Chapter 8 – The Truth That Bleeds in Silence

POV: Mrs. Elara Marcell

The vase didn’t fall by accident.

I pushed it.

The crash echoed through the room, making a sharp sound, final, like something in me breaking free. Porcelain and petals scattered across the marble floor, a wild burst of color in a house that had long forgotten how to feel alive.

Damian didn’t even flinch. He stood by the window, still in his tie, a silhouette carved out of indifference and city light. His reflection shimmered faintly in the glass, the city skyline cutting through his outline like a wound.

“Of course,” he said finally, voice calm in that dangerous way. “You always need to make a scene.”

I laughed, it came out brittle, almost hysterical. “Maybe that’s the only way you’ll look at me anymore.”

He turned slightly, the reflection of his eyes meeting mine in the glass. “You think shouting fixes anything?”

“I think pretending doesn’t.” My chest ached as I said it. “You can buy me the world, Damian, but you can’t even touch me without checking your watch.”

That made him look at me.

Really look.

The silence that followed trembled. It was nothing near emptiness, but full of everything we hadn’t said in years. His gaze dragged over my face, the mess, the blood from the shard that had grazed my palm.

“You’re bleeding,” he said quietly.

“It’s nothing,” I whispered, though the sting pulsed with my heartbeat.

He crossed the distance between us in three strides. The air changed; it became thick, alive, heavy with something neither of us wanted to name. His hand caught mine before I could pull away. The touch was firm, warm, unyielding, and for or a moment, I hated that it still made me shiver.

“You always say that,” he murmured, his eyes still fixed on my cut. “That it’s nothing.”

“Because when it’s something, you’re never here.”

His head lifted. Our eyes met, filled with flashes of anger, sorrow, and memories we couldn’t let go.

“Elara…” His voice softened, breaking slightly. “I don’t know how to reach you anymore.”

“You stopped trying.”

He exhaled, the kind of sound that carries years. “Maybe I was afraid of what I’d find.”

“And what’s that?” I whispered.

His thumb brushed the blood from my palm. “A woman who doesn’t love me anymore.”

I should’ve said it, the truth, the denial, something. But my throat wouldn’t move. Because under all the exhaustion, I still did love him. That was the worst part.

When he touched my face, the world stopped. The warmth of his fingers against my skin was too familiar, too dangerous. Every wall I had built trembled.

“Damian,” I breathed, meaning it like a confession.

Something in him broke then. Something sharp, a quiet surrender. His hand slid behind my neck; his forehead pressed against mine.

“I miss you,” he said. “Even when I’m right here.”

My voice trembled. “Then stop being somewhere else.”

He pulled back just enough to look at me, eyes dark, searching. “Tell me how.”

“Start with this,” I whispered.

I rose on my toes, closing the space between us. The kiss wasn’t soft; it was collision, years of love, neglect and need. His hand gripped my waist, mine fisted his shirt. The air around us thickened, laced with everything we hadn’t said.

He tasted like whiskey and memory. His breath hitched against mine, a low sound that made my heart stumble. My fingers slid up his collar, finding his skin, the heat of it grounding me, undoing me.

He deepened the kiss slowly, as though trying to remember who we used to be. I felt the tremor in him, restraint, regret, longing, and every part of me ached to answer it. His breath came ragged; mine tangled with it.

When he finally pulled back, his voice was rough. “This is madness.”

“Maybe,” I said, “but it’s the first thing that feels real.”

A faint smile ghosted across his lips. “You always were the fire I couldn’t hold.”

“Then stop trying to put me out.”

The words hung between us like smoke. He brushed his thumb across my jaw, down to the place where my pulse thudded too fast. We stood there, close enough to share a heartbeat, to feel the weight of everything breaking and mending all at once.

When he kissed me again, it was slower, not a plea, not anger, but remembrance. The years folded in on themselves until there was only this: the man who had forgotten how to touch and the woman who had forgotten how to ask.

The room seemed to hum with the echo of our breath. Outside, thunder rolled faintly in the distance, the sky itself restless. He leaned his forehead against mine again, eyes closed, his hand still trembling against my waist.

Later, when the storm quieted, he carried me to our room. He cleaned the cut on my palm, wrapped it in linen, his movements were careful. Neither of us spoke. Words would’ve ruined it.

He lay beside me, his hand resting over mine. The faint scent of lilies and rain clung to the room, mingling with something like peace. For the first time in months, he stayed.

I watched him in the dark, the shape of him, the rise and fall of his chest, the small frown that still lingered even in sleep. The years hadn’t changed him much. But they had changed me.

I waited until his breathing deepened, steady and slow. The city outside pulsed softly through the curtains, cars passing, life going on. But inside, something inside me had shifted. Not healed… just moved.

I reached for my phone. The screen’s glow felt cold against my skin.

Seraphina’s name hovered at the top of our chat.

My heart squeezed. She hadn’t called tonight. She always did.

I typed, fingers trembling a little.

Are you awake, sweetheart?

The time read 2:04 a.m.

I hesitated, staring at Damian’s sleeping face beside me, the man who could still make me forget everything, even for an hour, then I pressed send.

The blue light blinked once in the dark.

The house fell quiet.