My Possessive CEO (Can love conquer pain?)

The knife slips from my shaking fingers—then I catch it just before it hits the floor.

My breath comes out sharp. Ragged.

Too loud.

I freeze, listening.

Silence.

The house is still asleep.

Good.

I tighten my grip around the handle, my pulse thundering in my ears as I stumble forward and shove the front door shut behind me. My body nearly gives out from the force, pain exploding through my ribs, my arm, everywhere.

A broken gasp tears out of me.

I bite it back instantly, my teeth sinking into my lip until I taste blood.

Don’t make a sound.

Don’t wake her.

Don’t let her see you like this.

I lean heavily against the wall, my vision spinning, black creeping in at the edges. For a second, I think I might collapse right here in the hallway—but I force my legs to move.

One step.

Then another.

Each movement feels wrong. My body doesn’t belong to me anymore. It’s heavy. Numb. Burning.

The stairs loom ahead like a nightmare.

Too many.

Too far.

But staying here isn’t an option.

I grab the banister—

Pain shoots up my arm so violently that a strangled cry escapes before I can stop it.

I freeze again.

Wait.

Listen.

Nothing.

Still quiet.

Still safe.

Barely.

Tears blur my vision, but I blink them back, shaking my head.

Not yet.

I drag myself upward, step by step—or more like crawl by crawl—my knees hitting wood, my fingers slipping, my breath coming out in uneven bursts.

Each second stretches.

Each movement is torture.

By the time I reach the top, my entire body is trembling uncontrollably.

I don’t remember crossing the hallway.

I don’t remember reaching my door.

But suddenly, I’m inside.

The click of it shutting behind me sounds too loud. Too final.

I lean against it, my chest rising and falling rapidly, like I’ve just outrun something.

Maybe I have.

For a moment, I don’t move.

I don’t turn on the light.

I can’t.

Because if I see it—if I see what they did—

I might break completely.

But I’m already breaking.

Slowly, painfully, I push myself off the door and stagger forward. My legs barely hold me, so I cling to the wall, leaving faint smudges I don’t want to look at.

My desk.

Just a few more steps.

I reach it and grip the edge tightly, my fingers trembling so badly I almost miss the switch.

Click.

Light floods the room.

And instantly—

Regret.

My breath catches.

My hands… they don’t look like mine. Bruised. Swollen. Marked in ways I don’t want to understand.

My skin tells a story I can’t erase.

A tear falls.

Then another.

I don’t stop them this time.

I can’t.

My gaze drifts to the notebook on my desk—the one my sister gave me this morning.

“Write your dreams in it.”

Dreams.

A broken laugh escapes me, twisting into a sob before I can stop it.

With shaking hands, I open it.

The page is clean.

Untouched.

Like today was supposed to be.

I pick up the pen. Even that hurts.

Still, I force it.

Dear diary, today was my eighteenth birthday.

The words look wrong.

Like they belong to someone else.

A tear drops onto the page, smearing the ink.

My chest tightens.

I can’t breathe.

I don’t deserve to live.

The memories crash into me all at once—too fast, too much.

I was raped and drugged… and I decided I must die today.

The pen slips from my fingers.

Clatters.

Silence.

I stare at the words, but they don’t feel real.

Nothing feels real.

It’s like I’m outside my body, watching a stranger fall apart.

Slowly… I close the journal.

What’s the point?

What’s the point of anything?

My hand moves before my mind catches up, pulling open the drawer.

My fingers brush against something cold.

Metal.

I pause.

Then I take it out.

A small pocket knife.

I stare at it.

My heart is calm.

Too calm.

No panic.

No fear.

Just… emptiness.

Tears keep falling, but I don’t wipe them away.

I don’t care anymore.

My reflection catches in the mirror.

I look up.

And I don’t recognize the person staring back.

Pale.

Broken.

Gone.

Is that really me?

I tilt my head slightly, studying her like she’s someone else.

Maybe she is.

Maybe Maria Eduarda died already.

Maybe this is just what’s left.

My grip tightens around the knife.

Without thinking, I turn toward the bathroom.

Step.

Step.

Step.

Each one feels like crossing a line I can’t uncross.

But stopping—

Stopping means feeling everything again.

And I can’t.

I won’t.

The bathroom door stands slightly open.

Waiting.

I push it.

It creaks softly.

And as I step inside, the light flickers—

For a split second, the room goes dark.

Then bright again.

My reflection stares back at me from the mirror.

Closer now.

Too close.

I raise the knife slowly.

My hand trembles—

Just once.

Then steadies.

Maybe this is the only way.

Maybe this is how it ends—

A sudden noise echoes from outside the room.

Soft.

But unmistakable.

A floorboard creaks.

I freeze.

My breath stops.

Someone is awake.