Chapter 50 – Broken Memories

David’s POV

Since today, I had been cooped up at home.

The house was quiet—too quiet. The silence pressed against my ears, so heavy it felt like a punishment.

I sat slumped on the couch, the bitter smell of alcohol hanging around me like a suffocating fog. Empty bottles crowded the center table, some toppled onto their sides, a few rolling near the rug.

The air was thick, stagnant, the AC switched off sometime in the night. Sweat clung to my skin, sticky and uncomfortable, but I hadn’t moved for hours.

Finally, with a groan, I forced myself up. My movements were sluggish, my head pounding with a hangover that clung like vines around my skull.

I pushed aside the bottles littering the table, the clinking sound sharp in the still air.

The curtains were drawn, shutting out the sun. The living room was dark, gloomy. I dragged my feet to the window and yanked the panels apart. Light poured in immediately, flooding the room with harsh brightness. Dust floated in the rays, and I squinted, shielding my eyes.

The sudden shift only made the place look worse. Wine stains spotted the rug, broken bottle shards sparkled faintly near the foot of the couch, and the whole room stank of alcohol.

I clenched my jaw. “Pathetic,” I muttered under my breath.

Picking up the AC remote, I clicked it on. A mechanical hum followed as cold air pushed out. But no matter how much the AC blew, the stench of alcohol still clung stubbornly.

My throat burned with thirst. I stumbled into the kitchen, the tiles cool against my bare feet. I grabbed a glass from the rack, rinsed it quickly, and poured water from the jug. The water looked clean, inviting.

I gulped it down, desperate.

The cold rushed into me, but before I could lower the glass—

Smash!

The glass shattered in my grip, shards slicing into my palm. Water spilled across the counter, dripping down to the floor.

“Damn!” I hissed, staring at my bleeding hand.

The sting barely registered. The blood welled up, dripping onto the counter. I should have cared. But I didn’t. My heart was racing, my body trembling—not from the cut, but from a memory.

Her smile.

Her voice.

The warmth of her hand in mine.

And then… the way her body shielded mine at the very end.

The rage inside me surged like fire. My chest heaved. My wolf clawed at the surface, restless, furious.

“How could I forget?” I whispered, my voice hoarse.

The words slipped out again, louder, angrier. “How the hell could I forget her?”

I shoved the shards aside with my uninjured hand, uncaring that the movement pushed deeper cuts into my palm. My blood smeared across the counter. The pain felt distant, almost unreal.

The calendar on the wall caught my eye.

Today’s date was circled.

I froze.

Not just on this one—on every calendar in the house, the same date was marked. A habit I had never understood, a ritual I had kept even without memory.

My throat tightened. My lips trembled as I whispered, “Today is her birthday.”

The weight of it pressed down on me.

Even when I had lost everything, even when my mind was blank, some part of me still remembered her. My hand shook as I traced the circle on the calendar with my bloody finger.

Tears blurred my vision. My chest caved in with the ache. A smile twisted my lips, broken and bitter, worse than crying.

“Did you think I forgot you?” My voice cracked as tears slid down my face. “Did you think I abandoned you for so long that you had to remind me this way?”

The grief hit me all at once.

My knees buckled, and I leaned against the counter for support. My sobs tore out, raw and unrestrained. I couldn’t believe it. How could I have lived all this time, drinking, laughing, flirting with random women, when the one person who had mattered most—was gone because of me?

Because I had been weak. Because I hadn’t protected her.

“You should be here,” I whispered to the empty room. “You should be here, not under the dirt six feet below.”

The thought made me sick.

I pressed my bloody hand against the sink and turned the faucet. Water cascaded down, rinsing the crimson away. But no matter how much I scrubbed, the guilt remained. The memory remained.

The house was too empty. Too lifeless.

I glanced toward the corner cabinet, the first aid kit sitting there. She had bought it. Years ago, when she used to scold me for being reckless in fights.

Her voice echoed in my mind. “David, you’ll be the death of me one day. Can’t you be more careful?”

I let out a laugh—broken, choked. My tears fell faster. “You’d probably be scolding me wherever you are now.”

I could almost see her small, scrunched-up face, puffed like a bun when she was mad.

The image stabbed deeper than any glass shard could.

I disinfected the cut, wincing only faintly as the alcohol burned my skin. It didn’t matter. Nothing compared to the pain in my chest. I wrapped the wound with gauze, my movements mechanical.

When I picked up my phone, the screen lit up with countless missed calls. Same number. Same woman.

Dominic’s secretary.

I grimaced. I had entertained her once, maybe twice. A distraction. Nothing more. Back then, I hadn’t remembered my beloved. I had filled the hole in my chest with meaningless things—alcohol, women, anything that made me forget.

I pressed block and delete without hesitation. Her number vanished from my screen.

There was only one person I wanted now.

I dialed the cleaner instead. My house was a mess—shards of glass, overturned bottles, the lingering stench of despair. But I didn’t wait for them. I needed to leave.

After dressing the wound, I went to the bathroom. I stared into the mirror, droplets of water still clinging to my jaw. My reflection looked hollow. Tired eyes, unshaven jaw, grief etched into every line of my face.

“I’ll see you,” I whispered to the mirror. “I’ll see you today.”

I grabbed my keys.

-----------------------------

The first stop was the florist.

I stood there longer than I should, staring at the rows of flowers. The scent of roses, lilies, tulips—it was overwhelming. I didn’t even need to think before picking her favorite. Blue Voilet flowers.

The florist wrapped them in paper, her hands moving carefully. I added her favorite snacks too—those she used to sneak at night, giggling like a child when I caught her.

The memories weighed on me like stones, but I couldn’t stop them.

Driving, the streets blurred. My grip on the wheel tightened.

The past clawed its way back.

I remembered the nights we had stayed up talking, whispering dreams of a future together. How stubbornly I had fought my family for her. They had hated her. She wasn’t from our world—her family wasn’t powerful; her bloodline wasn’t prestigious. But she had been mine.

They threatened to strip me of my heirship. I didn’t care. I walked away, started building my own company, fought tooth and nail for every step.

But they hadn’t stopped.

Their threats grew darker. They said they would hurt her. That they would hurt our child.

My hands tightened around the steering wheel. The leather creaked.

She had been pregnant. We had planned to leave, to elope, to start over somewhere no one could reach us. She had agreed after so much persuading. Her smile had been faint but hopeful when she said yes.

But fate… fate was cruel.

The accident happened so suddenly. A car came out of nowhere. The crash was deafening. I had tried to shield her, but she—she pushed me down. She covered me with her own body.

I still remembered the look in her eyes. Calm. Resigned. As if she knew.

As if she knew my parents had a hand in it.

And she sacrificed herself anyway.

My chest heaved. Rage boiled inside me. At myself. At them. At her.

“How could you?” I shouted inside the car, my voice cracking. “How could you decide for both of us?!”

My teeth clenched, my vision blurred. “Even if you knew, why not let me die instead? Why didn’t you let me take the fall?”

I hit the steering wheel hard. The horn blared into the air, a hollow echo of my anguish.

The wolf inside me stirred violently, clawing against my skin. My claws threatened to break through.

I sped up, the car roaring beneath me. The speedometer climbed, the numbers blurring. My heart pounded in rhythm with the engine.

I didn’t know if I wanted to scream, cry, or tear the world apart.

My thoughts spiraled—my grief bleeding into fury.

And yet, somewhere in the back of my mind, something whispered. A reminder. A foreshadow.

If I could lose her, if I could lose my child once—what of Dominic? What of him, blinded by pride, walking the same dangerous path? Would he lose too, because he was too blind to protect what was his?

The thought twisted in my gut, a warning I couldn’t ignore.

I pressed harder on the accelerator. The car flew down the road, the scenery whipping past.

Screeeeeeech!!!!!

The tires skidded, the car jolting to a sudden halt.

My chest rose and fell violently. My hands gripped the wheel tight, knuckles white.

I didn’t know where I was going.

I didn’t know where her grave was.

I didn’t know what had happened after she died.

All I knew was that today was her birthday. And I couldn’t let it pass like the others.

I just wanted to see her. Celebrate her. Even if I had nothing left but memories and regret.