CHAPTER 148: BROKEN

Alexia POV

I woke to the sound of silence.

Not the comforting kind. Not the kind that felt like peace. It was the kind of quiet that pressed down on me, suffocating, like the weight of everything I couldn’t understand yet was starting to crush me.

I rolled over, reaching out instinctively. But the space next to me was cold.

Empty.

It was like he hadn’t been there at all, even though I could still feel the faint imprint of his body beside mine. The warmth of his skin, the soft scent of him lingering in the sheets. But he was gone.

Gone without a word.

I let out a shaky breath. The sudden emptiness made my chest ache. There was this tightness, a gnawing feeling at the pit of my stomach, like I should’ve known this would happen. He’d leave. He always left, even when he was close. Always pulling away, always pushing me back.

What did I expect? For him to stay? To care?

I pushed myself up, feeling the ache between my thighs, the soreness from last night. My body remembered things my mind was still trying to run from. But there was something deeper—a heaviness that went beyond physical exhaustion.

I reached for my dress, still crumpled on the floor, and pulled it back on, trying not to think about how exposed I felt without him there. He’d taken everything from me last night—my fear, my desire, my confusion. But now that he was gone, I was left with this hollow space in me. And it felt just as terrifying.

I pushed myself off the bed, moving toward the door. The silence in the villa was oppressive, thick with unanswered questions. He hadn’t even said goodbye.

Had I been just another thing to him? Another moment to forget?

I couldn’t remember the last time I felt so alone.

********

I didn’t sleep.

Not really.

I think I drifted. Floated somewhere between dreams and aches, each breath a reminder of what happened. Of how close I came to losing myself completely.

The sheets still smelled like him. Whiskey, musk, and fury.

Every time I moved, a flash of pain sparked through my thighs. I bit my lip to stop from crying out. I didn’t want to give the walls the satisfaction of hearing me fall apart.

I tried to stand once.

Failed.

Collapsed back onto the bed with a hiss, clutching the edge of the mattress like it could anchor me. My body felt used. Not ruined. Not violated. Just... claimed.

And that was worse somehow.

Because it meant I’d let him.

Because part of me still wanted it.

Still wanted him.

I hated myself for that.

I hated how my body remembered him even now—every stroke, every kiss, every cruel whisper against my skin. How the memory of his mouth on mine made my heart lurch even while my mind screamed for distance.

God, what was wrong with me?

Aiden hadn’t come back.

I didn’t know if I wanted him to.

And that... that truth cracked something inside me.

I tried to crawl out of bed again. My legs were shaky, weak, and I could feel the bruises blooming across my hips. My wrists ached too, from where he’d pinned them. Not violently. Not enough to break. But enough to own me.

I made it to the bathroom, barely.

The mirror didn’t lie.

Hair a mess. Skin pale. Lips swollen and still tinged with the red of where he bit me.

I looked like a stranger.

A woman who let a man she wasn’t sure she loved or hated tear her apart. A woman who moaned through her tears. Who whimpered for more even as she bled.

My stomach twisted.

I sank to the floor and curled up on the cold tiles, arms wrapped tight around my knees, forehead pressed against them.

And I sobbed.

Not quiet, pretty tears.

But real ones.

Ugly ones.

Shaking, gasping, broken sobs that scraped my throat raw.

I cried for everything.

For what he did.

For what I let him do.

For the girl I used to be.

For the monster I once was.

For the princess who ordered lashes like she was offering wine.

And for the slave she crushed.

I remembered it now.

Not just pieces. Not just flashes.

I remembered his screams.

The way he looked at me through the bars of his cell, eyes burning even then. I remembered the day I had his sister dragged in—how she begged, how he begged—and I thought she was trying to manipulate him. Trying to get close to me through him. I thought it was all a trick.

I thought I was being clever.

All I did was kill the only person he loved.

No wonder he hated me.

No wonder he couldn’t stop touching me like a man starved—desperate to punish, to possess, to ruin.

Because that’s what I’d done to him.

And now, here I was. On the floor, unable to even look at myself. Knowing I’d let him back in. That I still would. If he walked in right now, if he knelt beside me, I’d reach for him like an addict.

I shook harder, the sobs coming in waves now.

I didn’t even hear the knock at the door until it came again.

Soft.

Too soft to be Aiden.

I scrambled upright, wiping my face quickly. "What?" I rasped.

It was William. Of course.

"I’ve brought tea," he said gently. "And a warm bath. Shall I leave it at the door?"

I didn’t answer.

He must’ve heard my silence.

A pause.

Then, carefully, "Would you like me to call someone?"

No.

God, no.

Who would I even ask for?

I had no one. No friends. No family. Just this mansion. These ghosts.

And Aiden.

I pressed my palm to the glass of the mirror, staring at my own reflection.

I hated that I still wanted him.

I hated that he could break me, and I’d crawl back for more.

But most of all, I hated how much I didn’t hate him anymore.

That was the real betrayal.

The final one.

Because some tiny, shattered part of me still whispered:

Maybe he’s the only one who can understand.

Maybe I deserve the ruin he brings.

Maybe I already belonged to him.