The Truly Broken

𝐑𝐘𝐀𝐍

~~~

I still remember the day I flew back to Mexico like it’s burned into my fucking skin. Like it's etched into my flesh in blazing bold characters.

One month—that’s all I was gone. Thirty-four goddamn days. I was called back to New York. I bled for the family, buried men who thought they could snatch our throne, reinstalled the Reigns supremacy. I did it to protect everything we built.

And when I walked back through those chapel doors—the same chapel where I saw her for the first time, kneeling before the statue, silently praying.

There she was.

Purity. My Purity. Dressed in white, glowing like every dream I’d ever had—standing at the altar.

Next to my brother.

She didn’t even look at me. Not once. Not when the priest spoke. Not when Ryat slipped the ring on her finger. Not when I felt my chest cave in like a building set on fire.

But her smile—that perfect, practiced smile—was a blade. A sharp, cruel little thing that cut deeper than any bullet ever could. It said, I moved on. I didn’t break. You did.

And she was right.

Because that day, Ryan Reigns fucking broke. And I've been breaking every single day afterwards.

My hands gently touch the knob, my fingers resting on it, hesitation stopping me from pushing the damn door open.

She's behind this door. Probably playing with Saint, but she's there, and somehow, I feel like we have a lot to talk about.

To be plain, it's not a feeling. We do have a lot to talk about.

I've been gone for three months. Three whole months, and that seemed to have been the space that was needed to turn her life upside down.

She's lost her baby in the space of these three months, and apparently, she lost herself too.

"Excuse me, sir."

I turn to my right where the voice came from.

It's Rosa, Saint's nanny.

She's standing there, head bowed, holding an array of neatly folded towels in shaky hands.

Instead of letting her in, I lean on the door, arms crossed. "How's Saint doing?"

"He's fine," she answers curtly.

I inhale deeply, fighting the urge to palm my face. "Is Purity with him?"—I know this, but I'm lost as to why I'm asking.

She nods.

But I remain in place, stalling. I'm stalling. I never stall.

"How's she doing?"

"Fine," she answers sharply.

Realizing this won't work, I step out of the way, and she scurries in like a rat running from its predator.

Without any more hesitation, I push the door open and barge inside the room.

Everybody goes still. Purity, Rosa, the other maids—even Saint.

But a squeal jerks everybody back into action. "Daddy!" he screams, jumping off his high bed and rushing toward me.

That one word—Daddy—hits me in the chest like a freight train. He’s been calling me that since before he ever called Ryat the same. Hell, the first time he spoke it, he was running toward me, tiny arms stretched wide, a huge smile plastered on his face.

I never corrected him. Maybe because it didn't matter, or because I didn’t want to. Or because hearing it filled something hollow inside me that nothing else could.

But Purity hated it. She tried to stop him, tried to break what we had—what we still have—but Saint never listened. And I never let him.

A smile breaks on my face, and I kneel to welcome his embrace. "Ah, Sainty, my boy."

I hold him in my arms for a while, soaking in his warmth, and relinquishing all my worries.

His little arms wrap around my neck, and for a moment, the weight on my chest eases. Saint smells like innocence—soap and baby powder—like a world untouched by the rot we live in. I bury my face in his soft curls, holding him tighter than I probably should.

"Daddy, you came," he says against my shoulder, his small voice punching holes straight through my heart.

"Yes, kiddo. I did."—couldn't go on without seeing how you were doing.

When I finally pull away, my gaze lifts and locks on hers.

Purity.

She’s standing by the window, arms crossed, her long dark hair tumbling over one shoulder like it’s mocking me for every second I’ve missed. Her eyes… those goddamn eyes that used to soften for me are now hard. Cold. Unforgiving.

And they’re aimed at me like a loaded gun.

My gaze drops back to the little innocent creature in front of me and I pull up one of my sweetest smiles at him. "What do you say we go get ice cream later in the evening?"

He nods, beaming at the idea.

My smile widens and I ruffle his hair, happy to be able to touch and feel him again.

He runs off, heading for his toys, and I rise to my full height, eyes trained on Purity who's now staring out of the window.

With calculated steps, I approach her, placing myself comfortably by her side.

I try to speak, but her voice comes first, and it isn't addressed to me.

"Angelo," her voice is sweet. Too sweet. "Why don't you go pick some bedtime books with Rosa?"

"Mom—"

"Now, cariño." Her voice drops a note. It’s not a request; it’s an order wrapped in sugar.

He sighs, dragging his feet toward Rosa, who scoops him up with a smile that doesn’t reach her eyes. The other maids scatter like leaves in a storm, sensing the shift in the air.

I keep my eyes trained on her, watching as she calmly takes in the view from outside the window, the rise and fall of her chest matching this perceived calm.

After the door clicks, when it’s finally just us, she turns on me.

"You have some fucking nerve showing up here." Her voice is calm, but there’s a tremor under it.

I inhale slowly, forcing my fists to unclench. “Purity—”

"No." She steps closer, and fuck, she still smells like the same damn flowers from the gardens in Mexico. "You don’t get to say my name like that. Not after disappearing when I needed you most."

Is she still talking about five years ago? I tighten my jaw. "I was working a deal. If I didn’t handle it—"

"You were hiding." Her voice cracks, sharp enough to draw blood. "Don’t lie to me, Ryan. You were avoiding me."

"I was protecting the family—"

"You were protecting your fucking feelings!" Her chest heaves, and I feel every syllable like a punch to the ribs. "Do you know what it was like? To sit there, bleeding, screaming, losing my baby—alone?" Her voice drops to a whisper that’s worse than the shouting.

I take a deep breath, knowing that I have no excuse, so I act instead. I close the distance in two strides, gripping her wrists before she can pull away. My forehead dips until it almost brushes hers. "I'm sorry."

She twists in my hold, trying to break free, but I hold on tighter.

"I know 'sorry' can't bring her back."

She breaks down, tears freely falling from her eyes. "You left just when I was almost due, you knew Ryat wouldn't even care for me. Yet you left!"

I try to speak, but words fail me, because truly, I have no excuses.

"You also knew about Ryat's cheating, didn't you?" She finally manages to break free, wiping the tears from her cheeks. "But you didn't tell me."

"Pur—"

"Why!?" she squeals. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"He's my brother," comes my pathetic excuse. "I couldn't have done that to him."

"And what you did to me?" Her voice breaks. "What about what you did to me?"

I also have no excuses here.

Ryat's cheating was a well-known secret, one he flaunted in every company that wouldn't get it to his wife—and more often than not, I'm a part of this company.

But in my defense, I tried to stop him. I talked to him about the dangers and the trauma, but he never stopped. He never listened.

"Purity—"

"I want to be alone." She turns away, returning her attention to the window again.

"Would you listen to me—"

"Leave."