Novelas y relatos de The Beauty In Breaking

my mother and her sister. "You look beautiful," Mom beamed, and I stared at my reflection in the mirror. For the first time, the reflection staring back at me was that of a woman who knew her value. Of a relentless soul that will fight for others and ensure the less favored get better conditions... I felt proud of the woman staring back at me. Somehow, between leaving my realm and coming here... I stopped being the princess, a girl protected from everything by her father, to this woman. A queen, a woman who could sway a king's choices... a woman who had a mind and a powerful will to see things getting done.

"I'm not destroying myself. I'm grieving." "You've grieved enough. Now you're going to shower, put on the sexiest dress you own, and we're going out." "I don't want to go out." "I don't care what you want. You need to remember who you are. You're Evelyn Hart. You built a career from nothing. You're brilliant and beautiful and you deserve so much better than Anthony Blake. Now get in the shower before I drag you there myself." I know that tone. Tonia will absolutely drag me to the shower if I do not move.

His words trailed off, leaving the room heavier than before. For a while, neither of us spoke. Then his hand moved. Laney gently caught my wrist, stopping my hands mid-motion. “Mel,” he said, quieter—but sharper in a way that made me still. I paused. “What?” He looked up at me then, studying my face with an intensity that felt uncomfortably deliberate, like he was searching for something I hadn’t agreed to reveal. Whatever he found there made his expression soften in a different way. “You’re so beautiful,” he said simply.

I say glumly. “Why do you think that?” She asks, her tone sounding sad. “I’m broken and damaged. This should go to someone… who isn’t,” I say dejectedly. “You have been broken – physically and mentally – that’s true, but why does that make you undeserving of such a gift? The way I see it, it means you’re someone who can understand its significance and who will use it wisely,” she says as she locks her eyes with mine. “Did you know, when a broken bone is healing, during that time, that broken place in the bone becomes its strongest part? Being broken isn’t a personality flaw. It shows us just how strong we truly are.”

My head cracked against the corner of the wall, and the edge of the chair jabbed violently into my lower abdomen. A two-month-old pregnancy is fragile. It couldn't handle a blow like that. I felt a sudden, bone-chilling cold wash over me, like I'd been dropped into an ice bath. My vision tunneled into darkness, and sharp, stabbing pains began to radiate from my stomach. Through the haze, I could still hear Ryan screaming at me. "Celine! I can't believe you'd try to throw her out! Wasn't the scene at the clinic enough for you? You are pure evil!"

Fiona’s POV There is this quote from Robert Tea which I read up somewhere which says that, “Broken people are beautiful. They have to put themselves back every day.” The simplicity of this quote resonated with something within me. Something hollow and broken, something tired of fighting to stay alive.

"I don’t want to be the version of me that hurts her." "Then you have to kill that version. Not manage him. Kill him." --- Amara later pulled out her sketchbook. Pages flipped past images of her brother, the baby, faceless silhouettes of Liam. She began a new one. A window. Cracked but not broken. Still letting in light. And with every stroke of her pencil, she asked the question silently: Can broken things still be beautiful? The answer would take time. But she wasn’t afraid of waiting anymore.

I did break so much of rules for him and I never regret that. And now when I see him, I feel proud that I broke those rules of my own. When I feel him on my arms I feel that sometimes breaking your rules bring you happiness in life along with the risks and sometimes when you break the rules, unexpected result might show up and might take your life to next level.

I whisper against her hair, “I’ve got you. You’re safe.” She looks up at me then, her eyes red rimmed, her face blotchy from crying. And still she’s the most beautiful thing I have ever seen. Not because she’s perfect, but because she’s real. She is here, breaking apart in front of me, and trusting me to catch the pieces. She doesn’t know what that does to me. Her voice cracks as she says, “I’m broken, Jake. He broke me.” I cup her face in my hands before she can turn away, forcing her to see what I see. “No,” I tell her, firm and unshaking. “You are not broken. You are surviving. Do you understand that? Surviving isn’t weakness it’s strength.”

"You're beautiful." The compliment, so simple and sincere, broke through her defenses like nothing else could. She felt tears prick her eyes—not from sadness, but from the overwhelming relief of being seen, truly seen, not as a victim or a puzzle piece in someone else's game, but as herself. "I don't feel beautiful," she admitted, her voice small. "I feel broken. Used. Like I'm contaminated by everything that happened."