me?”
“Yes! Because it’s the truth!” Sylus raises his voice, his emotions getting the best of him.
The man has fought so hard to remain in control. Control of his life, the world around him, his emotions. Sylus has always managed his own expectations — and disappointments — by controlling those around him. He used people and tossed them to the side when he no longer needed them. He would never do such a thing to you. He can’t even fathom how you can believe that when he has done everything in his power to keep you happy.
It’s his fault, though. Sylus’ wishful thinking of you being happy, of living your life on the stage, was not in vain. He wanted to try and clean up Onychinus’ problems before your show’s time came. Sure, he got distracted by an interesting woman, but he never would have dreamed of tossing you to the side in favor of her. At least, that’s what he thinks. The poor man doesn’t even realize that the woman he has replaced you with has already gotten a hold of his heart. The one thing he swore that nobody else — other than you — would touch.
“You’re unbelievable,” you mutter, rolling your eyes.
“I’m not the one who made up an elaborate plot in her head about something that isn’t true!” Sylus says, waving his hands around.
“Isn’t it?” you ask, trying to keep your voice and body as steady as possible. “You were here. With her. I was there where you weren’t. You claim that you feel nothing for her but when I came home…you looked at her like you once looked at me.”
Your words are like a knife in his heart. It causes him to exhale, the air being knocked free from his chest. His eyes gloss over, your accusations growing more and more true as you build your case against him.
“When I first got the role, you were excited for me. You even said that you couldn’t wait to see me on stage,” you laugh again but this time it’s softer. Sadder. The acceptance of your crucified relationship finally settling in your stomach. “I believed you when you said that I was going to be great. That I was going to fulfill my dreams and that you were happy to watch. I want to believe you now but all I can see is a man I used to love. All I see is an honest man who has turned into a liar right in front of my eyes.”
Silence hangs between you. Your breathing is slow, controlled. Sylus’ is erratic. He takes a step forward but you draw back, placing more distance between the two of you. You look him up and down once, taking in his appearance.
He wears a nice button down dress shirt. It’s white, a color that he rarely ever wears but you noticed that he puts on a whole lot more when she’s around. His pants are the fancy tailored ones and his shoes are shined so well that you swear you can see your reflection in. Your gaze flickers to his hands. He isn’t wearing the ring you got him, the one you bought to match the one he slid on your finger. A promise that the two of you will be together forever…it has vanished from his fingers. It makes you want to cry all over again. How could he have not seen the signs?
“Why didn’t you show up?” you ask.
“What?” Sylus breathes out.
“Why didn’t you show up?” you ask him again, doubling down.
“I didn’t think that it was today,” he begins but he quickly shuts up when you shake your head.
“No,” your eyes darken. “What was the reason for not being here tonight like you said?”
“Did I say that?”
“Sylus!” you yell his name, the word echoing across the top floor of his skyscraper. “Stop! Why weren’t you there?!”
“She needed me.” The answer leaves him before he can stop it. He whispers the short sentence. Oh, how he regrets even saying it in the first place. “She needed someone.”
“I needed someone too,” your voice cracks under the pressure. The tears begin to fall from your eyes, rolling down your cheeks in hot and salty streams. “I needed my boyfriend to share this night with me. To celebrate my accomplishment.”
“It’s not like that,” Sylus dares to step forward, swallowing the lump in his throat, “she needed help with a job—”
“Does nobody else work at that damn fucking Association?! Why does she need my boyfriend to help her?!” you yell, silencing him. You close your eyes, taking a deep breath to try and steady your nerves. “I’m done, Sylus. I’m leaving, okay? Don’t even bother trying to talk to me again.”
You grab the handle of your suitcase, tearing your gaze off of him. The more you look at him, the angrier you get, and that is the last thing you need. You take a step towards the door. His voice stops you.
“Don’t go,” Sylus says, resting his hand on your shoulder, “please don’t leave me.”
“You already left me, Sylus,” you say with a resigned sigh. “And take your damn hand off of me. You don’t get to touch me anymore.”
“Let’s talk it through,” he says, “please?”
Sylus reaches out for you again. He grabs your wrist, drawing you back towards him. What he didn’t anticipate, though, is the way you swing your hand towards him, your palm connecting with his cheek. A stinging sensation spreads across his face. A red imprint begins to form on his face, the lines of your fingers etched into his skin. You don’t even feel guilty about it.
“You haven’t even said sorry,” your voice cracks, the palm of your hand stinging. Tears flow from your eyes. The drops fall to the ground after they roll off your cheeks. You don’t bother to catch them or to wipe them away. You let them fall. “No apology for missing my opening night. No apology for choosing her over me…it’s cruel, Sylus. You’re cruel. We’re done. Don’t come near me.”
The couch is uncomfortable. It has been since last week when your co-star broke it during rehearsal. He thought that jumping on it would be a good idea — as if it ever is — and now here you are, sitting on a spring that pokes directly into the place where the sun doesn’t shine.
You crack your neck and knuckles, exhaling all of the air that’s in your lungs. You don’t even pay attention to your fellow actor. There’s too much on the line, especially since it’s the last show of the play’s run in Linkon. After this…you have no idea what you’re going to do. What you do know, though, is that you’re finally going to find the happiness that you deserve.
Especially since the stage is now forever stained from your one-sided breakup with Sylus.
The creak of the curtains forces you to look up. The blinding lights are familiar now. The stinging sensation makes itself at home behind your eyes while you blink, waiting for your cue. You slowly stand. Your eyes adjust to the bright lights, the people in the crowd now coming into view. Sylus’ empty seat — one that you asked to remain reserved for him, for what reason, you’ll never know — is just to the side. You stare at it whenever you need the emotional push, to throw yourself into your sorrows for the crowd to watch. Your soul laid bare on the stage while your tears burn down your cheeks, hands outstretched towards the crowd as if they can save you from drowning in your depression.
The seat isn’t empty though. You blink a couple of times, wondering if it was just the trick of the light or if someone actually dared to sit in the spot.
It’s Sylus.
His red eyes meet yours through the darkness and just for a moment — a second so brief you barely catch it — it feels as if it is just the two of you inside of the theater. It feels as if there is no crowd, no audience watching as you freeze on stage. It is just you and him. Nobody else.
You swallow the iron lump that has formed in your throat. The pressure is immeasurable, the mass dragging along your esophagus. It makes you want to throw up, to cry and throw yourself on the ground. To let the wooden stage swallow you whole so you can disappear from life without even having to say a word or lift a finger.
“I’ve been married to Dean for five years.” Your voice is stronger this time. More resolute. There is no shake in it just the emotionless motivations of a she-devil, of a woman scorned…of an emotionally battered woman who is too tired to show how she is truly feeling. “And in those five years, he has let me down five times. This is the story of how Dean and I fell in and out of love.”
You force your gaze away from Sylus, turning around as the play continues as if this isn’t happening. You settle yourself as you cross the stage, linking your arm with your co-star’s, forcing a smile onto your face.
Admittedly, you are distracted. Sylus’ white hair and red eyes always catch your attention. Hell, it’s how you noticed him in the first place when you showed up to some random auction. You were bored out of your mind and was just ditched — ironic, right? — by your date who left you to pay the bill at the restaurant. You wandered around the N109 Zone, finding your way into a fancy art exhibit where a silent auction was taking place. The auction was dimly lit but Sylus still managed to stand out like the devil in the night, his appearance subconsciously luring you closer and closer until you stood beside him in front of a painting that depicted a war torn field. Dragon bones were laid out in the middle of the painting and hanging in the sky is a bright star, one that burns as brightly as he once said you did.
You shake your head, forcing the memory out of your head as soon as it even formed. The world of the story moves all around you while you remain stagnant on the stage unable to move as the character of Dean makes a move on another woman right in front of you. The actors on stage stop mid-movement. A spotlight is turned on, the light directed at you. You stare directly at it, gaze slipping to your ex-partner.
“This was the first time Dean betrayed me. It was five years ago. He took me to some party on his campus. Told me that he needed to talk to his friends and that I should wait for him out front. Little did I know, he had his tongue shoved down another woman’s throat. His friend felt bad for me. He texted me a picture of it. It didn’t make the pain hurt any less. That was the alcohol’s job.”
The crowd laughs. Sylus doesn’t. His gaze remains on you and you alone. He follows your shadowy figure as you cross the stage, walking off as this so called Dean and his first affair have their time to shine. A look of detestment flashes across his face at the sight. Dean and his temporary lover, if you could even call it that, fall onto the couch, their movements exaggerated.
Is this what you thought he was doing with her? Could you really think of him as a man who would ever betray you like that?
Dean and the woman kiss. Sylus shudders. He closes his eyes, just for a brief moment, before he hears your voice again. His eyes open immediately after, watching as you stand in the middle of the stage while the set is changed behind you.
“I broke up with him. I was the fool, though, for thinking that he could change. I took him back not even a month later. The bed was cold without him…I missed his warmth and the way he held me in his arms.” Your eyes move back to Sylus. He sucks in a breath, hanging onto every word. “I missed the security he gave me. The sweet kisses as he vowed to me that he would never be swayed again. I was just a kid in love, could you blame me?”
His heart lurches inside of his chest. As the play continues to unfold in front of his eyes, the more and more Sylus sees himself in Dean, the villain of the story. He can’t even begin to imagine why your character would put herself through all of that pain and suffering, of watching the man you dedicated your life to slip free from your grasp. To sit and stare as he plays mind games right in front of you, claiming that what she said is ludacris and that he would never do such a thing.
And to think that he said the same to you.
Sylus sinks into his seat. Roses sit at his feet, a bouquet made special just for you. He labored over it for hours, wondering if you would even accept the roses — or any flower for that matter! Would you accept him? Let him apologize and say sorry for the things he didn’t even say. His heart feels like it is about to fly out of his chest, ready to crumble under the pressure of you and your judgment. Whatever you decide to give him, whatever you decide to yell or scream at him…he knows that he deserves it. He deserves it all.
The play goes on. Sylus is completely enamored by your acting, the way you are able to show a bright smile to the new “friends” Dean introduces to you all while looking like you are ready to fall apart at a moment’s notice. He is infatuated with the way you lay your soul onto the stage for all to see. The way you treat him and everyone else with a casualness an old friend would have. It makes him feel welcome despite feeling an immense amount of dread overtake his body the more and more he sees how the men in your character’s life continue to let her down over and over again.
Sylus can’t believe that he allowed himself to treat you this way. He can’t believe how easy it was to lie about work, to offer his time to some measley Hunter that could barely remember what his favorite wine is or if he prefers a rifle to a pistol. He can’t believe that he allowed himself to create distance between the two of you, that he didn’t pick up on the silent cues you gave him when you tried to bring him back into bed for five more minutes of cuddles, the way you tried your best to stay up for him after a long day of rehearsal knowing that those ten minutes of conversation were enough to keep you invested in your relationship.
Sylus is mad at himslf for being the maker of his own destruction. That he is the only person responsible for pushing you away.
“Love is like a drop into the misty depths where either a bed of clouds or rocks wait for you at the bottom,” you begin, capturing his attention all over again. “It is a leap of faith. A shot in the dark that the person you have let into your life is the one who is supposed to make you happy.”
You take your time in walking across the stage. The play has reached it’s ending. Dean’s relationship with your character has evolved into a loveless marriage. Three years together. Three years of time wasted. You can’t help but relate to it, the feeling of your own time being robbed from you. It angers you more than it should.
“I wish there was a warning sign,” you look down at your feet, the tears already forming in your eyes, “because when I hit the bottom, it felt worse than what I imagined death to feel like.”
You raise your head. Your eyes meet Sylus’ in the crowd. His lips are parted ever so slightly, the man sitting on the edge of his seat. You just wished he looked like this a month ago and not now. It counts as something, you suppose.
“I used to think that Dean loved me. I used to think that there was a piece inside of me who always saw the good in him…that he wasn’t a man who used people at his disposal just because he felt like it. You know, I have stayed up so many nights wondering why he would do this to me. So many nights lost when I could have been asleep and on the nights I did sleep, the dreams were filled of a life without him. I berated myself for dreaming of such things…that only a horrible person could ever dream of a life away from the one who made them the happiest. Does that make me horrible?”
Sylus wants to answer. He wants to be the one to reach out and bring you into his arms, to keep you in his life for as long as he can. He wants to be the one to dry your tears, to be the man you deserve to have in your life. He can’t help but wonder if you, too, had dreams about leaving him while you laid in bed beside him…in his arms.
“Honey!” your co-star cries out. You remain stagnant in the middle of the stage, unable to look away from Sylus. “Clean this up! If I have to do damage control over your outburst at the party, then I refuse to be the one to clean.”
“I just wanted the party to go well.” Tears begin to roll down your cheeks, the lines forever burned on your tongue.
“Nobody cares about the damn party,” the actor slams the cabient.
The wood rattles. You close your eyes, the audience feeling the same fear as your character. The actor quickly rushes to your side, grabbing your jaw with his hand. He yanks it towards him, his face dangerously close to yours. Sylus quietly gasps with other audience members.
“Nobody cares about you, quite frankly. Always trying too hard but it will never be enough.”
“Dean, please!” you recite the lines with desperation in your voice.
“When will it be enough for you?”
“I don’t love you anymore!”
The words echo throughout the theater. The actor who plays Dean slowly exits the stage. The lights begin to dim, a single spotlight focused on you. The characters from the show line up behind you, their bodies barely visible as cries begin to overtake your body. Your hands clutch the area over your heart, the sounds of your sobs and cries filling the theater. The people in the audience begin to cry with you, gently patting away the tears with a pocketed handkerchief.
“I just wanted to be loved!” you cry out, your voice both pained and desperate. “I just wanted to be someone worthy of love! To be someone worthy of being treated like a first choice, not the second. I let him consume me. I let his desire and lust control my life and scrutinized myself for being the reason he didn’t love me anymore. I don’t even know who I am anymore!”
Your cries grow louder and louder. Sylus tears up himself, unable to bring himself to look away as you crumble to your knees.
“Why me?! Why did you have to choose me?” You yell, looking up to the audience. Sylus sits in the wake of your gaze, trapped. “Why did you have to be the one who ripped my heart to shreds? I don’t understand! Please! Why am I not worthy of your love? Why am I the one who has to suffer for your mistakes? It’s not fair! It’s not fair!”
Your voice cracks, the scream of your anguish chilling Sylus to his core. He sits back into his seat, all of the air drained from his body, breathless as you slowly rise to your feet, the tears never ending. Your eyes find his again, the tremor in your body easing.
“I hate myself because of you.” The sentence slices through Sylus’ chest. “I hate myself for loving you…for making up excuses time and time again on why you are so cruel to me. I hate myself for allowing you to hurt me. I hate myself for not leaving earlier. I wish…I wish that I could bring myself to hate you, but I can’t. I don’t think I ever will.” You pause. You take a shuddered breath and close your eyes, allowing the warmth of the spotlight to envelop you like a hug. “Maybe we are right for each other. We are the only people I know who are miserable…who love to live in misery and wallow in our sorrows. Is it bad to say that I want more? That I need more?”
You laugh. It’s bitter. A reflection of how you feel on the inside. Unfortunate, but true.
“Maybe I’m not one of those people. Maybe I’m not built to live a happy life. Is it ironic that I now realize that I don’t want to be the third person in our marriage? That I want to be treated better than you have ever treated me. Is it bad to admit that I wish the old you would come back to me? The same one that held me when my dog died. The same one that was there for me when I graduated from college…” you go quiet, staring into the distance. “My aunt used to tell me that hindsight is a privlege to have. She used to tell me that in the real world, not many people are able to get a second chance like I have. She held my hands the night your affair was exposed.”
You hold your hands out in front of you, staring at the palms. Makeup and tears stain your skin. A reminder of the true storm that destroys your mind. A frown overtakes your face.
“She held me close,” your voice lowers but the microphone picks it up, loudening your whispers, “and told me that the next time I have the chance to run, I should take it. That I will regret not rushing towards happiness that I deserve and that the road will only get tougher and tougher the longer I put it off…Hey Dean? Do you remember that joke you always said? The one that used to make me laugh till I was breathless? You said it recently and…I found myself unwilling to play along anymore. I don’t love you anymore, Dean…I don’t know if I will ever again.”
Sylus has never known what it felt like to be nervous. Ever since he was born, he has never felt what people describe to be “erratic butterflies” that flutter in your stomach. He has heard many accounts from people — especially those who was succumbed to bullets from his guns — about fear and anxiety. The emotions are so foreign to him. Even when the two of you began to date, Sylus knew that you were the one for him. That it was going to be you and him against the world. He never felt those fluttering butterflies in his stomach until now.
He waits outside of the backstage door. People from the audience stand outside alongside fans. He keeps his distance, wanting you to have your moment before he eventually destroys it. The man glances down at the roses. Nausea begins to overtake his senses. He tries to steel his nerves, to make the sensation go away and leave him alone. It doesn’t, though. He deserves it.
The metal doors swing open and people cheer and yell out your name. You exit with a bright smile on your face, waving to them as flashes of lights pop off. He sighs, shaking his head as he turns on his heel, ready to walk away. Sylus isn’t even sure if he is ready to face you yet. How could he? You poked a hole into his lies, exposing him. He wasn’t even aware of what he was doing to you…the way his words and indifference slowly killed you while you were making something for yourself.
“Sylus.”
A shock of life flashes in his stomach. The butterflies are dead, the man turning around to look down at you. You stand in front of him with crossed arms and a scowl, annoyance written all over your face. You raise an eyebrow, glancing down at the flowers.
“These are for you,” Sylus extends the flowers in your direction, hoping to whatever god is out there that you’ll take them. You don’t. You just stare at the red petals, the white baby’s breath scattered into the mix. “You…you were phenomenal tonight. Truly…you made me cry. I didn’t think it was possible for me to.”
“Why are you here?” you ask, cutting straight to the point. It takes Sylus aback. The butterflies come back.
“I wanted to…” his voice trails off. He clears his throat, trying to dispel some of the awkwardness that remains in his body. “We need to talk.”
“Do we?” you counter.
“Yes,” Sylus’ lips press into a thin line, amused. “There are things I have to say to you.”
“What if I don’t want to hear it?”
“Then I’ll leave,” he says. He means it, too. “I will leave you alone for the rest of your life if you want me to. I know that I have been an asshole and you have every right to be angry with me…at least let me drive you home. It’s snowing. You shouldn’t be walking out on your own.”
“Fine.”
Sylus’ eyes widen ever so slightly, his surprise on full display for you to see. Your roll your eyes at the sight, taking the flowers from him. Your gaze drops down to his ring finger. The black ring you got him sits there, the spot no longer vacant like it was before. And yet…you feel nothing.
You follow Sylus as he walks you towards his car. He stands close to you, shielding you from the harsh wind as snow flakes fall onto your flowers. You barely have a grip on them. The flowers are ready to fly away with the wind at any given moment, to be lost in the city of Linkon. Sylus wouldn’t blame you for letting them go. He knows that the flowers are a shot in the dark, a poor attempt to see that smile on your face because, well, you always smiled whenever he brought you flowers after a long day of work. Seeing your grin was like a shot of espresso that revitalized him after business deals gone wrong.
Oh, how he misses that smile.
He opens up the passenger side door. You let out an exasperated huff. He assumes that you rolled your eyes at him, too. You smack the flowers into his chest, slowly lowering yourself into the seat. Once your foot is inside, Sylus places the roses — which you immediately toss into the basckseat — and closes the door behind you, jogging to the other side of the car and gets inside. The car comes to life and heat from the vents help melt some of the icy tension in your body.
“Feel okay?” Sylus asks. You hum in response.
The man drives the car away from the theater, putting as much distance between the two of you and the damned place as possible. The drive is quiet, a song about heartbreak plays over the radio. You don’t pay attention. Instead, you stare outside of the car window, watching as Sylus drives through the empty streets. Snowflakes hit the foggy window. You tap your finger against them, letting the heat from your body melt the icy designs.
Sylus watches you from the corner of his eye. The butterflies have returned to his stomach. He ignores the feeling and clears his throat, the car coming to a slow stop at the red light.
“Can I take you somewhere?” Sylus asks. It’s another shot in the dark. One that he hopes you’ll take.
“Fine,” you mutter under your breath, keeping your gaze fixed out of the window.
Sylus nods once and turns left, heading away from the city and towards the river. You barely pay attention, opting to stare out at the snowy landscape. The lights of the city slowly disappear, the car taking you up the side of the city where there’s a lookout of the city. Minutes pass and the car finds itself in a parking spot, the tall man slipping free from the car. He moves to your side and opens up the door, offering you his hand. You ignore it and shove your hands into your jacket pockets, stepping away from him and towards a bench that overlooks Linkon City.
You sit down and Sylus takes his spot beside you. The silence from the car is replaced with the quiet sound of the wind, snowflakes flying past your face. You hug your arms close to your body, slightly shivering. Sylus is quick to wrap a scarf around your neck, the warmth from his hands lingering in the fabric. You contain an eye roll, quietly thanking him before the silence takes over once again.
“Sylus,” you exhale his name, steam from your breath evaportating in front of your eyes, “now is the time to talk.”
“I miss you.” He stares straight ahead, just barely seeing the look of shock — or is it disgust — on your face. “I also want to say…I’m sorry.”
“Is that all?” you ask.
“No,” he shakes his head, finally turning to look at you. “I want you to know that I heard you loud and clear. I heard you a month ago when you left and…I heard you during the play. I’m sorry for pushing you away. I…I don’t know what else to say or how to make things better between us but I miss you. I missed you the moment I let you step through that door. I never should have.”
The silence is less ugly now. At least you can breathe again, the cold air keeping you wide awake and alert. It even helped alleviate the strain behind your eyes. Dark gray clouds hang low in the sky. If you were to ask Sylus, he would bring one down to earth for you.
“I told her to never contact me again. I gave her information to someone else in Onychinus that she can turn to when she needs help,” he continues, answering the questions that pop into your mind. “I want you. Not her. I should have made that very clear and prioritized you.”
“No shit,” you mutter, looking down at your bare hands.
“Do you hate me?” he asks. You hesitate to respond.
A piece of skin pokes up beside your nail. You glare at it, a scowl overtaking your face. With the tips of your nails, you slowly peel it back. Your finger stings but the ice cold air numbs the pain almost instantly. Sylus sighs and places a hand on top of yours, stopping you from doing it any further. You turn to look up at him, to yell at him to let go and to not touch you, but as soon as your eyes meet his red ones: you’re a goner.
“You hurt me,” you whisper, voice cracking.
“I know,” he nods. He swallows the lump that formed in his throat. “And I know that there is nothing I can do or say to erase that pain. You have every right to be mad at me. Hell, I’m angry at myself for not seeing it any sooner.”
“Okay.” You nod, unsure of what else to say.
“I want you back in my life,” he quietly pleads. Sylus’ voice feels small. You have never seen him like this before. It’s…confusing. “I…I haven’t been sleeping well. Not since you left. Is it selfish of me to ask you to come back?”
“Yes,” you immediately respond.
Sylus bites back a frown, tearing his gaze away from you and towards the snowy Linkon skyline. Your eyes move to the line of his nose. The way the corner of his lips tug downward into a frown no matter how hard he tries to keep it away. You finally notice the bags under his eyes, the way his posture is slouched instead of its perfect state. You divert your gaze, gnawing at the inside of your cheek.
“I haven’t been sleeping well either,” you reply. Sylus’ head snaps to look back at you.
“Really?” he asks. You nod.
“It’s more of a…how can I sleep knowing that the man I was in love with chose everyone else over me kind of thing,” you say. You ignore the way Sylus’ expression breaks, the way his guily presents itself across his face. “I miss you, Sylus, but…”
“I know,” he finishes your sentence for you. He reaches out and gently moves your hair out of your face, tucking it behind your ear. You tilt your face to look at him. He lowers his voice, “I promise to be better. Just…give me another chance. Please.”
“I don’t know,” you shake your head, holding back the tears. “Can I trust you?”
“Yes,” he gushes.
“How will I know that you’re mine and not…theirs?” The question barely comes out as a whisper and yet it is all Sylus can hear. “I don’t know if I can go through that heartbreak again.”
“You won’t have to,” he takes your hands in his and pull them to his chest. Right where his heart sits, to be exact.
Your eyes meet his and you can see the gloss over them, the way he is holding back every urge to cry and show his vulnerability. You know that this is hard for him. To show his emotions in a way that is not anger or through death. You finally take off the final mask that Sylus wears. His soul is on a silver platter for you to take. For you to keep and protect until the end of time.
“I love you. There is nothing else that I know to be more true than the fact that I am in love with you and thet I have been so fucking blind to just how happy you make me,” Sylus says. You hang onto every word, subconsciously leaning towards him. “I regret every single choice I have made in the last months. If I could go back and do it all over it again: I would. It’s what you said in the play…hindsight is a privlege. It is a privlege that we have. That we can take for ourselves.”
“Sylus…”
“You can trust me,” he continues, “you know you can. It’ll be just the two of us. I promise.”
The wind whips around your bodies. One of Sylus’ hands leave yours, finding its way to your cheek. You lean into the warmth, closing your eyes as the memories flood back to you.
Everything went sour in a matter of months. Before that, the two of you were rock solid. You were happy. The two of you share memories that nobody else will have access to. You remember all of the countless nights you stayed up waiting for him, sleep ready to take you over just as he walked through the bedroom door. You remember all of the times he brought you flowers and kissed your cheek, claiming that you are the most beautiful woman in the world. You remember all of the times Sylus held you when you cried. He has been there for you through thick and thin…is that something you’re willing to give up?
“I’ll come back,” you open your eyes. A smile begins to form on his face. It fades when you begin to speak again, “but we need to take things slow, okay? One day at a time.”
“One day at a time,” Sylus repeats. His eyes drop down to your lips, his eye glowing at the sight. Your hands flatten against his chest, feeling his unsteady heartbeat before they slip up and around his neck. The man pulls you closer, his touch light and gentle. “May I kiss you? Please?”
He asks as if he’s been starving for years. You nod, fingers slipping into his white hair, his lips connecting with yours in a slow and tender kiss. You sigh into his lips, hungry for more. The man gives it to you but he gently takes your left hand away from his neck, bringing it down to your laps.
“Sy,” you whine, earning a smile from him.
A cold sensation slips up your ring finger. You gasp, surprised by its presence. You look down and see a dark silver band wrapped around your finger with a black rock sitting in the middle. It looks similar to the ring you bought Sylus. The same one that he’s wearing right now.
“What…”
“This is my vow to you,” Sylus gently places his finger under your chin, tilting it back up so that you look at him. “My vow that my heart belongs to you and you alone. I know things will take time between us but…I need you to know that this,” he taps the top of the ring, sending chills down your spine, “is what my future looks like with you.”
“Do you mean it?” you ask, mouth suddenly dry. He nods.
“I meant every single word. I’m yours. Completely and utterly yours.”
as always ; likes, comments, & reblogs are greatly appreciated! be sure to support your favorite writers! <3
Pairing: Zayne Li x Non!Mc ♥
Summary: What seemed like a long-awaited and well-deserved vacation with your husband, Zayne, and his colleague Greyson and his wife turns into a tense situation between you and your husband on the very first day, after you run into Mc (Mcee), who was also vacationing at the resort with her friends, Tara and Simone, and who has an accident during a hike in the mountains.
In other words, you try to help Zayne as he tends to Mcee’s injury, but you don’t seem to be much of an assistant while he’s worried for his old love.
Tags: Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, Fluff and Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Non!Mc
W.C: 5.1 K
Warnings: Mention of injuries, accident, blood and injuries
Open on Ao3 - pt 2
The loud bang on the door—as if it had been rammed rather than simply knocked on—wasn’t what scared you; it was that heart-wrenching crying and wailing that made your skin crawl and your heart skip a beat as you ran to open the front door, your hands trembling and a look of terror and concern on your face.
As you opened the door, it swung forcefully toward you, causing you to flinch instinctively before it slammed into your face; moving with instinctive speed, Zayne rushed through the doorway, carrying Mcee in his arms and walking briskly, almost jogging, down the hallway beyond the living room, toward the bedrooms, disappearing around the right-hand turn that you knew led to your room. Shocked and completely unaware of what was happening, you tried to close the door to go after them when a hand blocked your way, preventing you from closing it. Greyson appeared from behind, with a complex expression, rapid breathing, and his glasses slightly askew, likely from having run to the cabin. You quickly opened the door wide to let him in and wasted no time asking for an explanation.
“Greyson, what’s going on?” you asked, frightened, scanning his face for answers as you closed the door.
“Mcee had an accident on the mountain,” he said hurriedly. “Which room did they go to?”
“The main one,” you hurried to say. “Follow me.” You wiped the sweat from your nervous hands on the apron you were wearing as you began to make your way across the room; the gasps of anguish and pain grew closer and louder, sending shivers down your spine and making your heart race.
When you reached the room, you froze in the doorway. Mcee lay on the bed, her head buried in the pillow, her face twisted with pain and her eyes closed, while her hands clutched the sheets, seeking some comfort to give her the strength to endure the pain in her left leg, which was bleeding uncontrollably, soaking the fabric of her gray sweatpants. Zayne was leaning over her legs at the foot of the bed, trying to fold back the damp fabric of her pants to examine the wound beneath. Greyson, seeing that you had stopped there, quickly walked past you to approach Zayne and help him.
“Do you have your medical bag?” was all Zayne said, without taking his eyes off the bleeding leg.
“It’s in my room; I’ll go get it,” Greyson said before turning on his heel and leaving the room; soon you heard the front door close behind him. You approached the bed, not really knowing how to help. You looked at Mcee’s pained expression and felt a tightness in your chest; she was suffering, and you didn’t know how to ease her pain. You took her hand in yours and gave it an encouraging squeeze.
“Mcee, everything will be okay, honey. Zayne will take care of it,” you told her as you used your free hand to brush the strands of hair that had stuck to her face from sweat out of her eyes. “What should I do, Zayne?” you asked, looking at him. He didn’t return your gaze; he was still trying to lift the fabric of her pants without touching the wound.
“Scissors,” he said simply. You let go of Mcee’s hand as you looked around. It had been your room for just over five or six hours; you didn’t really know where everything was. You hadn’t had much time to go through the drawers or look around in general. In fact, your things were still in your suitcase by the window, in a corner of the room. You rushed to the nearest dresser, opening the drawers and frantically searching through them, leaving them open as you went. There was no time to put everything back. Nothing.
You rushed to the bathroom, checking the drawers of the organizer between the sink and the bathtub, then the cabinet next to the shower. Nothing. No scissors in sight. You left the bathroom, crossing the room, your nerves on edge, with Mcee’s panting serving as a reminder that you had to hurry; you ran through the hallway and the living room until you reached the kitchen, where finally a pair of scissors came into view in one of the utensil drawers; you ran back to the bedroom, leaving your slippers scattered along the way, since they were getting in the way and wouldn’t let you run fast.
“Here,” you said as you handed him the scissors with trembling hands.
“Cut the pants; I’ll hold the leg,” Zayne instructed in a monotone voice, but you knew your husband—you could sense the irritation hidden behind the monotony of his tone. You slipped your fingers into the holes of the scissors and, with one hand, grabbed the fabric of the pants—damp and cold against your fingertips—gently pulling it up slightly to make room for the blade to cut; with a trembling hand and afraid of accidentally cutting Mcee, you guided the scissors and made the first cut down the center of the pants; when you went to make the second cut higher up, irritated by your slowness and caution, Zayne snatched the scissors from your hands with such speed that your fingers nearly got caught in them, grazing your skin and burning slightly from the friction. “I’ll do it; hold her leg.”
This time, nerves weren’t the only thing you felt; a sense of anguish and guilt settled in your chest as you held Mcee’s ankle to keep her from moving her leg and allowing Zayne to hurt her with the scissors. You had failed in your attempt to help, and the cost of your slowness and fear was the pain Mcee continued to feel.
Once the wound was freed from the fabric, you could finally see what was causing Mcee so much pain: a cut ran across her calf, stretching from her ankle bone down to at least halfway down her calf muscle. The cut looked deep—or so you could tell from the amount of blood gushing out of it, soaking through the fabric of her pants and the bedspread. Your expression twisted, feeling empathy for the pain that must have been involved; your stomach turned because it was the first time you’d faced such a sight—not so much because of the amount of blood, but because of how critical the situation looked. It was undoubtedly an experience no gory movie could have prepared you for. Your hands were still shaking as you breathed more heavily, taking deep breaths while trying to ease the discomfort in your stomach, praying that your bile wouldn’t rise—this wasn’t the time to get weak and throw up in a corner when there was a poor girl suffering and needing her pain to stop as quickly as possible.
Zayne turned toward you, cutting the tie on your apron with the scissors—without asking permission or uttering a word of warning—to use it as a tourniquet a few inches below Mcee’s knee.
“Get me the first-aid kit from the bathroom, there must be some gauze in there.” he said as he tied a tight knot in the tourniquet. You released Mcee’s ankle, wiped your hands on the apron hanging over your shoulders—now loose since one of the waist ties was missing—and ran back to the bathroom, to the cabinet you’d left open, grabbing the first-aid kit to run back to Zayne.
When you went to open it, Zayne pushed his way in, quickly unzipping it and starting to pull out the medical supplies inside in search of the gauze, which wasn’t enough given the size of Mcee’s wound.
“Get my handkerchief from my suitcase,” he said. You hurried to find his suitcase, spreading it out on the floor as you searched for his handkerchief; the only one you found quickly was the one you’d given him a month ago for your wedding anniversary. It was a shame to have to use it, but it had a better purpose to serve. “Bring me a basin of warm water and a washcloth.”
And so began yet another dash through the house, this time to the backyard where you remembered there was a medium-sized basin for washing clothes; with it tucked under your arm, you ran to the kitchen where you pulled a washcloth out of a drawer—one that looked new and hadn’t been used much. You set the basin on the sink, and while you waited for it to fill with warm water, you had to turn off the oven halfway through cooking your dinner, since you wouldn’t be able to keep an eye on it to make sure it didn’t burn later, thus saying goodbye to your tasty dinner.
When you entered the room again and approached Zayne, carefully setting the basin on the bed, he stopped applying pressure to Mcee’s wound.
“Clean her wound; I’ll go wash my hands,” he said, taking the mild soap from the first-aid kit and striding toward the bathroom. You took the cloth and, after wringing it out, brought it tremblingly close to the wound.
“It’s going to hurt, but hang in there a little longer, sweetheart,” you said to Mcee, trying to comfort her a little; her face was drenched in tears, and her eyes remained tightly shut, refusing to look at her own wound. You began to gently dab the damp cloth around the edge of the wound, being careful not to touch the cut directly. The blood seeped into the cloth, gradually revealing the reddish skin of Mcee’s leg.
“I’ll take over,” Zayne said once he was back by your side, taking the cloth from your hands to rinse it again in the basin. You took a few steps back so as not to get in his way—not knowing much else to do— you approached Mcee again, taking the corner of your apron to wipe the sweat from his face. “How long did the paramedics say it would take them to arrive?”
It was at that moment that you realized you’d made the worst possible mistake while administering first aid—you’d forgotten to call the ambulance. You watched him, horrified by your own carelessness.
“I forgot to call.”
“You didn’t call? We’re in the mountains—do you have any idea how long it’ll take them to get here? We’ve already wasted too much time.” His tone and expression made you tremble; it was the first time Zayne had directed such annoyance at you. Although his tone was barely a notch or two higher than his usual voice, it was that slight rasp in his throat that made you realize just how annoyed he really was; his sharp gaze fixed on you was an expression you’d only ever seen him make when reprimanding his subordinates for incompetence. Your heart seemed to pound in your ears as you fled in terror toward the living room in search of the landline.
Your vision felt blurry as you searched the nightstand in the living room for the emergency number card; your fingers trembled as you pressed the numbers firmly on the phone keypad. Your voice came out shaky and choked as you spoke to the emergency dispatcher and gave them the details of the accident, along with the address of the resort and the cabin where you were staying.
Once the call was over, you stood there frozen; you didn’t want to go back to the room.
Guilt was eating away at your brain, and your chest ached at the memory of Zayne’s expression. But Mcee didn’t deserve the pain you were feeling while you wallowed in self-pity over a scolding you deserved, so after taking a deep breath, you headed back toward the room, hearing the front door open as you walked down the hallway. Like a savior intervening at the last moment before an execution, Greyson burst through the door at full speed, his bag in hand.
“Don’t worry, I’ll help him; you go to the entrance and wait for the paramedics,” he said to calm you down when he reached you, his hand on your shoulder to comfort you, for he had seen your bloodied hands trembling in your lap.
“Thanks, Greyson,” you said as best you could; the lump in your throat barely let you speak.
You stood there in the hallway, your hands clutching the fabric of your apron—now too dirty to keep cooking in. You looked at your hands, damp with nervous sweat and with Mcee’s blood caked on them and beginning to dry around your wrist and surely under your nails, trembling with guilt.
“I should have acted faster, more precisely…” you thought; a tear slid down your cheek, but you quickly wiped it away with the back of your forearm. You headed to the guest bathroom to wash your hands and splash water on your face. You scrubbed the blood off the apron roughly, hoping no stain would remain, though it would be useless—it couldn’t be returned in its current state; it was missing a tie, so you were sure the resort manager would make you pay for the damage, and that would cover the blanket in the master bedroom as well. “I hope I didn’t stain the sheets too,” you thought, trying to avoid thinking about the tragedy that had caused the damage to the blanket.
Once you were on the porch, feeling the icy mountain air stinging your eyes—sore from holding back tears—you felt like you could breathe again; you still felt a tightness in your chest, but now you could rest easier knowing that Zayne had an assistant up to the task to help him and ease Mcee’s pain.
‘Should I get back to support her?’ you were thinking, staring blankly at a large rock in the distance, when you heard hurried footsteps coming up the steps to the cabin’s porch. As you turned to see who it was, you came face to face with Greyson’s wife, who was rushing toward you.
“Greyson told me everything. Are you okay?”
“Me? Don’t you mean Mcee?” you asked, confused but slightly amused by the mix-up.
“No, you. You must have been so scared, poor thing” she said as she took your hands in hers, with an expression of pity and concern, but upon noticing your furrowed brow in confusion, she finally explained. “—I’ve never had to assist Greyson in an emergency, but I’ve imagined what it would be like several times—total chaos. I wouldn’t know what to do, or I’d mess everything up because I’d be so nervous. And don’t even get me started on seeing the wound—I’m sure I’d pass out. I’m just not cut out for that kind of thing. I can’t imagine how you must have felt.”
“I can’t deny that I was scared—pretty scared—and I made mistakes, but now Greyson is here to assist Zayne, so I’m more at ease.”
“Oh, poor thing,” she said as she came over to hug you. “Let’s leave it to the professionals; they deal with this kind of thing every day. Let’s go sit down,” she said as she walked over to the wooden bench by the door, pulling your hand so you’d follow her. “We have to wait for the paramedics, right?”
“Yes, though they’ll be a while; I just called them.”
“Just now?” she asked, frowning.
“Yeah… I forgot to do it earlier.” a look of surprise crossed the other girl’s face, and a quiet “oh” escaped her lips. You lowered your head in embarrassment; you knew you’d screwed up—big time.
“It’s okay, don’t worry. What did I tell you? I would have made mistakes too, and bigger ones than yours. Don’t worry.” She tried to comfort you.
“It’s not a minor mistake. Zayne got mad at me. I’m sure that if Mcee hadn’t been so consumed by her own grief, she would have been upset too.”
“Did he raise his voice at you?” she asked, surprised and worried at the same time. If there was one thing she knew about her husband’s colleague, it was that when it came to his wife, no mistake was worth raising his voice over; only his subordinates had felt the weight of his wrath. His wife was a complete exception to any sign of Dr. Zayne’s annoyance.
“He didn’t need to; his eyes were sharp enough.” You joked, but the tightness in your throat that you’d felt minutes earlier returned, stronger than before.
“I don’t even want to imagine that—Dr. Zayne intimidates me enough as it is; I don’t want to know what his expression must have been like,” she said, feigning a shudder. You laughed at her act, unaware that a single tear was slipping down your cheek; the young woman before you wore an expression of empathy and pity as she sat closer to embrace you. “Don’t cry… He’s the one who made the worst mistake. He’ll regret his audacity. Listen to me—I’m certain that’s how it’ll be. He’ll come running to throw himself at your feet and beg forgiveness for his bad behavior.” You laughed into her hair.
“Is that what you make Greyson do every time you fight?” you asked, amused.
“Mmh… Something like that.” she said, amused, as she rubbed your back.
“Do you hear that?” you said as you pulled away from her embrace, thinking you heard ambulance sirens. You got up from your seat and walked down the steps, reaching the gravel road and looking into the distance. When you spotted the ambulance coming up the hill, you raised your arms and signaled that the emergency was right there.
It didn’t take the paramedics long to load Mcee into the ambulance. After asking Zayne for details about the accident and thanking him and Greyson for the quick and expert care they’d given Mcee’s injury, they headed for the hospital in the town near the mountain, with Zayne accompanying them and leaving you there, promising to return as soon as he could and to call if anything happened.
“Do you want to stay at our cabin tonight?” Greyson asked, worried about how you might feel being alone at night in a new place.
“No, no, don’t worry, I’m fine.”
“Are you sure, honey?” asked Greyson’s wife, concern in her voice. “We could have dinner together and then enjoy a bonfire.”
“I’m sure. We can save that for tomorrow; I wouldn’t want Zayne to miss it,” you said with a smile to put their minds at ease.
After a few minutes of turning down various offers, they finally retired to their cabin, the one next door, and you were able to go back into yours, your skin prickling and rubbing your arms as the temperature had begun to drop along with the sun.
You walked into the bedroom, paused in the doorway, and looked at the bed. The bedspread still bore the imprint of Mcee’s body; a dampness from sweat and blood outlined the shape of her figure almost perfectly. The creases in the pillowcase revealed how tightly she had pressed her head against it, trying to muster strength and stay still. The basin was still at the foot of the bed; the water, now reddened, made it impossible to even make out the cloth that had been used lying at the bottom.
After letting out a sigh, you set to work cleaning up; the sooner you cleaned up the blood, the easier it would be to remove the stains. You set the basin on the floor, careful not to spill its contents, and after pulling out the blanket—surprised that it had absorbed all the blood and miraculously hadn’t let it stain the sheets as well—you headed to the bathtub to scrub it. After a few minutes of scrubbing, as you felt your hands burning slightly from the warm water and the chlorine chemicals, you finally stepped out of the bathroom, the blanket dripping a few drops of water onto the wooden floor—you hadn’t had the strength to wring it out completely— as you headed to the back door to hang it up. Since it was getting dark and dew would soon start to fall, there wasn’t much point in hanging it up at that moment, but you needed to get that blanket out of your room; you needed to clear your mind of the anxiety and fears that experience had caused you.
After drying the wet floor, cleaning the basin, making the bed with another clean blanket, and taking a shower, you still didn’t know what to do to keep your mind off the fact that Zayne had gone to the hospital and hadn’t called.
You knew you couldn’t be selfish; Mcee needed company, and who better than her own treating doctor?
But even so, you didn’t want to be distant from him, not when the situation between you had become so tense after the accident. You couldn’t stop thinking that you needed to apologize to both of them, that you should be with Mcee, supporting her… but after all, he was with her, so your presence would be nothing more than a hindrance, just as it had been a few minutes ago.
Kneeling in front of the oven, you looked at the baking sheet with vegetables and the chicken in the middle, wondering if your dinner had already gone bad or if it would still be just as tasty now that you’d put it back in to heat up—or rather, you were trying to finish cooking it.
The wait was going to be too much for your anxious heart, which just wanted to have the conversation you’d been putting off with your husband; deciding that staring at your phone waiting for a call wouldn’t do any good, you turned on the living room heater and sat on the couch in front of it to watch TV.
The first few minutes were torturous; your eyes automatically drifted toward your phone on the coffee table every time it lit up with a notification—no sign of Zayne—forcing you to rewind the movie you were supposed to be watching so you could understand what it was about, until eventually, between the warmth of the heater and the blanket at your feet, and the fact that you hadn’t picked such a bad movie after all, you were soon able to calm the anxiety in your heart, so that when you noticed Zayne’s missed call and the message he’d left you, it wasn’t until you were about to have dinner that you realized it.
♥Hubby♥: I’ll stay with Mcee for now; her friend is on her way to the hospital and will stay with her the night. She’s feeling better and should have no trouble recovering. I’ll fill you in on the details later. I might be home late, so don’t stay up waiting for me. Get some rest.
You didn’t know what to think or feel about that message; there was no “we need to talk when I get there,” which could be either a good or a bad sign. Maybe he was still upset, or maybe he wanted to apologize in person rather than over the phone, or maybe he thought you hadn’t answered his call because you were upset… Soon your head started to hurt again; you’d been mulling it over so much—both his message and what the right thing to reply would be—that you even lost your appetite.
I understand. Send her my regards and tell her I’ll come see her tomorrow. Dinner will be in the oven.
That was all you could come up with—a message that, in general, in another context, would have been something natural to say, but for some reason, perhaps just because of the bitterness you were feeling, it seemed so dry and cutting. Just as you finally decided to delete it, he replied.
♥Hubby♥: Mcee thanks you and wishes you good night.
And that was it.
There was no “good night” from him, no “see you later,” and even worse, no “I love you.”
Even more distressed than you had felt that afternoon, you decided to go to sleep; at least that way you could ignore those feelings. Curling up under the blankets, shivering at how cold the sheets felt, hugging the pillow to ease the loneliness you felt. It was your first night at the resort, the first night of your vacation with your husband, the first in almost a year and a half.
Your second vacation since your honeymoon—ruined. It wasn’t that you blamed Mcee, of course not; the poor girl hadn’t chosen that horrible accident, and her vacation had been ruined too. But the fact was that things with Zayne had gotten tense—and not because of some isolated incident, but because of Mcee.
She had always been a constant indirectly present in your relationship with Zayne. His childhood friend, his first love, and his patient. The person for whom he’d chosen his career and to whom he’d dedicated—and continued to dedicate—years of his life to research in order to save her. It’s not something he wouldn’t do for you too; he’d let you know that many times. But even so, it wasn’t the same…
A first love isn’t easy to forget; it will always be tucked away in a corner of your heart, cherished, dear to you. But you’d never know how Zayne felt about it, because, after all, he was your first love.
At some point, somewhere between sleep and a daydream, you felt movement on the bed, which woke you up. Amid so many wandering thoughts as you gazed at the window on the wall next to Zayne’s side of the bed, you had closed your eyes and fallen into a semi-lucid dream—too awake and thinking to be truly asleep, but unconscious enough not to notice when Zayne entered the room, and after changing his clothes and using the bathroom, slowly lay down beside you, careful not to wake you. Failing immediately.
“Mmh,” you groaned as you opened your eyes, blinking rapidly and rubbing them with one hand to relieve the burning sensation.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you. Go back to sleep.” Zayne said in that velvety, whispering tone he always used at night when wishing you goodnight or in the mornings when he asked you to go back to sleep after he got up for work.
You watched him for a few seconds, and perhaps without realizing it, you frowned in annoyance before turning away to go back to sleep with your back to him, because Zayne’s relaxed expression subtly tightened, his lips pressed together for a few seconds, as he realized his suspicions were confirmed. His wife was angry with him, and with good reason.
Zayne sighed and moved closer to you, pressing his chest against your back and wrapping his arm around your waist, not letting you go.
“Honey, can we talk?” You kept your eyes closed and remained silent for a few more seconds. “I made a mistake—a serious one, a very serious one.” he continued, waiting for you to show him in some way that you were paying attention and not just sleeping.
“This afternoon, Mcee invited me to go for a hike in the mountains. I was discussing something related to work with Greyson at the time, so I turned down his offer. A few minutes later, I joined you in the kitchen. Then, when I suggested we take a walk around the complex, you refused because you didn’t want to ruin dinner, so I went alone. But as I was climbing the mountain, I started hearing cries for help. It was Mcee; she’d slipped on a rock and rolled a few meters down the edge of the trail. She’d hurt her leg, and she was bleeding so much that—by the time I reached the cabin with her in my arms— it already seemed too late, it felt like I’d wasted so much time. I was worried, scared for her well-being.”
‘Zayne setting aside his professional composure in emergencies when it comes to Mcee—what a surprise.’ you thought.
“I shouldn’t have spoken to you that way. It was your first time handling an emergency; in fact, you did everything too well for how scared you were, and I really respect that—that despite your nerves and fear, you acted efficiently to help.”
“Not enough, apparently.” You couldn’t help but whisper. Zayne remained silent for a few seconds, pondering your words and the annoyance in them, but he knew it hurt you more than actually annoyed you.
“No, that’s not it. I was the one who acted wrongly; I let my feelings control me and expected you to act with the same level of efficiency as my subordinates, which they achieved only through years of study and on-the-job training. You didn’t have to act like a professional, because you aren’t one, and yet you tried and you did it. You really wanted to help. And I appreciate that, just as much as Mcee does, if not more.” Zayne buried his face against the nape of your neck, inhaling your scent, so familiar, so comforting to him, clutching your waist more tightly, afraid that you might decide to break free from his grip and get out of bed.
“I really tried.” you whispered, your voice barely audible, causing something inside Zayne’s chest to snap.
“I know, honey. You did more than enough. I’m sorry.”
“I tried to be quick.”
“I know. I’m sorry.”
“I was so scared, and just seeing her cry made me want to cry too.”
“I’m so sorry, my love” he said as he sat up on the bed, propping himself up on his forearm as he leaned over you, trying to see your face, to see if he’d made you cry again. He brought his hand from your waist to your chin and gently guided it so you’d look him in the eyes. “I’m sorry I was so rude. I swear it won’t happen again.”
You looked into his eyes, cautiously; they showed sincerity and regret.
You wanted to believe him, you really did. But it was about Mcee, and if there was one thing you knew after years of being with Zayne, it was that your husband would continue to cherish his old love until the end of his days, and you would have to live with the idea that his heart was shared.
“You’d better…” you said, resigned, knowing there was no point in expressing your true concerns to him; he would never see the situation the way you saw and felt it.
“Yes, Ma’am,” he replied with a gentle smile, as he leaned in to kiss you softly as an apology.
I know there's a group of LADS fans that don't like MC being the bad guy but she is in this story. Sorry but she has to be. She's an asshole, Sylus is an asshole, you're an asshole. That is the intended theme for this story. Don't like don't read, and definitely don't hate!
Trigger / Content Warnings
Murder
Gun violence
Infidelity / cheating
Emotional abuse
Psychological abuse
Manipulation
Graphic descriptions of death (non-gory but explicit)
Haunting / supernatural horror
Nightmares / dream horror
Pregnancy themes
Threats toward children
Generational trauma
Parental abandonment
Adoption-related trauma
Grief
Intense emotional distress
No redemption / no happy ending
This story is based on this post/art. All of the credits are in the photo.
Word Count: 8,419
💮Masterlist💮
You loved him with everything you had. Sylus was your world. Your marriage, a sanctuary you had built with your own hands, brick by precious brick.
You remembers the way he pulled you close in the morning, still half-asleep, murmuring your name like a prayer. The way his fingers would trace patterns on your skin in the dark, writing promises only you two could read. Every shared meal, every whispered secret, every time he chose you—it all felt like proof that you'd found your forever.
You were his wife. His partner. His chosen one.
You wore his ring like a queen wore her crown. You wore his love like a knight wore her armor. He never gave you a reason to feel unloved or unwanted.
But then she arrived. And you watched your world end in slow motion.
The way his eyes changed when he looked at her, that spark you thought belonged only to you, now burning for someone else. The distance grew between the two of you, and you stood on the side reaching, begging, trying everything to pull him back. You made his favorite meals. You wore the clothes he loved. You laughed at his jokes, touched his arm, reminded him of your vows.
But it didn't matter. He was already gone, wasn't he? Already choosing her.
You watched him slip away day by day, hour by hour, minute by minute, and there was nothing you could do to stop it. He let your heart slip through his fingers, while he held hers. You were still wearing his ring when he stopped wearing his. Still calling yourself his wife when he'd already made her his future.
The guns came without warning. Luke and Kieran held two barrels pointed two loaded pistols towards you. Cold metal, colder eyes. They followed his orders and unloaded their weapons, the bullets tore through you. Through flesh, through bone, through the heart that had loved him so completely
Sylus, your husband. Sylus, the love of your life. He'd ordered your death like you were nothing. Like your years together meant nothing. The pain was excruciating, but worse was watching him walk away with MC. His hand on her back, protective, tender, the way he used to touch you as your blood pooled beneath you and your vision blurred.
He didn't look back. Not once. You died alone on the ground, discarded, while they disappeared into their new life together. They drove off to live your happily ever after as you were buried in an unmarked grave.
But death wasn't the end. It was a beginning.
You rose from your tattered corpse, no longer bound by flesh. Every drop of love you had poured into him crystallized into something bitter, colder, deadlier.
You would have your revenge.
The world felt bitter, darker, colder, infinite. You could feel the threads connecting you to them, pulsing with possibility.
They thought walking away meant freedom? They thought your death meant peace? MC thought she could just spread her legs for another woman's husband and get away with it? Sylus thought he could lie and break your heart, mind, and soul without consequences?
How beautifully, tragically naive.
They wanted their happily ever after?
You would give them something far more memorable.
Even long after they themselves were dead and buried, they will always wonder…
"Was it really worth it?"
You found them at dawn.
In your bedroom. In your bed. The sheets you'd picked out, the mattress that still held the shape of your body, the room where he'd whispered promises into your hair on countless mornings. Now it reeked of her—her perfume, her sweat, the cloying sweetness of their satisfaction.
They were still tangled together, her head resting on his chest where yours used to lay, his arm draped possessively across her waist. His fingers traced lazy circles on her bare shoulder, the same absent-minded gesture he'd done to you. The morning light caught on his face, softening it, making him look peaceful and content.
Happy. You made him happy. But she made him happier.
Something inside you twisted violently.
They celebrated their love the same night they had you murdered!
The rage hit you like a roaring tsunami. But with the rage came a sense of awareness. The world around you differently now. You didn't just see it, but you could sense it. The door. The walls. The very air itself felt tangible and responsive, like it was waiting for you to reach out grab it.
You raised your hand. It looked translucent in the dim light. But when you focused, when you poured all that fury into your hand, it became solid. Real!
You had to test it. You slammed it against the bedroom door.
BANG!
The sound was a thunderclap that shattered the morning stillness. The door shuddered in its frame, rattling on its hinges. The impact reverberated through your spectral form. you could feel it, the shock of solid wood against your fist, the satisfaction of making the physical world acknowledge your existence after you were forcefully departed from it.
Sylus jolted upright like, his hand raised ready to use his evol. Every muscle in his body went taut as predatory instincts snapping into place. MC gasped, clutching the sheet to her bare chest, her eyes wide and wild as they fixed on the door.
"What the hell!?" Sylus's voice was rough with sleep and adrenaline.
They stared at the door. Waiting and listening for the noise to happen again. You held perfectly still, drinking in their fear like it was fine wine.
No footsteps in the hallway. No voices. No creaking floorboards or rattling windows. Just that single, sound still echoing in their ears and in their bones.
"Did you hear that?" MC whispered, her voice trembling. Her fingers dug into his arm.
"I heard it." Sylus was already moving, throwing off the sheets, not bothering to put on any underwear. His expression was hard and calculating as he scanned the room. Looking for threats. For intruders. For something that made sense. He wouldn't find it.
He crossed to the door with predatory caution before he yanked the it open. The hallway stretched empty before him. Completely silent and undisturbed. Morning light filtered through the windows at the far end, painting everything in soft, innocent haze.
But the air was wrong. Like the atmosphere before a storm. He stepped into the hallway, his eyes sweeping left, then right. Nothing. No one.
You stood right beside him. Close enough to see the tension in his shoulders, the way his pupils dilated as he searched for an enemy that wasn't there. He felt you. He didn't know it yet, but some primal part of him recognized the wrongness, the presence of something that shouldn't exist.
"Sylus?" MC called from the bed, her voice small and frightened.
"It's nothing," he said, but there was uncertainty in his voice now. The first crack in his armor.
You smiled, tasting their confusion, their fear, like honey on your tongue. The rage inside you purred with satisfaction. This power, this ability to reach across the veil and make them feel you. It was intoxicating.
You need more.
By midday, Sylus was gone.
A business meeting and security checks. Something about ensuring the perimeter was secure after the "incident." You'd watched him leave, watched him kiss MC at the door like a devoted lover, promising to return soon.
And now she was all alone.
MC moved through your kitchen with familiarity, like she'd done this a thousand times before. Because she undoubtedly has. She'd been here while you were still alive, cooking in your kitchen, using your things, playing house with your husband while you were out. The thought made your rage spike hot and vicious.
She'd pulled her hair into a messy bun, wearing one of Sylus's shirts like it was hers. The sleeves rolled up as she chopped vegetables on your cutting board with your knife. She was humming something soft and tuneless, completely at ease.
She'd convinced herself things were fine. The morning's disturbance was nothing.
She reached for the cabinet above the stove, where she had reorganized the spices from the far superior system you had in place, and pulled out paprika.
The rage built inside of you again. You focused until you could feel the kitchen around you, every surface, every object, all of it waiting for your touch. You stepped closer to her, wanting her feel you somehow.
MC paused, the knife hovering over the cutting board. She glanced toward the closed window, put down the knife and checked the thermostat. The AC was off and the rooms overall temperature dropped. She shrugged her shoulders and continued her cutting.
You focused again, using everything bit of energy you had on the cabinet beside her head.
BANG!
The cabinet door slammed open so hard it cracked against the adjacent wall. The sound was deafening in the quiet kitchen.
MC screamed. The knife clattered to the floor as she stumbled backward, her hip slamming into the counter. Her eyes were huge, fixed on the cabinet that now hung open, swaying slightly on its hinges.
"Hello?" Her voice cracked. "Sylus?"
Silence.
She was alone. Completely and utterly alone.
You watched her chest heave with panicked breaths, watched her eyes dart around the kitchen, searching for something, anything that made sense. Her hands trembled as she pressed them against the counter, trying to steady herself.
"It's just—it's just old hinges," she whispered to herself, but her voice shook. "Just—just the house settling. It's fine. It's—"
You moved closer, letting the temperature drop further. Her breath misted in the air.
"It's fine," she repeated, but she was backing toward the door now, her movements jerky and frightened. "It's fine, it's fine, it's—"
She ran.
You stayed in the kitchen, surrounded by the scattered vegetables and the abandoned lunch, and smiled.
The fear was so much sweeter when they were alone.
MC didn’t come back into the kitchen.
She hovered in the doorway for a long moment, keys in hand, still pale, still shaken, before deciding she couldn’t stand to be alone in the house any longer. Takeout was easier than cooking anyway. Leaving was easier than sitting with the feeling that something was wrong and being unable to know why.
The door closed behind MC, leaving you alone.
Sylus came home an hour later.
He stepped through the door without hesitation, keys jingling softly as he set them in the dish by the entryway. In one hand, he carried a briefcase. In the other, a tall, curved vase filled with freshly cut red roses.
The scent followed him like a sickly sweet perfume as he placed it in the middle of the counter. Turning it slightly so the light can hit the petals just right. MC would spot them immediately when she came back.
When he was satisfied, he pulled out his phone.
“Hey,” he said, his voice dropping into that soft, intimate tone he saved for her. “I just got back. Yeah, I got you something to help you feel better, you'll love it.”
You didn’t need to focus so hard this time. What you are and what you can do felt so natural at this point even though you were killed yesterday. You were fully embracing what you had become and how you felt. That acceptance, made you stronger than you've ever been.
You looked at the flowers. Simple red roses in full bloom, deep crimson, the petals lush and dewy. The basic uninspiring kind MC like. You ground your teeth remembering the bouquets Sylus got you. They were all different. A beautiful carefully crafted piece of botanical art that showed the unrelenting love Sylus had for you. It was a floral symphony of romance that you loved and appreciated every time.
These roses were a downgrade. You're doing Sylus a favor at this point.
Sylus calmly walked to the fridge, his phone tucked between his shoulder and cheek, using his now free hands to grab a glass of water for himself. But before his fingers could make contact with the fridge, the vase quickly glided across the smooth marble, tipping over the edge with no chance of saving it.
The crash was violent, the glass exploded across the tile floor, shards skittering in all directions as water spilled outward in a sudden flood. The roses petals tearing loose and scattering among the wreckage.
Sylus stood motionless, arm still extended, staring down at the destruction. The phone remained clutched in his hand, her voice faint and tiny as MC called his name again and again, asking if he was all right, asking what had happened. He didn't answer. His eyes were fixed on the island, on the exact spot where the vase had stood moments before. Completely sturdy, leveled, and safe.
This had not been an accident. It was impossible.
The house felt completely different now. His pulse quickened, the uneasiness crawling up his spine. He told himself there had to be an explanation—water on the counter, a tremor, something, anything! But none of it was there. He remembered setting the vase down. Remembered making sure it was stable. Remembered thinking how it looked right there.
You were close enough to him now to feel the heat of his body, close enough to sense the growing break in his composure. So close he could see his own breath despite the warm temperature in the house.
Eventually, he would clean the mess. He would sweep up the glass, throw away the ruined flowers, order another bouquet and tell himself it meant nothing. Even if he couldn't bring himself to mean it. Something fundamental had shifted. The house no longer felt like his domain like it always had. The space no longer felt empty.
He was not alone.
The next four days that followed the vase incident were tense. Sylus and MC went through those days in a routine haze. Wake up, go to work, come home, go to bed.
Sylus ordered another bouquet by nightfall. He placed the new flowers in a heavier vase, tucked into the corner of the kitchen, as if reducing the exposure would prevent another act of supernatural sabotage. MC noticed his mood shift, of course. She watched him watch the house. His eyes lingering longer on shadowed corners, his movements a lot more careful, checking locks and thermostats with subtle paranoia. But she said nothing. They were both too proud, too rational, too eager to believe in safe explanations.
You watched them still. Being able to latch onto one of them no matter where they went. The life and times of Sylus were nothing new to you. You knew everything about him. But you discovered so much more about MC.
Within those four days you saw the dedicated colonel, the flamboyant artist, the caring doctor, and the attentive co-worker.
All unbelievably handsome, talented, rich, and loyal. The way they looked at MC was the way Sylus looked at you. They knew that MC was taken, but not by who, and it was obvious that if given the chance they would take it. They would sweep her off her feet and never let her go again.
MC had choices. Yet she still chose wrong!
But the four full days passed without incident. You didn’t rattle a single cupboard or drop the temperature once. You gave them peace. You gave them space. You let them believe, if only for a moment, that maybe it was over. That the worst had passed.
It made what came next all the more exquisite.
MC wore black satin and red lipstick. Sylus, the dark shirt you bought for his birthday, the one he always claimed brought him luck. You watched them leave together, laughing, fingers laced, tension slipping from their shoulders as they went to have their romantic evening.
They went to a restaurant with candles on the tables and wine in their glasses, a place where everyone knew your name, but couldn't say anything now. They returned late, tipsy and giddy, lips already smeared with lipstick, eyes heavy with desire and drink. They touched each other without shame as they slipped through the front door, their laughter bouncing off the walls like they owned the night.
They didn’t make it to the bedroom. Instead, they left a trail of clothing from the hallway to the bathroom, giggling and clumsy and unbearably content. You heard the shower start and their voices echo through the fogged glass. The bathroom light flowed through the open door casting soft shadows into the hallway. They were in there together, tangled in steam, their bodies close, their breath rising like incense into the air you’d once called your own.
That was when you moved.
One moment, the bathroom door stood wide open; the next, it slammed shut with a force that shook the hinges.
Inside, the water kept running but their moans stopped instantly.
Then the lights went out dipping the room in total darkness.
They fumbled in the dark. Their bodies awkward and dripping, the earlier ease gone, the intimacy evaporated, replaced by slow but panicked movements and shallow breaths. Sylus found the wall at last and navigated to the light switch. When Sylus managed to restore the lights, the bathroom felt stripped of warmth and intimacy.
They moved out of the around in silence after that, grabbing towels, avoiding each other’s eyes. Moving quickly like strangers who were caught being somewhere forbidden.
MC turned toward the mirror, towel wrapped tight around her chest. Her skin still glistened with water, the droplets sliding down her neck and collarbone, but her hands moved on auto pilot. She reached for the hand towel by the sink and wiped a broad stroke across the glass so she can see herself.
The steam parted and revealed a reflection that did not belong to her. You stared through the mirror as though it were nothing more than a window, your expression completely unreadable. Your eyes were fixed directly on hers, like a statue fixed in place.
“Oh my god!” MC recoiled as if something struck her.
Sylus spun toward her instantly, his towel slung low on his hips. “What? What happened?”
She couldn't answer. Her gaze still locked on the mirror, eyes wide and fixed in place. You never broke your eye contact. You didn't even blink, scared of missing a single second of this moment. Her mouth opened, but no words came. Only a shuddering breath as she struggled to even breath properly. MC then her hand lifted to point at you.
Sylus followed her finger just in time to see you calmly walk out of frame.
Not a mirage, or a hallucination, or a vague shadow. The last time he had seen you alive, you were crumpling beneath gunfire. Now, you were walking away from him like nothing was wrong.
“She was there,” her voice small, wrecked with fear. “You saw her. Tell me you saw her!”
A long pause stretched between them.
Then Sylus nodded, just once. "Yes…I saw her."
MC exhaled shakily, stepping back from the sink with uncertain footing, one hand reaching blindly for Sylus as though the contact alone could keep her from collapsing. She gripped his forearm, fingers digging into damp skin, using him like a crutch for reality. He didn’t move. He stood there, his body rigid and cold as marble.
The damage had been done.
You had touched things. Moved things. Appeared in front of them.
Sylus's mind was churning through a thousand calculations, none of them adding up to anything useful. This wasn’t a threat he could neutralize. This wasn’t a security breach or a mistake to be covered up. This wasn’t a woman he could have killed and forgotten.
You had been buried, yes.
But he had buried a body, not the part that mattered.
They were foolish enough to think the house was the problem. That you were bound to the place you once called home.
The decision for them leave the place they tried to erase you from was quick and frantic.
“I’m not staying another second,” MC kept repeating, her fingers slipping as she pulled on pants still damp from the shower. “I don’t care where we go, I just need to get out of here!”
“I know.” His voice was tight. He barely looked at her as he yanked open drawers, pulling out his phone and wallet with shaking hands. “Grab your things. Just the essentials.”
She did. No luggage, no toiletries, just the what they thought mattered: phones, car keys, wallets. It was a full on escape. One that you knew was a pointless endeavor.
The hotel they found was sterile and over-lit, the kind of luxury that tried too hard to mimic warmth. The concierge gave her best customer service smile and a swipe of the credit card machine, saying nothing about the disheveled pair with wet hair and wild eyes. The elevator ride was silent. In the suite, MC finally exhaled in one long breath before collapsing onto the bed.
“We should be safe here,” she said quietly, almost trying to convince herself. “It’s new. It’s clean. She can’t be everywhere.”
Sylus sat on the edge of the couch and stared at the floor for a long time. "We'll find a new home. A completely new life and a fresh start."
After hours of reassuring words and comforting kisses, MC finally calmed down enough to fall asleep soon after.
But Sylus couldn't. He lay beside her for over an hour, eyes wide open. When her soft breathing evened out and the tension in her limbs dissolved, he carefully pulled the sheet away and stood. He didn’t bother trying to look presentable. Just his jacket, his keys, his phone. He scribbled a quick note and left it on the nightstand: Going for a drive. Couldn’t sleep.
The road was mostly empty, long stretches of asphalt with only the company of streetlights. Sylus kept both hands on the wheel, his shoulders as his eyes fixed straight ahead. The talk radio was low enough that he couldn’t make out the words, only the sound of the voice filling the silence. He hadn’t realized how hard he was gripping the steering wheel until his fingers began to ache.
He spoke without thinking, the words slipping out as if saying them out loud might make them true. “It’s not her,” he said quietly. “It’s stress. A little guilt. Just stress. A lot of stress. Nothing else.” He swallowed, his throat dry. “She’s gone. She’s gone. I made sure—”
"SYLUS!"
You voice sounded like a bomb detonating beside his ear. It was right there, it was loud and furious and undeniably close.
“FUCK!”
His hands jerked on the wheel. The car swerved hard, crossing the lane before he could correct it. His foot slammed down, missing the brake, and the tires screamed as the headlights veered off the road. The car hit the telephone pole head-on. The impact jerked his body forward, then back. The seatbelt biting into his chest and shoulder as the airbags deployed and knocked the air out of his lungs. Metal crumpled. Glass shattered. Then the car stopped completely.
For a moment, there was nothing but silence and the ticking of the engine.
Sylus sagged against the steering wheel his chest burning as he struggled to draw in air that wouldn’t come fast enough. His hands trembled uncontrollably. Something warm ran from his nose, dripping onto his shirt. He blinked hard, trying to focus, the edges of his vision swimming.
The hazard lights clicked on automatically, their steady blinking reflected against the dark road ahead, casting red light across the interior of the car in slow and rhythmic pulses.
He didn’t move. He didn’t turn around. He didn’t need to. You were seated directly behind him. He locked eyes with you through the rearview mirror.
Your body wasn't a ghostly apparition. It was solid and bloody, looking the way you did that night after you were brutally gunned down, lit intermittently by the flashing of the hazard lights. You were not slumped or disorientating from the crash. You were not weak or fighting for your life from your bullet wounds. You sat upright and composed, your face calm and your eyes fixed on him.
Sylus’s hands slipped from the steering wheel as his body recoiled, and he twisted in his seat just enough to confirm what he was seeing. You didn't vanish. You didn't shift or blur or fade. You remained exactly where you were, occupying the back seat as naturally as you once had on long drives together.
A painful sound slipped through his lips as he shoved the door open and stumbled out onto the road. His legs nearly gave out beneath him, forcing him to brace himself against the broken frame of the car as the cold night air hit his hot and sweaty skin. He turned back slowly, dread pooling heavy in his gut.
You were still there, your gaze never leaving him. You didn't try to move, you just simply watched as he staggered away from the car, every step uneven, his shoulders hunched as if making himself smaller to escape your stare.
He didn’t look back again after that. He walked along the edge of the road before managing to teleport away towards the hotel, far from the life he had tried to escape into. While you remained seated in the back of the wrecked car, watching him leave you behind again.
MC slept deeply in the hotel bed, a soft smile on her face as she dreamt.
In the dream, the world was brighter, softer, and warmer. Her home filled with love and comfort instead of dread. She was curled against Sylus on the couch, her legs tucked beneath her, his arm draped loosely around her shoulders as the television played in the background. The light in the room was low and golden, the kind that belonged only to a dream like this. His presence felt grounding and reassuring, his thumb absentmindedly brushing along her arm as though nothing had ever gone wrong.
For a while, she simply rested there, listening to the rise and fall of his breathing, letting herself become at the ease of it.
Then the baby cried.
MC stiffened, lifting her head from Sylus’s chest. He didn’t move. Didn’t react at all. The crying came again, a lot more urgent that made her chest tighten from her motherly instincts.
The hallway stretched longer than it should have as she walked toward the nursery, the walls dim and quiet, the television noise fading behind her. The crying continued, guiding her forward step by step, her pace quickening as worry settled in her gut. Halfway down the hall though, the sound faltered. By the time she reached the nursery door, it had stopped entirely.
She hesitated for a moment before pushing the door open.
The nursery curtains were drawn shut, but was lit by a single lamp. Everything was exactly as it should have been, but something was very, very wrong. The rocking chair sitting in the corner, moving slowly back and forth.
You were sitting in it, holding MC's baby securely in your arms, cradling her tiny body against your chest as though you had done it a thousand times before. Your movements were slow and calm, the rocking gentle and steady. The baby was quiet now, her face relaxed, her tiny hand curled into the fabric of your shirt as she slept.
MC couldn’t breathe.
You lifted your gaze and looked at her tenderly, your eyes lowered briefly to the child in your arms before returning to MC’s face. There was no hostility in your posture, no aggression in the way you held the baby, no rage radiating off of you in subtle ways.
“She's cute,” you whispered. "My baby would have looked cuter though."
MC’s breath hitched. She stood frozen in the doorway, every instinct screaming at her to move, to do something, but her body refused to obey. “Put her down,” she said, the words barely holding together. “Now. Please.”
You smiled, but it was anything kind. “Don’t make that face, MC,” you murmured. “She’s fine.”
The baby vanished in a puff of gray smoke that dissipated almost as instantly as it appeared, leaving your arms empty as if they had never held anything at all. The rocking chair continued to move for a moment longer before slowing to a stop.
“Because she isn’t real,” you said calmly. You leaned back slightly in the chair, eyes never leaving her face. “This is a dream. Your dream of a life that you truly don't deserve. My husband and a baby together? Give me a fucking break. Slimy little homewrecker…"
You rose from the rocking chair slowly, the wood giving a soft creak beneath your weight. The door slamming shut behind her as you stood.
MC reacted on fear and instinct. Spinning on her heel, she lunged for the doorway, fingers closing around the handle as she yanked hard, openly panicking. The door didn’t budge. She tried again, putting her weight into it this time, her shoulder slamming against the wood as she struggled to pull it, push it open. But it wasn't budging.
Behind her, your footsteps were unhurried. There was no rush in you, no need to close the distance quickly. You knew she had nowhere to go. The door remained firmly shut, the walls unmoving, the nursery sealed as though it had always been meant to hold only the two of you.
“No. No, no,” she whispered, her voice breaking as she fumbled with the handle again. “Please open—”
MC turned slowly, her back pressed to the door, chest rising and falling too fast as she watched you approach. Her eyes darted around the room, searching for escape, for an interruption, for anything that might wake her from the dream she now understood she couldn’t control.
You stopped a few steps away from her, close enough now that she could see every detail of your face. “Are you enjoying yourself, MC?” you asked quietly.
MC swallowed hard, her back pressed flat against the door, nowhere left to retreat.
“Living my life,” you said. “Wearing my things. Sleeping beside my husband in my bed. Playing house with the future I was supposed to have.” Your eyes never leaving her face, committing every ounce of her fear into your memory. “The life of a good and honest woman you were more than happy to have erased.”
MC stuttered. “I didn’t—”
“You did,” you interrupted, your voice calm but unyielding. “You knew exactly what you were doing.” You took another step closer, forcing her to tilt her head back to keep you in view. “Don’t insult me by pretending you felt remorse when you were scratching your nails down my husband's back, the same night my body was being buried in an unmarked grave in the middle of a dead field.”
Her composure shattered. “Please,” she sobbed, words tumbling over each other. “Please I’m sorry. It was a mistake. I know that now. I shouldn’t have—”
“No,” you said simply. “You shouldn’t have. You could've had anyone you wanted. You’re beautiful. Intelligent. Successful. People trust you without even realizing why.”
Your eyes narrowed as you glared at her. “I trusted you. I let myself believe you weren’t a threat. That we could have been friends.”
MC slid down the door until her knees nearly gave out entirely, tears streaking her face. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I’m so sorry.”
“You’re only sorry because I’m here,” you said. “Because I can follow you anywhere and you can’t escape. You’re sorry because I’m forcing you to face the consequences of your deplorable actions.”
“I’ll leave him,” she said desperately. “I’ll move away! Back to Linkon, anywhere! I won’t see Sylus again! I swear!”
“And will that magically bring me back to life?”
MC said nothing. She couldn’t. The answer was already there.
“Exactly,” you said.
You squatted down to her level, slowly bringing your hands up and cradling her face in your hands. MC shrank back instinctively, her back and shoulders digging into the door, unable to catch her breath as you touched her. Her eyes flicked wildly across your face, searching for mercy or any kind of emotion she could recognize and reason with. She found none of it.
“You don’t get a clean ending,” you continued. “You don’t get absolution. You don’t get to run somewhere far away and pretend I just some crazy chapter of your life.” Your gaze hardened, in a way that made her stomach drop. “I’m going to live with you and that parasite growing in your belly."
She didn’t react right away, as if she’d misheard. “What?”
"Yeah, your pregnant. A few weeks along, but it's there."
MC shook her head in denial, weak and desperate. “No…no, that’s not—please—”
“You’ll feel it soon,” you went on, as if explaining something mundane. “And every time you look at that child, you'll think about how your selfishness ruined it's life before it even began.”
Her breath hitched, panic finally cresting into something close to hysteria. “Please,” she whispered. “Please—”
“I’ll be there in your dreams and when you wake up,” you said. “In the quiet moments, when you think you’re safe. In mirrors, when you’re not expecting it. In the corner of your eye, when your guard is down. Every time you start to believe you’ve moved on, I’ll remind you of who you stepped over to get here.”
Tears streamed down her face unchecked now. Her body trembled, exhausted, defeated. “I can’t live like that,” she whispered.
You frowned, repulsed by her words. “I didn’t get to live at all.”
You straightened slowly, taking a single step back, already fading away.
“One day,” you said softly, “you’ll stop asking for forgiveness and start begging for silence and peace.
You met her eyes one last time.
“And I won’t give you either.”
You reached for the switch of the lamp and turned it off, ending the dream in darkness.
MC woke with a sharp gasp, her body jerking upright in the hotel bed, heart pounding hard enough to make her chest ache. The sheets were twisted around her legs, damp with sweat, her hair stuck to the back of her neck. For a moment, she lay there disoriented, breath uneven, the room unfamiliar in the dark. She could still feel you there, touching her, breathing the same air as her.
She pressed her palm against her stomach. There was nothing to feel, nothing to confirm what she’d heard, but she felt nauseous anyway. Tears came down like rain during a storm. She tried to keep it silent at first, but she couldn't hold back anymore, her shoulders curling inward as she folded over herself. Bringing her knees to her chest and holding them close.
Thirteen years later, MC’s life had settled into something that passed for peace.
Her marriage with Caleb was full of joy and love that she didn’t think she could feel again. The house she shared with him sat on a calm street lined with trees that bloomed every spring without fail. Where the neighbors knew each other and helped each other.
Afternoon light spilled across the living room floor as their baby boy wobbled between them, his small arms outstretched, determination etched into his tiny face. MC hovered close behind him, ready to catch him, while Caleb crouched a few steps away, hands open and ready to embrace him. Their six year old daughter concentrated on her coloring book nearby, looking up every now and then to encourage her brother.
“That’s it,” Caleb encouraged, smiling. “You’re doing great. Come on.”
The boy took two more steps before collapsing into MC’s arms, squealing with delight. She lifted him, pressing her face into his hair, breathing him in.
For moments like this, the past stayed quiet. For moments like this, she almost believed she had outrun it. Outrun you.
You still appeared sometimes.
In reflections in the mirror and windows. In dreams that left MC waking with her mind and body numb. The sudden drops in temperature or the unmistakable sense of being watched when she was alone. When certain things moved on their own with no one near them. But never long enough to destroy what she’d built. Never enough to keep her from moving forward.
Caleb knew nothing about Sylus. Nothing about the twins MC gave birth to and put up for adoption moments after they were born. Nothing about the woman who had promised never to leave. MC had learned that survival sometimes depended on silence. If she wanted to live her life with Caleb and their kids, she needed to swallow her past and keep it down.
It was mid-afternoon when the doorbell rang.
MC answered it with her son balanced on her hip, expecting a neighbor or a delivery. Instead, she found herself staring at a girl who looked no older than thirteen, standing rigid on the porch, thin and pale, white hair pulled back too tightly in a ponytail, red eyes filled with something volatile and barely contained.
“Are you MC?” the girl asked with no hesitation or uncertainty.
“Yes,” MC said slowly. “Can I help you?”
The girl’s expression changed instantly right before she lunged. The girls hands grabbing at MC’s hair right at the root, nails digging in hard enough to draw blood as she tried to pull her forward to the ground. MC cried out in pain, twisting away and shielding her son instinctively as Caleb rushed forward, pulling the girl off her.
“Hey!”
Caleb used his evol to create some distance between MC and the girl. The girl fought against the gravity holding her back her face twisted with unfiltered rage.
“Let me go!” she screamed. “Let me go! She has to pay for what she did! This is your fault! You ruined everything!”
MC retreated several steps, heart racing, her son pressed tightly to her chest as he cried from the sudden violent altercation, as her daughter ran to her room. MC murmured to him softly, though her body was shaking. Caleb didn’t look back. His entire focus was on the girl thrashing against his evol.
“Explain yourself.” Caleb demanded.
The fight drained out of the girl all at once. Her shoulders sagged, she fought to even out her breath. “My name is Rin,” she said hoarsely. “I’m thirteen. And she ruined my life. Because of her I've been haunted my entire life!”
"I don't know you," MC insisted.
Rin let out a humorous laugh. “You don’t remember me because you didn’t keep me.”
Caleb stiffened. “What does that mean?”
Rin's gaze didn't leave MC. “She comes to me at night, in my dreams, ever since I was five. The Bride in Red. That’s what I named her when I was little. I didn’t know who she was then. Just that she was always crying, always angry, her white wedding dress covered in blood. Always out to get me!”
MC couldn’t breathe.
“I only found out recently,” Rin continued, her voice trembling now. “She showed me. The night she died. The warehouse. The guns. You and my dad walking away.” Her eyes burned into MC’s. “She made me relive it. Over and over and over again!”
Caleb’s looked at MC in shock. “MC,” he said quietly, “what is she talking about?”
“That’s not possible,” MC whispered, though even as she said it, she knew it was a lie.
“Your perfect little wife gave birth to twin girls,” she said angrily. “She didn’t even bother giving us names, she just gave us away like we didn’t matter. We were adopted by different families. I didn’t even know I had a sister until last year when I went looking for MC.”
MC couldn’t speak. She gripped her son hard enough to try and use his presence to calm herself down without hurting him. Her mouth opened, then closed again, her past had found her and was pressing against her from all sides.
“She told me everything,” Rin said. “The Bride in Red told me who you were. Who my birth father is. Who she was. And why she’ll never stop.”
MC’s knees buckled from underneath her. Caleb rushed to catch her and hold her steady, letting Rin hit the ground as his evol released her.
“She isn’t just haunting you and Sylus,” Rin's furious gaze held strong as tears of frustration ran down her face. “She’s tied to your bloodline. To anyone who is born into this family because of what you did.” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “She told me she doesn't care. That she'll haunt our bloodline until the end of time! That her mission ends when our bloodline does.”
Caleb's body went rigid. His eyes drifted toward the hallway towards his daughter's bedroom. Last night came back to him in vivid detail, their daughter waking up crying, clinging to him, whispering about a woman standing in her room.
“She was wearing a red and white dress,” she’d said. "She didn't have a face daddy! She was really scary!"
At the time, he’d told himself it was just a nightmare.
Now, he looked back at Rin. “My daughter’s five,” he said quietly. “She had her first nightmare last night. About a woman in a red and white dress with no face”
Rin’s breath caught. “That’s how it starts. And it wasn't a nightmare. She was there. In the room. The longer she's around the more her face appears. Your son will have the same experience when he's older."
Caleb’s teeth clenched. “Then this isn’t just about the past,” he said. “It’s about our children.”
He turned to MC. “You need to tell me everything. Now.”
MC could only cry as her world fell apart again. Caleb's look of shock and betrayal. Her daughter hiding in fear. Her son whimpering against her chest. And her first daughter Rin, a young girl haunted by MC's past mistakes, knowing she will not be the only one.
You had kept your promise.
Not to forgive, or forget, but to endure.
Twenty-five years passed, and Sylus never became whole again.
Time moved forward around him the way it did for everyone else, indifferent and relentless, but something in him remained fixed in the moment everything was lost. He aged. His hair thinned, aging lines carved themselves into his face, not from laughter but from the constant, unrelieved weight of remembering. People who met him later in life described him as distant, irritable, hollow in a way.
MC had left long ago. He came back to the hotel that night after his car accident and found her gone. She didn't even come back to their home to get her items, she just left and never came back. That loss had been bad at first, but it wasn’t what broke him. It was what followed.
You still never left.
He missed MC. But he missed you so much more.
He missed the woman who had loved him without any terms and conditions. The wife who had believed in him and supported him. The wife who built a future filled with life and love. The future he had taken and crushed so thoroughly that even death hadn’t been enough to erase it. Regret settled into him so deeply it became part of his DNA. He apologized aloud sometimes with tears in the eyes and his voice rough, knowing there was no one to hear him but you.
“I know,” he would whisper. “I know I ruined it. I ruined everything."
He tried everything people suggested. Therapy. Religion. Acts of charity meant to balance invisible scales. He dug you from your unmarked grave and built you a beautiful mausoleum, always keeping it clean and stocked with your favorite flowers. Kneeling at your casket begging for your mercy and forgiveness.
He spoke your name like a confession, like a plea, like a prayer. He meant every apology. Every ounce of remorse was real.
He knew you watched him. He could feel your gaze when his back was turned. He would feel your cold spots and lingered there in your presence, then feel it get warm as you drifted away. Sometimes he would hear your footsteps, or see you move something in the house.
But it was his dreams that you really dominated.
When you appeared, it was not as you were when you died, but as you had been before everything soured. You sat beside him on the couch, fingers laced through his hair. The teasing touches when you passed by him and giggling when he tried to return the favor. The excited look on your face when you cooked something new for him. You laughed in those dreams. You smiled in those dreams. You kissed him in those dreams. Sometimes you spoke his name the way you used to, with pure adoration.
And every time, without fail, he woke up without you. Staring at the ceiling as he had to once again face reality.
There would be no forgiveness. No release. No moment where the weight lifted and the past softened.
When the knock on his door came, he assumed it was a mistake. No one ever came to him. Luke and Kieran only came when called.
He opened the door to find a woman standing on the threshold, eerily calm and visibly tired in a way that immediately unsettled him. She was young, mid-twenties at most, short white haired with vibrant red eyes.
“Are you Sylus? And did you have an intimate relationship with a woman named MC” she asked.
He nodded slowly. “Yes, and yes.”
“My name is Mara,” she said. “You’re my father.”
The words struck him all at once, but he didn't react right away.
MC had never returned. She had changed all of her contact info and left Linkon. He had been left with absence and guilt, nothing more. He stepped aside, letting Mara into the house, and they sat across from one another at the small kitchen table.
"MC didn't tell me she was pregnant," Sylus said.
"She had twins," Mara elaborated. "Her name is Rin, we were adopted by different families as babies. I know where she is, I just haven't spoken to her yet."
"Did you ever find MC?"
"Yes. Though when I tried to speak to her she turned me away. Apparently Rin found her when she was only thirteen. MC and her new husband's marriage was never the same after that. Caleb, her husband, said it was a 'stay together for the kids' arrangement…Did you want her contact information?"
"No," Sylus said immediately. "It's best if she stays away from me."
Mara spoke after a moment of awkward silence. “I didn’t come for reconciliation, or money, or explanations about your life. I came because of her.”
Sylus looked at her. "About MC?"
“No,” Mara corrected. “The Bride in Red. That’s what I called her when I was a child. She first appeared when I was five. A woman with a featureless face, wearing a wedding dress covered in blood. Standing in my doorway, or sitting at the end of my bed. Watching me.” Her voice remained steady, but there was a slight strain in it now. “She never hurt me. She just stayed. And when I got older, I saw her face, and she showed me things. A warehouse. Guns. A woman bleeding on the floor. You walking away, with my mom, the other woman.”
Sylus closed his eyes, the familiar ache in his heart blooming into something ugly.
“I know who she is now,” Mara said quietly. “I know who you are, and what you and my mother did to her.” She met his gaze again, unwavering. “I’m not here to punish you. She’s already done that.”
Sylus swallowed, his throat suddenly very dry. He stared at her for a long moment before speaking, his voice rough and stripped of pretense. “So why are you here?”
“I have a son. My husband and I adopted him when he was two.” Mara went on. “He’s five years old now. Last month, he told me there was a woman in his room. The Bride in Red.”
Sylus’s hands began to shake uncontrollably.
“And I’m pregnant now,” Mara said. “Another boy she will undoubtably haunt as well.” She rested a hand over her stomach, protective and afraid. “I need to know how to make her stop. I need to know how to keep my children safe.”
Sylus stared down at the table, at the grain of the wood, at anything but her face. When he finally spoke, his voice was barely more than breath.
“There isn’t a way.”
Mara went still. "What?"
“I’ve spent twenty-five years trying,” he said, the words breaking free at last. “Apologies. Confessions. Regret. I begged and cried and pleaded. I built her a mausoleum and see here every morning at sunrise. I punished myself in every way I knew how. None of it mattered.” He looked up at his daughter, at the life he had never known and the future already tainted by his choices.
“I killed her,” Sylus said, the truth as devastating as it had ever been. “I didn't leave and give her a chance to be happy. To start over and live. I lied, and cheated, and I thought that killing her would be the end of it.” His voice broke completely. “I didn’t just destroy her life. I destroyed mine. And now—” He gestured helplessly. “Now it’s yours. And your children’s.”
“So there’s nothing I can do,” she muttered. She used the back of her hand to wipe away her tears.
Sylus shook his head slowly. “There’s nothing anyone can do. I'm so sorry.”
Some sins did not end with the sinner. Because some ghosts did not want justice or mercy or closure. They wanted remembrance. They wanted acknowledgment that what was taken had mattered.
Sylus would live out the rest of his days knowing with perfect clarity, that he had been loved fully once, and that it was you he had condemned to die, but you had sentenced him to remember.
His family had not been cursed. It had been claimed.
You had promised to stay. And you always kept your promises.
YAY! First Love and Deepspace story. I was hesitant to write for the game because I was having a hard time coming up anything good. But the moment I saw that post with that picture this idea just came to me! Hopefully y'all liked it and support me in the future.
And please please please like, comment, and/or reblog so I know you guys want to see me write and post more. And don't hesitate to drop ideas!
Synopsis: You were given a second chance at living, and maybe, just maybe, he was given one too.
Pair: Dawnbreaker!Zayne x NonMc!Reader
Warnings: Angst, infidelity (it's not them, don't worry), mention of death
Word count: 4.5K
Series Masterlist
The loud screeching roar blasted through the phone speakers, and Dawn's heart ceased to beat for a second.
No. This can't be happening again. Not again.
"What was that?" He waited for your answer, but the only thing he heard was your breathing and the sound like the air was cracking. A sound so familiar he could almost see the creature himself.
"Y/n! Run! Now, you have to run!" He shouted into the phone. His body shot out of bed in a second. He was already scrambling to the door with the phone still pressed to his ears.
He didn't know where to go. Didn't know exactly where you were, just that you were at a bar near the hospital. The only thing he knew for sure was that you were in danger and he needed to be there now.
He kept screaming for you and calling your name, but even the sound of your breathing was gone now. Left was the sound of screaming and chaos.
Dawn was running, heading in the direction of the hospital. He had always been calm and collected in situations like this. It was his life, a daily occurrence for the life he used to lead. A sound he'd encountered every night for the longest time of his life, but it was different now. Now, the person he needed most, the light that shone so bright his dreary life transformed into something he looked forward to every morning, was in the heart of it all.
He forced his body to keep going like a soldier marching to war, his legs were chasing each other, his eyes scanning his surroundings. He needed to be faster; he was looking around to hail a cab when he heard a female voice from the speaker.
His heart skipped a beat when he heard the high-pitched voice, hoping wholeheartedly that it was you, but when he listened closer, the hope faded away to unease and dread.
"What are you doing? Come on!" He heard the sound of shuffling and the pleading sound of McKayla. The sound of fabric ruffling, feet pounding against the pavement filled his mind.
He was listening to the words McKayla was saying to you, and by the time he was able to comprehend what was happening, his hands trembled.
Why was McKayla begging you to run? Why weren't you responding? What were you doing?
When the crashing sound of the phone hitting the pavement and the wailing of McKayla calling your name blared through the speaker, he knew immediately what you were doing.
You were running straight into danger.
He tried calling for you, but it was useless. His fear and anxiety were crowding his thoughts, drowning him and forcing him back to the dark and lifeless place he had been in.
He didn't remember how, but the next thing he knew, he was sitting in the back of a taxi heading straight to the scene. On his way to you.
The familiar atmosphere of antiseptic and bright LED lights had never felt so daunting to Zayne. He never noticed how the chair in front of the operating room tilted a bit forward and how it squeaked with the smallest movements.
McKayla sat beside him with her head in her hands. Her body leaned forward with her elbows resting on her knees. She was shaking with silent tears falling down her face; her strong hunter facade was nowhere to be seen now.
Zayne rubbed comforting patterns on her back to calm her down, but it didn't seem to register much with her. It was as if she was always thinking about something; the images of the scene stuck behind her eyelids.
He couldn't exactly blame her. When he saw you broken and shattered on the floor, his breathing had also hitched. It broke his professional composure for a second before it slipped back into place. He held McKayla together when the medical personnel took over and brought you into the ambulance. You were no longer responding then, and McKayla was fighting to be beside you the whole way.
Now, they were both sitting in blaring silence in front of the operating room where you were fighting for your life on the other side of the door. Zayne had called Dawn just moments after arriving at the hospital. They were rolling you into the ER with a sense of urgency, and after you came, the teenage girl you had saved. She was also injured, but it was nothing compared to the injuries you had sustained.
Zayne thought back to the moment he called Dawn as he stared ahead at the blinding white walls. McKayla was right beside him with a look of fear and guilt in her eyes as she waited with anticipation for Dawn's reply.
"Dawn, I'm sure you hea-"
"Where is she?" His voice was cold and firm. It was no longer the soft and laidback person that both Zayne and McKayla had come to know. Back was the tense and calculating man that Zayne had seen in his dreams.
"At the hospital. She's in the operating room." He hung up as soon as Zayne finished talking. He could see how McKayla gulped and blinked a few times, trying to keep her composure.
Zayne placed a hand on the small of her back and led her to a bathroom, helping her wash the dried blood on her hands.
"She'll be okay, McKayla." She has to be.
He was so lost in his thoughts that it took McKayla shaking his shoulder softly to bring him back.
"Are you okay, Zayne?" She asked quietly. The usual light in her eyes was still missing; only fear and worry shone from them now. He placed his hand over hers and gave a small nod.
"I'm okay. Are you?" At his question, McKayla avoided his gaze once again. There was something on her mind, something she wasn't telling him.
"McKayla. What is it?" He asked steadily but softly, squeezing her clenched hands gently to comfort her.
"Tonight I asked her…" She started shakily, eyes getting glassy once again as he took a deep breath before continuing.
"I asked her why she wanted to be a nurse. She said…she said that she was sick when she was a child. She said it wrecked her family and—" her voice broke as she tried to continue, and her hands shook in Zayne's hold.
He wrapped his arms around her shoulders and pulled her tight against him, "It's not your fault." He whispered and pressed a soft kiss onto her temple.
McKayla pulled back slightly and looked up at him with glassy eyes. "Zayne…she told me she wanted to be out of the bed for once and look…now she's back in it because of—"
"No." He cradled her face in his hands, fingers gently stroking her cheeks.
"What will I say to her family? To Dawn? I just—" He didn't let her finish and just pulled her into his embrace again, letting her sob into the crook of his neck.
Something McKayla said about your family was itching his brain somehow, but he didn't have the mental space to try to identify it. The sound of heavy breathing, along with frantic footsteps, reached his ears before he even saw him.
Dawn rushed in like a raging snowstorm, and the room temperature dropped slightly once he came into view. His eyes were bloodshot, hair a mess as he had run his fingers through it frantically.
Zayne got up with a deep breath and tried to put on the calm facade he always wore while talking with patients, but this time it was different. It was almost like he knew how it felt to be in that position. Seeing the one you love fading before your eyes, to hear their last dying breath pass their lips. A pain worse than death.
"Dawn…." He gently coaxed him towards a seat, but the hollowed man shook his head, eyes staring at the blood stains on McKayla's clothes. She was standing beside Zayne now, glancing at Dawn's expression, scared of what he would say.
"How is she?" Dawn spoke quietly, almost a whisper. He was afraid, afraid of the answer, of the truth that seemed inevitable to him.
It was stupid of him. Stupid for loving you. For thinking he'd actually ever get a happy life with the one he loved. He didn't deserve it, he wasn't meant for it, yet he stayed when you offered him a room filled with warmth and laughter. Stayed when you let him crawl into the space beside you and leaned into your touch when you comforted him, telling him he deserved all of this soft and gentle care. He should have known better. It was written in the stars anyway; all that he loves would get taken away by the same creature he hunted night and day.
"She…she sustained several fractures and has some internal organ damage. She's undergoing surgery. This could…take a few hours." Zayne interrupted his train of thought.
"Will she be okay?" His voice was cold and distant. The man before them now was not the man they had come to know. Back was the hollow soul that wandered through the night, vanquishing the creatures that repeatedly took away the light in his eyes.
Zayne couldn't possibly know the storm raging inside his head, but he could feel it, the aching pain in his chest. A phantom pain that had festered for so long, he didn't know when it started.
"Dawn, y/n is stron—" McKayla tried to coax him softly, but still the man shook his head with an empty look.
"Will she be okay?" His dimmed hazel eyes raised to meet its twin, though similar, it was not identical. Zayne saw all the signs of emotional distress in the soldier standing before him. The red-rimmed eyes, the slightly shaking hands and the faraway stare. He knew it well. Knew the sugar-coated words would not soothe his bleeding heart. Dawn needed the truth even if it'd destroy him; he was desperate for it.
"…We don't know yet." He said quietly, and though it was subtle, he saw how it made his breath hitch.
It was all familiar. The sound. The smell. The blinding light.
Your body knew where you were even before your brain realised it. The constant beeping beside you sent chills down your spine, with the implications that came with it. You knew it all too well and had hoped that you would never be here again.
A soft rustling sound slowly approached you. Taking a deep breath, you opened your eyes. Slowly, as if you were working up the courage to encounter the familiar white ceiling with the spot of water stain and a hairline crack that was almost invincible. It would be to anyone, but not to a person who spent years studying it in boredom. You had to face the reality you were in, you thought to yourself with clenched fist.
Her soft blonde hair and her kind blue eyes, the same ones that used to give you comfort, now only give you this wretched feeling. Cold sweat shot through your body, heart picking up even though the machine beside you didn't react to it in the slightest bit.
"Hey, how are you feeling today? A bit scared, are we?" The nurse gave you a soft smile and placed her warm hand on your shoulder. You remembered this. Her words, the look in her eyes and what was about to happen next. It was the last day before your life changed in the way you never thought possible. Before you met the man who taught you that you could go through anything in life when you had someone who could see you…truly see you, and stay beside you.
How are you here? This isn't your world. Not anymore. What about the life you had built back there? Was it all a dream?
The thought of it all being just something your mind created broke you. It forced the question of whether all of that was how your brain chose to deal with your misery-filled life? The tears started welling up, and your hands started shaking. Emily saw it all, the signs of you going into distress, and she knew how to soothe you. Just like she always did, she sat beside you and pulled you into her embrace. It would have calmed you, but the warmth of her touch and the weight of her arms were now a constant reminder that you were here. Here, in a world where your body was broken beyond repair. Where your tired and hopeless parents were sitting in front of your hospital room. Either because they were tired of sitting in here and breathing the stale air and seeing their half-dead daughter, or because they couldn't say what they truly thought in there, you couldn't know for sure, but you had long suspected.
Emily was soothing you from the fear of having a life-threatening operation, thinking that the reactions you were showing were the result of it, but her assumptions were completely wrong. The tears and tremors you had might have been because of it then, but now, it was much more than that. You tried to speak, tried to voice your confusion, but nothing came out. It was almost like you didn't have full control of your body. Stuck in a body that felt like it was no longer yours.
How could this be?
You lie there, paralysed in the body that you didn't have control over. You'd cry, but you couldn't even push out the tears. You were stuck in time, forced to replay the events of the darkest moment of your life.
The hours went by, and soon Emily left. It was just waiting time now. Waiting for the procedure, waiting for you to get better. Waiting for something that wouldn't come. Your parents were right outside your room, just waiting and hoping. They didn't know it, but you knew better. All this waiting and hoping, it was pointless. The results wouldn't be as they had hoped.
Had you come back here just to die?
You lie on your side with your eyes closed, your body asleep just as you remembered. You were too weak then, too weak to stay awake even though you were brimming with hope to get better. Now, with your new mind in your old body, you knew better than to fall asleep. The room was silent, curtains drawn. It was supposed to be peaceful, if not for the mutterings outside the room.
This was new. You hadn't heard anything then, but now that your mind was alert, you could make out the things that were being said. You could tell from the timber and pitch that it was your parents talking outside your room.
"I hope this procedure works out…" Your father said with a somber tone, maybe you weren't the only one that knew better after all. It was quiet for a few seconds before you heard the reply from your mother.
"…that so? Is it because you love your daughter or because you'll finally get to leave us with no guilt?" You've never heard her speak with your father like that before. Such a bitter tone, it made you wonder what was really going on behind the facade of the hopeful parents who always wished for the better health of their daughter.
"How—How could you say that? Of course, I'd want her to be better. She is my daughter." Your father, who was always strong and unnerved, who was like an anchor in the storm, was stuttering. You wished you could get closer to the source of the sound, to peek between the door and actually see what was going on, but all you could do was stay.
"Don't think that I'm stupid. I know who you were meeting wi—"
"It was a mistake. I didn't want to…I ended it. I'm here now for our daughter and for yo—"
"Until when? Until things get too hard and you need to find an escape again?"
"I have always done the best that I can for this family."
"…and what about our marriage?"
Your weakened heart dropped as if it had already ceased to beat.
You knew that things were difficult in your family sometimes, from all the stress and the pressure that came with having a frail daughter, but you never thought it would go that far. Of course, you have heard them argue late at night before, when you were hazy from the concoction of medicines in your body, but you'd thought it went that far. Your parents weren't picture perfect, and neither was their relationship in the last few years, but to think that he was unfaithful…and because he could no longer handle the pressure of having you as his daughter…
Silently, streams of tears fell onto the pillow. The last thing you ever did was…cry.
You couldn't help but wish for the familiar warmth that would've held you tight in a moment like this.
You couldn't help but miss him.
Hours passed, and the silence was messing with all their heads. Dawn stood like a reaper, as unswerving and still as a statue, while Zayne and McKayla sat waiting with bated breath.
Dawn's jaw was tightly clenched, his fists tightly wound. A soldier ready for battle, yet there was nothing he could do. He couldn't help you. Couldn't make your bleeding body heal, couldn't make the pain you were going through any less.
He wished it were him instead who was lying on that table, surrounded by white coats and sterile blades. Yet he was here, scared and useless. He'd begged, he'd have prayed, but no god would help him. Having been laughed at by the god of fate, it felt like no higher being had ever answered his prayers.
Zayne and McKayla had tried to coax him to rest, but he refused to even take a seat. He needed to be vigilant, to keep watch for you. He let you stray far once, and now you were in there, bleeding on the operating table. He had decided then that if you woke up, if only you came back to him, he would never let anything happen to you ever again. Not even the cruellest god could pry you away from his cold hands.
It felt like forever had passed when the door to the emergency room opened again. Zayne and McKayla sprang up from their seats like they were ready for action, and Dawn, as rigid as he already was, stood a bit straighter. None of you said a thing, but it was like you all knew that you had to brace for impact. The impact of losing you.
"How is she?" Zayne, the most sane person in the moment, asked with a steady voice. McKayla grasped his hand tightly, praying that the words that would come out of the doctor's mouth would not be the ones that she thought.
"She's…severely hurt, but she's safe now."
It was as if a knife came down and cut the string that was holding the tension of the room altogether. McKayla's knees gave out, breaking down into tears once again as Zayne wrapped his arms around her, holding her tightly against him.
Dawn, who was as frozen as a statue, let out a soft exhale. A single breath that melted his body whole. His body slowly became unwound, stumbling back, he leaned onto the wall behind him. He had been trying to hold it together, to stay in one piece for you, but now it has all come undone.
The doctors must have said something else to Zayne, giving him the details of the extent of injuries that you had sustained, but Dawn didn't hear any of it. He was only focusing on the fact that you were here. You were alive…he hadn't lost you. By the time the doctor retreated behind the doors, Dawn was a heap of limbs on the floor. Sitting on the floor with his knees bent and his head between his knees, his chest heaving before the tears that had been locked in him all along came spilling out. The unbreakable soldier had been beaten to smithereens at your return.
McKayla and Zayne knelt beside him with their hands on his trembling shoulder, holding the pieces of the formidable grim reaper together.
Dawn's fragile heart broke once again when he caught sight of your condition. To see you unconscious on the bed with gauze and bandages wrapped all over your body, it caused him more pain than he's ever known. It was almost like a physical reaction. His hand softly rest over yours, careful not to put any pressure in fear of causing the slightest pain.
Ever since you came out of the operating room, Dawn has been stuck to your side and refused to budge for anything. He'd sleep on the chair beside the bed with his hand on yours when nighttime comes. He had left you to face the world alone once; he would never do that again. He was a soldier on duty, standing guard for what he valued most.
"Dawn, maybe you should rest for a bit. I'll—" McKayla spoke softly, not unlike the coax to a child.
"No. I'm okay. Thank you." He answered bluntly, his focus was entirely on you and the silent prayers for you to wake up.
Even though he didn't believe in any gods, he hoped and prayed that your frail hand would move against his once again. He thought back to the way it had always been when he reached for the familiar touch of your hand, the way you'd curl your fingers around his and tighten the hold. It never mattered if you were awake or asleep; whenever he needed the comfort of your warm hands, you'd always reciprocate. He thought of the countless nights he'd slowly slip your hand in his or when he'd unconsciously reach for yours when he felt unease from the overwhelming crowd, reminding him of how, no matter the occasion or reason, you'd always accept his hand with no delay and give him a gentle squeeze. It was your own language, a way of silently telling him that you were here. That you were right there beside him. Now, your hand lay limp in his, and he didn't know where you were.
After a while, Zayne and McKayla retreated from the room, sensing that he needed some alone time with you, even though you weren't able to respond to his touches. Once the room was left with only the sound of your heart machine beeping and the soft rustle of your weak breaths, Dawn crumbled against your body.
Half his body was hovering over yours as he whispered soft pleas to you. With his head pressed against your shoulder, he kept calling your name, hoping that you'd find your way back to him.
"Come back to me, my angel."
The room was dark and silent; the lights were off, and the only sources of light were the machines' dimmed screens and the city lights seeping through the window. Zayne had demanded that Dawn take some rest. He had tried to suggest that Dawn go home to freshen up, but when he saw the determined look in Dawn's eyes, he knew nobody could get him away from his post next to you.
It took a while until Dawn was finally able to fall asleep. He didn't want to lower his guard at all in case you needed him for something, but the exhaustion from staying awake for almost two days straight was getting to him. He couldn't resist it when his eyelids started to get too heavy to stay open, and his mind too dense to even process a thought.
He rested his head beside your hand. Dawn told himself it was because this way he'd know if you were waking up, when in his heart he knew it was because he could no longer fall asleep without your warmth near his skin. You were colder now, he thought. The hands that used to comfort and hold him tight when the night reminded him of too much pain were not as warm as they used to be. Nuzzling against your hands, he felt his consciousness slowly slip away.
Then all of a sudden, it was warm again. The lights shone through the window as you leaned against his shoulder, reading your book on a Sunday morning. You were smiling and kicking your feet slightly whenever the words caused some strong emotions in you. He always loved it when you did that; it'd make him chuckle lightly, maybe even tease you softly so you'd divert your attention to him for just a moment.
"Enjoying your book, sunshine?" His voice was low and soft, like a gentle nudge to the avid reader beside him. He wanted her attention, yes, but never to take her out of her happy place. It pleased him to see you so relaxed and carefree, especially knowing what you went through after losing your patient, Anya. He saw and helped you through it, and he never wants to see you like that again.
"Mmhm, I am. Also, when are you going to stop calling me that?" You beamed up at him. That sparkle in your eyes, it was his favourite thing. He'd go through war to protect it.
"Never. What's it about? You've been so absorbed in that one all week." He adjusted his arm so he could have your head leaning against his chest, almost like he was cradling you in his arms, if he didn't rest his hand on the back of the couch.
"Oh, I'm not telling you." You put the book up against your chest, giggling softly. Oh, he could have a heart attack so severe that Zayne wouldn't be able to do anything.
"No? Is it because the scenes are ero—"
"No!" Your hand shot up to cover his mouth, eyes widened, and lips spread wide to a grin.
"They are…juicy."
He narrowed his eyes playfully at her, slowly reaching for the book himself, only for you to attempt to escape him.
It was a battle of pillows and tickles until he felt a touch on his cheek. A touch so subtle, yet so real.
His eyes fluttered open, still feeling the fleeting touch on his cheek. Still disoriented from the stark contrast of the dream that reminded him of the fond memory and the dark, silent room he was in, he felt it again.
It was you.
Dawn sprang up from his seat, leaning over you immediately. His hand carefully cradle your hand in his, feeling that soft flicker of your fingers once again.
"Hey, sunshine." He softly called, brushing a strand of your hair away from your face. His fingers feathered over your bruised skin, gently rousing you back into consciousness.
Slowly, you opened your eyes, and it felt like Dawn could finally breathe again. His brightest light, his sunshine breaking through the horizon of his gloaming night. You came back to him, and this time, he'd never let you go.
"Dawn..."
I know guys...I know. What I don't know is if any of you would come back hehe. I'm so incredibly sorry. I literally wanna fall on my knees and apologise. I know I've made tons of apologies and excuses, but...here I go again. So, I've kinda graduated...? I'm currently doing my internship, I've been very busy, and the period before my internship was filled with anxiety, so I couldn't really write anything. Now, I'm writing during my lunch breaks or when I get some time off from my work. Anyways, I hope you guys like this one. As always, I love you all, and I truly appreciate you for reading my little writing here. <3
Help me find this fic please! My phone died before I can finish it.
So at first it was Caleb lost his memories and forgot about non-mc a.k.a his wife. He only remember that he was mc boyfriend and keep denying a fact that him and non-mc was husband and wife.
So when mc looking after him at hospital, he’s really happy and keep mumbling like there’s no way he chose someone other than mc, and non-mc was there. Oh, mc here was a bad person, she’s trying to get Caleb back and her position here was his ex.
And I don’t know for the rest or author name, like what I said my phone died before I could finished it! Please yall help me find it
I know there's a group of LADS fans that don't like MC being the bad guy but she is in this story. Sorry but she has to be. She's an asshole, Sylus is an asshole, you're an asshole. That is the intended theme for this story. Don't like don't read, and definitely don't hate!
Trigger / Content Warnings
Murder
Gun violence
Infidelity / cheating
Emotional abuse
Psychological abuse
Manipulation
Graphic descriptions of death (non-gory but explicit)
Haunting / supernatural horror
Nightmares / dream horror
Pregnancy themes
Threats toward children
Generational trauma
Parental abandonment
Adoption-related trauma
Grief
Intense emotional distress
No redemption / no happy ending
This story is based on this post/art. All of the credits are in the photo.
Word Count: 8,419
💮Masterlist💮
You loved him with everything you had. Sylus was your world. Your marriage, a sanctuary you had built with your own hands, brick by precious brick.
You remembers the way he pulled you close in the morning, still half-asleep, murmuring your name like a prayer. The way his fingers would trace patterns on your skin in the dark, writing promises only you two could read. Every shared meal, every whispered secret, every time he chose you—it all felt like proof that you'd found your forever.
You were his wife. His partner. His chosen one.
You wore his ring like a queen wore her crown. You wore his love like a knight wore her armor. He never gave you a reason to feel unloved or unwanted.
But then she arrived. And you watched your world end in slow motion.
The way his eyes changed when he looked at her, that spark you thought belonged only to you, now burning for someone else. The distance grew between the two of you, and you stood on the side reaching, begging, trying everything to pull him back. You made his favorite meals. You wore the clothes he loved. You laughed at his jokes, touched his arm, reminded him of your vows.
But it didn't matter. He was already gone, wasn't he? Already choosing her.
You watched him slip away day by day, hour by hour, minute by minute, and there was nothing you could do to stop it. He let your heart slip through his fingers, while he held hers. You were still wearing his ring when he stopped wearing his. Still calling yourself his wife when he'd already made her his future.
The guns came without warning. Luke and Kieran held two barrels pointed two loaded pistols towards you. Cold metal, colder eyes. They followed his orders and unloaded their weapons, the bullets tore through you. Through flesh, through bone, through the heart that had loved him so completely
Sylus, your husband. Sylus, the love of your life. He'd ordered your death like you were nothing. Like your years together meant nothing. The pain was excruciating, but worse was watching him walk away with MC. His hand on her back, protective, tender, the way he used to touch you as your blood pooled beneath you and your vision blurred.
He didn't look back. Not once. You died alone on the ground, discarded, while they disappeared into their new life together. They drove off to live your happily ever after as you were buried in an unmarked grave.
But death wasn't the end. It was a beginning.
You rose from your tattered corpse, no longer bound by flesh. Every drop of love you had poured into him crystallized into something bitter, colder, deadlier.
You would have your revenge.
The world felt bitter, darker, colder, infinite. You could feel the threads connecting you to them, pulsing with possibility.
They thought walking away meant freedom? They thought your death meant peace? MC thought she could just spread her legs for another woman's husband and get away with it? Sylus thought he could lie and break your heart, mind, and soul without consequences?
How beautifully, tragically naive.
They wanted their happily ever after?
You would give them something far more memorable.
Even long after they themselves were dead and buried, they will always wonder…
"Was it really worth it?"
You found them at dawn.
In your bedroom. In your bed. The sheets you'd picked out, the mattress that still held the shape of your body, the room where he'd whispered promises into your hair on countless mornings. Now it reeked of her—her perfume, her sweat, the cloying sweetness of their satisfaction.
They were still tangled together, her head resting on his chest where yours used to lay, his arm draped possessively across her waist. His fingers traced lazy circles on her bare shoulder, the same absent-minded gesture he'd done to you. The morning light caught on his face, softening it, making him look peaceful and content.
Happy. You made him happy. But she made him happier.
Something inside you twisted violently.
They celebrated their love the same night they had you murdered!
The rage hit you like a roaring tsunami. But with the rage came a sense of awareness. The world around you differently now. You didn't just see it, but you could sense it. The door. The walls. The very air itself felt tangible and responsive, like it was waiting for you to reach out grab it.
You raised your hand. It looked translucent in the dim light. But when you focused, when you poured all that fury into your hand, it became solid. Real!
You had to test it. You slammed it against the bedroom door.
BANG!
The sound was a thunderclap that shattered the morning stillness. The door shuddered in its frame, rattling on its hinges. The impact reverberated through your spectral form. you could feel it, the shock of solid wood against your fist, the satisfaction of making the physical world acknowledge your existence after you were forcefully departed from it.
Sylus jolted upright like, his hand raised ready to use his evol. Every muscle in his body went taut as predatory instincts snapping into place. MC gasped, clutching the sheet to her bare chest, her eyes wide and wild as they fixed on the door.
"What the hell!?" Sylus's voice was rough with sleep and adrenaline.
They stared at the door. Waiting and listening for the noise to happen again. You held perfectly still, drinking in their fear like it was fine wine.
No footsteps in the hallway. No voices. No creaking floorboards or rattling windows. Just that single, sound still echoing in their ears and in their bones.
"Did you hear that?" MC whispered, her voice trembling. Her fingers dug into his arm.
"I heard it." Sylus was already moving, throwing off the sheets, not bothering to put on any underwear. His expression was hard and calculating as he scanned the room. Looking for threats. For intruders. For something that made sense. He wouldn't find it.
He crossed to the door with predatory caution before he yanked the it open. The hallway stretched empty before him. Completely silent and undisturbed. Morning light filtered through the windows at the far end, painting everything in soft, innocent haze.
But the air was wrong. Like the atmosphere before a storm. He stepped into the hallway, his eyes sweeping left, then right. Nothing. No one.
You stood right beside him. Close enough to see the tension in his shoulders, the way his pupils dilated as he searched for an enemy that wasn't there. He felt you. He didn't know it yet, but some primal part of him recognized the wrongness, the presence of something that shouldn't exist.
"Sylus?" MC called from the bed, her voice small and frightened.
"It's nothing," he said, but there was uncertainty in his voice now. The first crack in his armor.
You smiled, tasting their confusion, their fear, like honey on your tongue. The rage inside you purred with satisfaction. This power, this ability to reach across the veil and make them feel you. It was intoxicating.
You need more.
By midday, Sylus was gone.
A business meeting and security checks. Something about ensuring the perimeter was secure after the "incident." You'd watched him leave, watched him kiss MC at the door like a devoted lover, promising to return soon.
And now she was all alone.
MC moved through your kitchen with familiarity, like she'd done this a thousand times before. Because she undoubtedly has. She'd been here while you were still alive, cooking in your kitchen, using your things, playing house with your husband while you were out. The thought made your rage spike hot and vicious.
She'd pulled her hair into a messy bun, wearing one of Sylus's shirts like it was hers. The sleeves rolled up as she chopped vegetables on your cutting board with your knife. She was humming something soft and tuneless, completely at ease.
She'd convinced herself things were fine. The morning's disturbance was nothing.
She reached for the cabinet above the stove, where she had reorganized the spices from the far superior system you had in place, and pulled out paprika.
The rage built inside of you again. You focused until you could feel the kitchen around you, every surface, every object, all of it waiting for your touch. You stepped closer to her, wanting her feel you somehow.
MC paused, the knife hovering over the cutting board. She glanced toward the closed window, put down the knife and checked the thermostat. The AC was off and the rooms overall temperature dropped. She shrugged her shoulders and continued her cutting.
You focused again, using everything bit of energy you had on the cabinet beside her head.
BANG!
The cabinet door slammed open so hard it cracked against the adjacent wall. The sound was deafening in the quiet kitchen.
MC screamed. The knife clattered to the floor as she stumbled backward, her hip slamming into the counter. Her eyes were huge, fixed on the cabinet that now hung open, swaying slightly on its hinges.
"Hello?" Her voice cracked. "Sylus?"
Silence.
She was alone. Completely and utterly alone.
You watched her chest heave with panicked breaths, watched her eyes dart around the kitchen, searching for something, anything that made sense. Her hands trembled as she pressed them against the counter, trying to steady herself.
"It's just—it's just old hinges," she whispered to herself, but her voice shook. "Just—just the house settling. It's fine. It's—"
You moved closer, letting the temperature drop further. Her breath misted in the air.
"It's fine," she repeated, but she was backing toward the door now, her movements jerky and frightened. "It's fine, it's fine, it's—"
She ran.
You stayed in the kitchen, surrounded by the scattered vegetables and the abandoned lunch, and smiled.
The fear was so much sweeter when they were alone.
MC didn’t come back into the kitchen.
She hovered in the doorway for a long moment, keys in hand, still pale, still shaken, before deciding she couldn’t stand to be alone in the house any longer. Takeout was easier than cooking anyway. Leaving was easier than sitting with the feeling that something was wrong and being unable to know why.
The door closed behind MC, leaving you alone.
Sylus came home an hour later.
He stepped through the door without hesitation, keys jingling softly as he set them in the dish by the entryway. In one hand, he carried a briefcase. In the other, a tall, curved vase filled with freshly cut red roses.
The scent followed him like a sickly sweet perfume as he placed it in the middle of the counter. Turning it slightly so the light can hit the petals just right. MC would spot them immediately when she came back.
When he was satisfied, he pulled out his phone.
“Hey,” he said, his voice dropping into that soft, intimate tone he saved for her. “I just got back. Yeah, I got you something to help you feel better, you'll love it.”
You didn’t need to focus so hard this time. What you are and what you can do felt so natural at this point even though you were killed yesterday. You were fully embracing what you had become and how you felt. That acceptance, made you stronger than you've ever been.
You looked at the flowers. Simple red roses in full bloom, deep crimson, the petals lush and dewy. The basic uninspiring kind MC like. You ground your teeth remembering the bouquets Sylus got you. They were all different. A beautiful carefully crafted piece of botanical art that showed the unrelenting love Sylus had for you. It was a floral symphony of romance that you loved and appreciated every time.
These roses were a downgrade. You're doing Sylus a favor at this point.
Sylus calmly walked to the fridge, his phone tucked between his shoulder and cheek, using his now free hands to grab a glass of water for himself. But before his fingers could make contact with the fridge, the vase quickly glided across the smooth marble, tipping over the edge with no chance of saving it.
The crash was violent, the glass exploded across the tile floor, shards skittering in all directions as water spilled outward in a sudden flood. The roses petals tearing loose and scattering among the wreckage.
Sylus stood motionless, arm still extended, staring down at the destruction. The phone remained clutched in his hand, her voice faint and tiny as MC called his name again and again, asking if he was all right, asking what had happened. He didn't answer. His eyes were fixed on the island, on the exact spot where the vase had stood moments before. Completely sturdy, leveled, and safe.
This had not been an accident. It was impossible.
The house felt completely different now. His pulse quickened, the uneasiness crawling up his spine. He told himself there had to be an explanation—water on the counter, a tremor, something, anything! But none of it was there. He remembered setting the vase down. Remembered making sure it was stable. Remembered thinking how it looked right there.
You were close enough to him now to feel the heat of his body, close enough to sense the growing break in his composure. So close he could see his own breath despite the warm temperature in the house.
Eventually, he would clean the mess. He would sweep up the glass, throw away the ruined flowers, order another bouquet and tell himself it meant nothing. Even if he couldn't bring himself to mean it. Something fundamental had shifted. The house no longer felt like his domain like it always had. The space no longer felt empty.
He was not alone.
The next four days that followed the vase incident were tense. Sylus and MC went through those days in a routine haze. Wake up, go to work, come home, go to bed.
Sylus ordered another bouquet by nightfall. He placed the new flowers in a heavier vase, tucked into the corner of the kitchen, as if reducing the exposure would prevent another act of supernatural sabotage. MC noticed his mood shift, of course. She watched him watch the house. His eyes lingering longer on shadowed corners, his movements a lot more careful, checking locks and thermostats with subtle paranoia. But she said nothing. They were both too proud, too rational, too eager to believe in safe explanations.
You watched them still. Being able to latch onto one of them no matter where they went. The life and times of Sylus were nothing new to you. You knew everything about him. But you discovered so much more about MC.
Within those four days you saw the dedicated colonel, the flamboyant artist, the caring doctor, and the attentive co-worker.
All unbelievably handsome, talented, rich, and loyal. The way they looked at MC was the way Sylus looked at you. They knew that MC was taken, but not by who, and it was obvious that if given the chance they would take it. They would sweep her off her feet and never let her go again.
MC had choices. Yet she still chose wrong!
But the four full days passed without incident. You didn’t rattle a single cupboard or drop the temperature once. You gave them peace. You gave them space. You let them believe, if only for a moment, that maybe it was over. That the worst had passed.
It made what came next all the more exquisite.
MC wore black satin and red lipstick. Sylus, the dark shirt you bought for his birthday, the one he always claimed brought him luck. You watched them leave together, laughing, fingers laced, tension slipping from their shoulders as they went to have their romantic evening.
They went to a restaurant with candles on the tables and wine in their glasses, a place where everyone knew your name, but couldn't say anything now. They returned late, tipsy and giddy, lips already smeared with lipstick, eyes heavy with desire and drink. They touched each other without shame as they slipped through the front door, their laughter bouncing off the walls like they owned the night.
They didn’t make it to the bedroom. Instead, they left a trail of clothing from the hallway to the bathroom, giggling and clumsy and unbearably content. You heard the shower start and their voices echo through the fogged glass. The bathroom light flowed through the open door casting soft shadows into the hallway. They were in there together, tangled in steam, their bodies close, their breath rising like incense into the air you’d once called your own.
That was when you moved.
One moment, the bathroom door stood wide open; the next, it slammed shut with a force that shook the hinges.
Inside, the water kept running but their moans stopped instantly.
Then the lights went out dipping the room in total darkness.
They fumbled in the dark. Their bodies awkward and dripping, the earlier ease gone, the intimacy evaporated, replaced by slow but panicked movements and shallow breaths. Sylus found the wall at last and navigated to the light switch. When Sylus managed to restore the lights, the bathroom felt stripped of warmth and intimacy.
They moved out of the around in silence after that, grabbing towels, avoiding each other’s eyes. Moving quickly like strangers who were caught being somewhere forbidden.
MC turned toward the mirror, towel wrapped tight around her chest. Her skin still glistened with water, the droplets sliding down her neck and collarbone, but her hands moved on auto pilot. She reached for the hand towel by the sink and wiped a broad stroke across the glass so she can see herself.
The steam parted and revealed a reflection that did not belong to her. You stared through the mirror as though it were nothing more than a window, your expression completely unreadable. Your eyes were fixed directly on hers, like a statue fixed in place.
“Oh my god!” MC recoiled as if something struck her.
Sylus spun toward her instantly, his towel slung low on his hips. “What? What happened?”
She couldn't answer. Her gaze still locked on the mirror, eyes wide and fixed in place. You never broke your eye contact. You didn't even blink, scared of missing a single second of this moment. Her mouth opened, but no words came. Only a shuddering breath as she struggled to even breath properly. MC then her hand lifted to point at you.
Sylus followed her finger just in time to see you calmly walk out of frame.
Not a mirage, or a hallucination, or a vague shadow. The last time he had seen you alive, you were crumpling beneath gunfire. Now, you were walking away from him like nothing was wrong.
“She was there,” her voice small, wrecked with fear. “You saw her. Tell me you saw her!”
A long pause stretched between them.
Then Sylus nodded, just once. "Yes…I saw her."
MC exhaled shakily, stepping back from the sink with uncertain footing, one hand reaching blindly for Sylus as though the contact alone could keep her from collapsing. She gripped his forearm, fingers digging into damp skin, using him like a crutch for reality. He didn’t move. He stood there, his body rigid and cold as marble.
The damage had been done.
You had touched things. Moved things. Appeared in front of them.
Sylus's mind was churning through a thousand calculations, none of them adding up to anything useful. This wasn’t a threat he could neutralize. This wasn’t a security breach or a mistake to be covered up. This wasn’t a woman he could have killed and forgotten.
You had been buried, yes.
But he had buried a body, not the part that mattered.
They were foolish enough to think the house was the problem. That you were bound to the place you once called home.
The decision for them leave the place they tried to erase you from was quick and frantic.
“I’m not staying another second,” MC kept repeating, her fingers slipping as she pulled on pants still damp from the shower. “I don’t care where we go, I just need to get out of here!”
“I know.” His voice was tight. He barely looked at her as he yanked open drawers, pulling out his phone and wallet with shaking hands. “Grab your things. Just the essentials.”
She did. No luggage, no toiletries, just the what they thought mattered: phones, car keys, wallets. It was a full on escape. One that you knew was a pointless endeavor.
The hotel they found was sterile and over-lit, the kind of luxury that tried too hard to mimic warmth. The concierge gave her best customer service smile and a swipe of the credit card machine, saying nothing about the disheveled pair with wet hair and wild eyes. The elevator ride was silent. In the suite, MC finally exhaled in one long breath before collapsing onto the bed.
“We should be safe here,” she said quietly, almost trying to convince herself. “It’s new. It’s clean. She can’t be everywhere.”
Sylus sat on the edge of the couch and stared at the floor for a long time. "We'll find a new home. A completely new life and a fresh start."
After hours of reassuring words and comforting kisses, MC finally calmed down enough to fall asleep soon after.
But Sylus couldn't. He lay beside her for over an hour, eyes wide open. When her soft breathing evened out and the tension in her limbs dissolved, he carefully pulled the sheet away and stood. He didn’t bother trying to look presentable. Just his jacket, his keys, his phone. He scribbled a quick note and left it on the nightstand: Going for a drive. Couldn’t sleep.
The road was mostly empty, long stretches of asphalt with only the company of streetlights. Sylus kept both hands on the wheel, his shoulders as his eyes fixed straight ahead. The talk radio was low enough that he couldn’t make out the words, only the sound of the voice filling the silence. He hadn’t realized how hard he was gripping the steering wheel until his fingers began to ache.
He spoke without thinking, the words slipping out as if saying them out loud might make them true. “It’s not her,” he said quietly. “It’s stress. A little guilt. Just stress. A lot of stress. Nothing else.” He swallowed, his throat dry. “She’s gone. She’s gone. I made sure—”
"SYLUS!"
You voice sounded like a bomb detonating beside his ear. It was right there, it was loud and furious and undeniably close.
“FUCK!”
His hands jerked on the wheel. The car swerved hard, crossing the lane before he could correct it. His foot slammed down, missing the brake, and the tires screamed as the headlights veered off the road. The car hit the telephone pole head-on. The impact jerked his body forward, then back. The seatbelt biting into his chest and shoulder as the airbags deployed and knocked the air out of his lungs. Metal crumpled. Glass shattered. Then the car stopped completely.
For a moment, there was nothing but silence and the ticking of the engine.
Sylus sagged against the steering wheel his chest burning as he struggled to draw in air that wouldn’t come fast enough. His hands trembled uncontrollably. Something warm ran from his nose, dripping onto his shirt. He blinked hard, trying to focus, the edges of his vision swimming.
The hazard lights clicked on automatically, their steady blinking reflected against the dark road ahead, casting red light across the interior of the car in slow and rhythmic pulses.
He didn’t move. He didn’t turn around. He didn’t need to. You were seated directly behind him. He locked eyes with you through the rearview mirror.
Your body wasn't a ghostly apparition. It was solid and bloody, looking the way you did that night after you were brutally gunned down, lit intermittently by the flashing of the hazard lights. You were not slumped or disorientating from the crash. You were not weak or fighting for your life from your bullet wounds. You sat upright and composed, your face calm and your eyes fixed on him.
Sylus’s hands slipped from the steering wheel as his body recoiled, and he twisted in his seat just enough to confirm what he was seeing. You didn't vanish. You didn't shift or blur or fade. You remained exactly where you were, occupying the back seat as naturally as you once had on long drives together.
A painful sound slipped through his lips as he shoved the door open and stumbled out onto the road. His legs nearly gave out beneath him, forcing him to brace himself against the broken frame of the car as the cold night air hit his hot and sweaty skin. He turned back slowly, dread pooling heavy in his gut.
You were still there, your gaze never leaving him. You didn't try to move, you just simply watched as he staggered away from the car, every step uneven, his shoulders hunched as if making himself smaller to escape your stare.
He didn’t look back again after that. He walked along the edge of the road before managing to teleport away towards the hotel, far from the life he had tried to escape into. While you remained seated in the back of the wrecked car, watching him leave you behind again.
MC slept deeply in the hotel bed, a soft smile on her face as she dreamt.
In the dream, the world was brighter, softer, and warmer. Her home filled with love and comfort instead of dread. She was curled against Sylus on the couch, her legs tucked beneath her, his arm draped loosely around her shoulders as the television played in the background. The light in the room was low and golden, the kind that belonged only to a dream like this. His presence felt grounding and reassuring, his thumb absentmindedly brushing along her arm as though nothing had ever gone wrong.
For a while, she simply rested there, listening to the rise and fall of his breathing, letting herself become at the ease of it.
Then the baby cried.
MC stiffened, lifting her head from Sylus’s chest. He didn’t move. Didn’t react at all. The crying came again, a lot more urgent that made her chest tighten from her motherly instincts.
The hallway stretched longer than it should have as she walked toward the nursery, the walls dim and quiet, the television noise fading behind her. The crying continued, guiding her forward step by step, her pace quickening as worry settled in her gut. Halfway down the hall though, the sound faltered. By the time she reached the nursery door, it had stopped entirely.
She hesitated for a moment before pushing the door open.
The nursery curtains were drawn shut, but was lit by a single lamp. Everything was exactly as it should have been, but something was very, very wrong. The rocking chair sitting in the corner, moving slowly back and forth.
You were sitting in it, holding MC's baby securely in your arms, cradling her tiny body against your chest as though you had done it a thousand times before. Your movements were slow and calm, the rocking gentle and steady. The baby was quiet now, her face relaxed, her tiny hand curled into the fabric of your shirt as she slept.
MC couldn’t breathe.
You lifted your gaze and looked at her tenderly, your eyes lowered briefly to the child in your arms before returning to MC’s face. There was no hostility in your posture, no aggression in the way you held the baby, no rage radiating off of you in subtle ways.
“She's cute,” you whispered. "My baby would have looked cuter though."
MC’s breath hitched. She stood frozen in the doorway, every instinct screaming at her to move, to do something, but her body refused to obey. “Put her down,” she said, the words barely holding together. “Now. Please.”
You smiled, but it was anything kind. “Don’t make that face, MC,” you murmured. “She’s fine.”
The baby vanished in a puff of gray smoke that dissipated almost as instantly as it appeared, leaving your arms empty as if they had never held anything at all. The rocking chair continued to move for a moment longer before slowing to a stop.
“Because she isn’t real,” you said calmly. You leaned back slightly in the chair, eyes never leaving her face. “This is a dream. Your dream of a life that you truly don't deserve. My husband and a baby together? Give me a fucking break. Slimy little homewrecker…"
You rose from the rocking chair slowly, the wood giving a soft creak beneath your weight. The door slamming shut behind her as you stood.
MC reacted on fear and instinct. Spinning on her heel, she lunged for the doorway, fingers closing around the handle as she yanked hard, openly panicking. The door didn’t budge. She tried again, putting her weight into it this time, her shoulder slamming against the wood as she struggled to pull it, push it open. But it wasn't budging.
Behind her, your footsteps were unhurried. There was no rush in you, no need to close the distance quickly. You knew she had nowhere to go. The door remained firmly shut, the walls unmoving, the nursery sealed as though it had always been meant to hold only the two of you.
“No. No, no,” she whispered, her voice breaking as she fumbled with the handle again. “Please open—”
MC turned slowly, her back pressed to the door, chest rising and falling too fast as she watched you approach. Her eyes darted around the room, searching for escape, for an interruption, for anything that might wake her from the dream she now understood she couldn’t control.
You stopped a few steps away from her, close enough now that she could see every detail of your face. “Are you enjoying yourself, MC?” you asked quietly.
MC swallowed hard, her back pressed flat against the door, nowhere left to retreat.
“Living my life,” you said. “Wearing my things. Sleeping beside my husband in my bed. Playing house with the future I was supposed to have.” Your eyes never leaving her face, committing every ounce of her fear into your memory. “The life of a good and honest woman you were more than happy to have erased.”
MC stuttered. “I didn’t—”
“You did,” you interrupted, your voice calm but unyielding. “You knew exactly what you were doing.” You took another step closer, forcing her to tilt her head back to keep you in view. “Don’t insult me by pretending you felt remorse when you were scratching your nails down my husband's back, the same night my body was being buried in an unmarked grave in the middle of a dead field.”
Her composure shattered. “Please,” she sobbed, words tumbling over each other. “Please I’m sorry. It was a mistake. I know that now. I shouldn’t have—”
“No,” you said simply. “You shouldn’t have. You could've had anyone you wanted. You’re beautiful. Intelligent. Successful. People trust you without even realizing why.”
Your eyes narrowed as you glared at her. “I trusted you. I let myself believe you weren’t a threat. That we could have been friends.”
MC slid down the door until her knees nearly gave out entirely, tears streaking her face. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I’m so sorry.”
“You’re only sorry because I’m here,” you said. “Because I can follow you anywhere and you can’t escape. You’re sorry because I’m forcing you to face the consequences of your deplorable actions.”
“I’ll leave him,” she said desperately. “I’ll move away! Back to Linkon, anywhere! I won’t see Sylus again! I swear!”
“And will that magically bring me back to life?”
MC said nothing. She couldn’t. The answer was already there.
“Exactly,” you said.
You squatted down to her level, slowly bringing your hands up and cradling her face in your hands. MC shrank back instinctively, her back and shoulders digging into the door, unable to catch her breath as you touched her. Her eyes flicked wildly across your face, searching for mercy or any kind of emotion she could recognize and reason with. She found none of it.
“You don’t get a clean ending,” you continued. “You don’t get absolution. You don’t get to run somewhere far away and pretend I just some crazy chapter of your life.” Your gaze hardened, in a way that made her stomach drop. “I’m going to live with you and that parasite growing in your belly."
She didn’t react right away, as if she’d misheard. “What?”
"Yeah, your pregnant. A few weeks along, but it's there."
MC shook her head in denial, weak and desperate. “No…no, that’s not—please—”
“You’ll feel it soon,” you went on, as if explaining something mundane. “And every time you look at that child, you'll think about how your selfishness ruined it's life before it even began.”
Her breath hitched, panic finally cresting into something close to hysteria. “Please,” she whispered. “Please—”
“I’ll be there in your dreams and when you wake up,” you said. “In the quiet moments, when you think you’re safe. In mirrors, when you’re not expecting it. In the corner of your eye, when your guard is down. Every time you start to believe you’ve moved on, I’ll remind you of who you stepped over to get here.”
Tears streamed down her face unchecked now. Her body trembled, exhausted, defeated. “I can’t live like that,” she whispered.
You frowned, repulsed by her words. “I didn’t get to live at all.”
You straightened slowly, taking a single step back, already fading away.
“One day,” you said softly, “you’ll stop asking for forgiveness and start begging for silence and peace.
You met her eyes one last time.
“And I won’t give you either.”
You reached for the switch of the lamp and turned it off, ending the dream in darkness.
MC woke with a sharp gasp, her body jerking upright in the hotel bed, heart pounding hard enough to make her chest ache. The sheets were twisted around her legs, damp with sweat, her hair stuck to the back of her neck. For a moment, she lay there disoriented, breath uneven, the room unfamiliar in the dark. She could still feel you there, touching her, breathing the same air as her.
She pressed her palm against her stomach. There was nothing to feel, nothing to confirm what she’d heard, but she felt nauseous anyway. Tears came down like rain during a storm. She tried to keep it silent at first, but she couldn't hold back anymore, her shoulders curling inward as she folded over herself. Bringing her knees to her chest and holding them close.
Thirteen years later, MC’s life had settled into something that passed for peace.
Her marriage with Caleb was full of joy and love that she didn’t think she could feel again. The house she shared with him sat on a calm street lined with trees that bloomed every spring without fail. Where the neighbors knew each other and helped each other.
Afternoon light spilled across the living room floor as their baby boy wobbled between them, his small arms outstretched, determination etched into his tiny face. MC hovered close behind him, ready to catch him, while Caleb crouched a few steps away, hands open and ready to embrace him. Their six year old daughter concentrated on her coloring book nearby, looking up every now and then to encourage her brother.
“That’s it,” Caleb encouraged, smiling. “You’re doing great. Come on.”
The boy took two more steps before collapsing into MC’s arms, squealing with delight. She lifted him, pressing her face into his hair, breathing him in.
For moments like this, the past stayed quiet. For moments like this, she almost believed she had outrun it. Outrun you.
You still appeared sometimes.
In reflections in the mirror and windows. In dreams that left MC waking with her mind and body numb. The sudden drops in temperature or the unmistakable sense of being watched when she was alone. When certain things moved on their own with no one near them. But never long enough to destroy what she’d built. Never enough to keep her from moving forward.
Caleb knew nothing about Sylus. Nothing about the twins MC gave birth to and put up for adoption moments after they were born. Nothing about the woman who had promised never to leave. MC had learned that survival sometimes depended on silence. If she wanted to live her life with Caleb and their kids, she needed to swallow her past and keep it down.
It was mid-afternoon when the doorbell rang.
MC answered it with her son balanced on her hip, expecting a neighbor or a delivery. Instead, she found herself staring at a girl who looked no older than thirteen, standing rigid on the porch, thin and pale, white hair pulled back too tightly in a ponytail, red eyes filled with something volatile and barely contained.
“Are you MC?” the girl asked with no hesitation or uncertainty.
“Yes,” MC said slowly. “Can I help you?”
The girl’s expression changed instantly right before she lunged. The girls hands grabbing at MC’s hair right at the root, nails digging in hard enough to draw blood as she tried to pull her forward to the ground. MC cried out in pain, twisting away and shielding her son instinctively as Caleb rushed forward, pulling the girl off her.
“Hey!”
Caleb used his evol to create some distance between MC and the girl. The girl fought against the gravity holding her back her face twisted with unfiltered rage.
“Let me go!” she screamed. “Let me go! She has to pay for what she did! This is your fault! You ruined everything!”
MC retreated several steps, heart racing, her son pressed tightly to her chest as he cried from the sudden violent altercation, as her daughter ran to her room. MC murmured to him softly, though her body was shaking. Caleb didn’t look back. His entire focus was on the girl thrashing against his evol.
“Explain yourself.” Caleb demanded.
The fight drained out of the girl all at once. Her shoulders sagged, she fought to even out her breath. “My name is Rin,” she said hoarsely. “I’m thirteen. And she ruined my life. Because of her I've been haunted my entire life!”
"I don't know you," MC insisted.
Rin let out a humorous laugh. “You don’t remember me because you didn’t keep me.”
Caleb stiffened. “What does that mean?”
Rin's gaze didn't leave MC. “She comes to me at night, in my dreams, ever since I was five. The Bride in Red. That’s what I named her when I was little. I didn’t know who she was then. Just that she was always crying, always angry, her white wedding dress covered in blood. Always out to get me!”
MC couldn’t breathe.
“I only found out recently,” Rin continued, her voice trembling now. “She showed me. The night she died. The warehouse. The guns. You and my dad walking away.” Her eyes burned into MC’s. “She made me relive it. Over and over and over again!”
Caleb’s looked at MC in shock. “MC,” he said quietly, “what is she talking about?”
“That’s not possible,” MC whispered, though even as she said it, she knew it was a lie.
“Your perfect little wife gave birth to twin girls,” she said angrily. “She didn’t even bother giving us names, she just gave us away like we didn’t matter. We were adopted by different families. I didn’t even know I had a sister until last year when I went looking for MC.”
MC couldn’t speak. She gripped her son hard enough to try and use his presence to calm herself down without hurting him. Her mouth opened, then closed again, her past had found her and was pressing against her from all sides.
“She told me everything,” Rin said. “The Bride in Red told me who you were. Who my birth father is. Who she was. And why she’ll never stop.”
MC’s knees buckled from underneath her. Caleb rushed to catch her and hold her steady, letting Rin hit the ground as his evol released her.
“She isn’t just haunting you and Sylus,” Rin's furious gaze held strong as tears of frustration ran down her face. “She’s tied to your bloodline. To anyone who is born into this family because of what you did.” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “She told me she doesn't care. That she'll haunt our bloodline until the end of time! That her mission ends when our bloodline does.”
Caleb's body went rigid. His eyes drifted toward the hallway towards his daughter's bedroom. Last night came back to him in vivid detail, their daughter waking up crying, clinging to him, whispering about a woman standing in her room.
“She was wearing a red and white dress,” she’d said. "She didn't have a face daddy! She was really scary!"
At the time, he’d told himself it was just a nightmare.
Now, he looked back at Rin. “My daughter’s five,” he said quietly. “She had her first nightmare last night. About a woman in a red and white dress with no face”
Rin’s breath caught. “That’s how it starts. And it wasn't a nightmare. She was there. In the room. The longer she's around the more her face appears. Your son will have the same experience when he's older."
Caleb’s teeth clenched. “Then this isn’t just about the past,” he said. “It’s about our children.”
He turned to MC. “You need to tell me everything. Now.”
MC could only cry as her world fell apart again. Caleb's look of shock and betrayal. Her daughter hiding in fear. Her son whimpering against her chest. And her first daughter Rin, a young girl haunted by MC's past mistakes, knowing she will not be the only one.
You had kept your promise.
Not to forgive, or forget, but to endure.
Twenty-five years passed, and Sylus never became whole again.
Time moved forward around him the way it did for everyone else, indifferent and relentless, but something in him remained fixed in the moment everything was lost. He aged. His hair thinned, aging lines carved themselves into his face, not from laughter but from the constant, unrelieved weight of remembering. People who met him later in life described him as distant, irritable, hollow in a way.
MC had left long ago. He came back to the hotel that night after his car accident and found her gone. She didn't even come back to their home to get her items, she just left and never came back. That loss had been bad at first, but it wasn’t what broke him. It was what followed.
You still never left.
He missed MC. But he missed you so much more.
He missed the woman who had loved him without any terms and conditions. The wife who had believed in him and supported him. The wife who built a future filled with life and love. The future he had taken and crushed so thoroughly that even death hadn’t been enough to erase it. Regret settled into him so deeply it became part of his DNA. He apologized aloud sometimes with tears in the eyes and his voice rough, knowing there was no one to hear him but you.
“I know,” he would whisper. “I know I ruined it. I ruined everything."
He tried everything people suggested. Therapy. Religion. Acts of charity meant to balance invisible scales. He dug you from your unmarked grave and built you a beautiful mausoleum, always keeping it clean and stocked with your favorite flowers. Kneeling at your casket begging for your mercy and forgiveness.
He spoke your name like a confession, like a plea, like a prayer. He meant every apology. Every ounce of remorse was real.
He knew you watched him. He could feel your gaze when his back was turned. He would feel your cold spots and lingered there in your presence, then feel it get warm as you drifted away. Sometimes he would hear your footsteps, or see you move something in the house.
But it was his dreams that you really dominated.
When you appeared, it was not as you were when you died, but as you had been before everything soured. You sat beside him on the couch, fingers laced through his hair. The teasing touches when you passed by him and giggling when he tried to return the favor. The excited look on your face when you cooked something new for him. You laughed in those dreams. You smiled in those dreams. You kissed him in those dreams. Sometimes you spoke his name the way you used to, with pure adoration.
And every time, without fail, he woke up without you. Staring at the ceiling as he had to once again face reality.
There would be no forgiveness. No release. No moment where the weight lifted and the past softened.
When the knock on his door came, he assumed it was a mistake. No one ever came to him. Luke and Kieran only came when called.
He opened the door to find a woman standing on the threshold, eerily calm and visibly tired in a way that immediately unsettled him. She was young, mid-twenties at most, short white haired with vibrant red eyes.
“Are you Sylus? And did you have an intimate relationship with a woman named MC” she asked.
He nodded slowly. “Yes, and yes.”
“My name is Mara,” she said. “You’re my father.”
The words struck him all at once, but he didn't react right away.
MC had never returned. She had changed all of her contact info and left Linkon. He had been left with absence and guilt, nothing more. He stepped aside, letting Mara into the house, and they sat across from one another at the small kitchen table.
"MC didn't tell me she was pregnant," Sylus said.
"She had twins," Mara elaborated. "Her name is Rin, we were adopted by different families as babies. I know where she is, I just haven't spoken to her yet."
"Did you ever find MC?"
"Yes. Though when I tried to speak to her she turned me away. Apparently Rin found her when she was only thirteen. MC and her new husband's marriage was never the same after that. Caleb, her husband, said it was a 'stay together for the kids' arrangement…Did you want her contact information?"
"No," Sylus said immediately. "It's best if she stays away from me."
Mara spoke after a moment of awkward silence. “I didn’t come for reconciliation, or money, or explanations about your life. I came because of her.”
Sylus looked at her. "About MC?"
“No,” Mara corrected. “The Bride in Red. That’s what I called her when I was a child. She first appeared when I was five. A woman with a featureless face, wearing a wedding dress covered in blood. Standing in my doorway, or sitting at the end of my bed. Watching me.” Her voice remained steady, but there was a slight strain in it now. “She never hurt me. She just stayed. And when I got older, I saw her face, and she showed me things. A warehouse. Guns. A woman bleeding on the floor. You walking away, with my mom, the other woman.”
Sylus closed his eyes, the familiar ache in his heart blooming into something ugly.
“I know who she is now,” Mara said quietly. “I know who you are, and what you and my mother did to her.” She met his gaze again, unwavering. “I’m not here to punish you. She’s already done that.”
Sylus swallowed, his throat suddenly very dry. He stared at her for a long moment before speaking, his voice rough and stripped of pretense. “So why are you here?”
“I have a son. My husband and I adopted him when he was two.” Mara went on. “He’s five years old now. Last month, he told me there was a woman in his room. The Bride in Red.”
Sylus’s hands began to shake uncontrollably.
“And I’m pregnant now,” Mara said. “Another boy she will undoubtably haunt as well.” She rested a hand over her stomach, protective and afraid. “I need to know how to make her stop. I need to know how to keep my children safe.”
Sylus stared down at the table, at the grain of the wood, at anything but her face. When he finally spoke, his voice was barely more than breath.
“There isn’t a way.”
Mara went still. "What?"
“I’ve spent twenty-five years trying,” he said, the words breaking free at last. “Apologies. Confessions. Regret. I begged and cried and pleaded. I built her a mausoleum and see here every morning at sunrise. I punished myself in every way I knew how. None of it mattered.” He looked up at his daughter, at the life he had never known and the future already tainted by his choices.
“I killed her,” Sylus said, the truth as devastating as it had ever been. “I didn't leave and give her a chance to be happy. To start over and live. I lied, and cheated, and I thought that killing her would be the end of it.” His voice broke completely. “I didn’t just destroy her life. I destroyed mine. And now—” He gestured helplessly. “Now it’s yours. And your children’s.”
“So there’s nothing I can do,” she muttered. She used the back of her hand to wipe away her tears.
Sylus shook his head slowly. “There’s nothing anyone can do. I'm so sorry.”
Some sins did not end with the sinner. Because some ghosts did not want justice or mercy or closure. They wanted remembrance. They wanted acknowledgment that what was taken had mattered.
Sylus would live out the rest of his days knowing with perfect clarity, that he had been loved fully once, and that it was you he had condemned to die, but you had sentenced him to remember.
His family had not been cursed. It had been claimed.
You had promised to stay. And you always kept your promises.
YAY! First Love and Deepspace story. I was hesitant to write for the game because I was having a hard time coming up anything good. But the moment I saw that post with that picture this idea just came to me! Hopefully y'all liked it and support me in the future.
And please please please like, comment, and/or reblog so I know you guys want to see me write and post more. And don't hesitate to drop ideas!
romaincrisis
theartofmadeline
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