Fifteen

Lucien’s POV

I stopped going to the office because of my leg.

The doctors said it was healing, but not healed. They said I needed rest, patience, supervision, his words sounded simple until I was the one stuck between four walls, watching my life continue without him.

I hadn’t stepped into my office in weeks, hadn’t felt the weight of the building or the familiar chill of the elevator. But work didn’t stop. Meetings came to me. Files were brought home. Documents waited on my bedside table every morning for my signature.

I attended virtual meetings with a straight face, camera angled carefully so no one could see how pale I looked, how pain sometimes made my jaw clench so hard that it ached. I spilled out numbers, deadlines, profits and everything except the one thing rotting inside my chest.

It has been a month. A whole month of being like this. A month of living back in my childhood home, surrounded by walls that knew a version of me I didn’t even recognize anymore. A month of my mother’s concerned glances and my sister’s forced cheerfulness. A month of pretending I was fine when everything inside me felt permanently cracked.

The doctor was very clear.

“You shouldn’t stay alone, Mr. Lucien. Someone should always be around you.”

Someone? That someone should be Aria.

But Aria was gone.

Since she left, there was no choice but to come back here. To my mother, which felt like a suffocation to me. I slept in my old room, the same room I’d sworn I would never return to once I got married. Life had a cruel sense of humor like that, like dragging you back to places you thought you had outgrown.

Aria is gone. Gone and living her life, laughing, enjoying and posting it online.

She posts everything.

Her smile. Her outfits. Her outings. Her so-called boyfriend, no, her new lover. She never said it outright, never tagged him in words like my boyfriend, just did videos with him but she didn’t need to. Every photo was deliberate, she wanted me to see it.

And I did. I saw everything.

Even when I told myself not to, even when I swore I wouldn’t open the app again, my fingers betrayed me. I would stare at her pictures for minutes, sometimes hours, my heart doing something painful and stupid inside my chest. I memorized the curve of her smile, the way her eyes crinkled like she was genuinely happy, without me.

And even after all of that, even knowing she was with someone else, even knowing she had moved on, I still love her.

That hasn’t changed. It won’t stop. I won’t stop staring at her pictures every day no matter what she’s doing with her life. I tell myself it’s punishment. That I deserve the pain.

One thing I know for sure is that I will always regret losing her to another man.

Always.

It hurts in a way that doesn’t scream. It’s quiet, heavy, constant. It hurts that she could throw away the two years we had together. Two years of memories, routines, laughter, shared silences. Two years of her choosing me every day, until I gave her too many reasons not to.

Sometimes I wonder if she thinks of me at all.

If she ever pauses mid-laugh and remembers the sound of my voice. If she ever looks at someone else’s hands and remembers how mine used to hold hers. Or if I’ve already become nothing more than a lesson she’s grateful to have survived.

The thought hurts my chest physically.

I was staring at the ceiling when I heard footsteps outside my room. My door creaked open, and my mother walked in, holding something in her hands.

“Lucien,” she said, her voice calm, “I found the divorce papers in your room.”

She handed them to me like they were ordinary documents. Like they didn’t carry the weight of my entire marriage.

I nodded and took them from her.

The papers felt heavier than they should have. My signature sat there in black ink, permanently. I didn’t look at them for long. I couldn’t.

“But you said you love her,” my mother continued, her brows knitting together as she studied my face. “Why did you sign the divorce papers?”

I let out a short, bitter laugh and rolled my eyes, turning my head away.

“Because I thought she’d come back,” I said. The truth tasted ugly on my tongue. “And once she did, I wanted her to see my nonchalant attitude. I didn’t want her to think she broke me.”

It sounded pathetic even to my own ears.

My mother smirked at my words, clearly amused. She crossed her arms and sat beside me on the bed, the mattress dipping under her weight.

“You did the right thing anyway,” she said. “At least now I’m at ease that you’re free from that woman.”

My chest tightened instantly.

“Mom,” I snapped, turning to face her. “She did nothing. The only mistake she made was loving me.”

She opened her mouth, but I didn’t let her interrupt.

“Did you know I had three affairs during our marriage?” The words came out harsh, raw. “Three secret affairs. I cheated on her. I manipulated her feelings. I broke her in ways I didn’t even realize until it was too late. I did something terrible, and you’re sitting here painting her like she’s the villain.”

My mother’s expression barely changed.

“I think she wasn’t able to keep you,” she said dismissively. “She couldn’t satisfy you anyway.”

The words hit me harder than I expected.

I laughed, but it was an empty, hollow laugh.

“I didn’t want to hurt her,” I said, my voice rising. “Do you understand that? Maybe you don’t. I’m a sex addict, Mom. I didn’t want to hurt her. I didn’t know how to stop myself.”

I swallowed, my throat burning.

“That aside, I’m regretting my actions now because I realized I never healed from the relationship I had before I met her. I carried that damage into my marriage and destroyed something pure. The night we got divorced, I wanted to apologize. I wanted to beg her. I wanted to tell her everything that went wrong was because of me.”

My voice broke despite my effort to keep it steady.

“So please,” I said quietly, exhausted. “Stay out of this.”

There was a long pause.

My mother nodded once, standing up from the bed.

“It’s what it is,” she said. “Make sure you rest.”

And then she walked out.

Just like that.

The door clicked shut behind her, and the room fell into silence again.

I stared at the spot where she had been sitting, my chest aching. She didn’t even react to what I said. No anger. No concern. No shock.

Does she even love me?

The question echoed in my head, unanswered.

I leaned back against the pillows, staring at the ceiling once more. The pain in my leg throbbed dully, but it was nothing compared to the ache inside my chest. I thought about Aria again, about the way she used to look at me like I was enough, like I was everything.

I ruined that.

And now all I have left are papers, pictures, and regret, endless regret.