Chapter 5: Broken
1065 Words
Cynthia's POV
The moment the hotel door closed behind Dominic, silence swallowed the room like a tidal wave.
I lay there motionless, tangled in sheets that still held his warmth. My heart felt like it had caved in on itself, leaving a hollow, echoing ache in my chest.
My fingers curled around the spot on the bed where he had been lying minutes earlier.
He left.
After everything.
After our tears, our words, our intimacy.
He still left.
A broken sob slipped out before I could stop it. My whole body shook as I pulled the blanket over myself, trying to hold in the pieces of me that were falling apart.
The room smelled like him.
That hurt the most.
When I finally forced myself to stand, I felt weak, dizzy, like my legs were made of paper. I dressed slowly, my hands trembling with every movement. I didn’t look at the bed again.
I couldn’t.
The hotel lobby was still warm and quiet when I walked out. A soft drizzle had started outside, misting the streets and blurring the lights. I took slow steps into the night, letting the rain wash over my face as if it could rinse away the pain.
But nothing could.
Not tonight.
By the time I returned home, my eyes were swollen and my voice raw. I tried to sneak in through the back entrance, praying everyone was asleep.
But fate wasn’t that kind.
Voices echoed from the dining room...excited, bright, too cheerful for midnight. My stomach tightened as I slowly approached.
I stopped in the doorway.
My family was gathered around the table. Victoria Anderson was there. Her parents. And Natasha… wearing a pale blush dress and a smile that made my blood run cold.
My father was raising a glass.
“It is with great joy,” he announced, “that we welcome this new alliance between our families. Dominic and Natasha will make a wonderful couple, and we are thrilled to share this news officially.”
The room erupted in polite applause.
My breath caught.
A cold, sharp ache sliced through my chest.
Dominic didn’t waste time.
He let his family arrange this...*tonight*.
The same night he left me.
My mother noticed me first. Her smile vanished. “Cynthia,” she warned quietly, “go to your room.”
Victoria turned her head with a satisfied smirk. Natasha’s eyes flicked to mine, sparkling with triumph.
I felt humiliated.
Exposed.
Destroyed.
“You can’t be serious,” I whispered, voice barely audible.
My father stood, expression stern. “We are. You’ve caused enough embarrassment. This arrangement will restore everything.”
“Embarrassment?” I choked out. “I didn’t do anything wrong!”
Victoria tutted mockingly. “Let it go, Cynthia. It’s over.”
And that was it.
I realized I was alone. Completely.
I didn’t yell. I didn’t cry. I just turned around and walked upstairs quietly, like a ghost drifting through a house that no longer had space for me.
In my room, I packed.
Not carefully. Not thoughtfully. I just shoved clothes into a suitcase with shaking hands. My passport. My sketchbook. A few photos. The essentials.
I didn’t know where I was going...I only knew I had to leave before the walls suffocated me.
I slipped out through the side gate. No one noticed. No one cared.
And by three in the morning, I was on a flight to Paris.
Paris.
The city that once felt like a dream now felt like an escape route. The first nights were the hardest. I rented a tiny studio apartment with peeling paint and a window overlooking a narrow street. I cried myself to sleep for a week straight. Sometimes two.
But the city kept moving, even if I couldn’t.
Eventually, I forced myself to move with it.
I applied for every art job I could find...internships, assistant positions, anything. I walked everywhere with my portfolio tucked under my arm, pretending to be strong even when my knees trembled.
And slowly… life shifted.
A month later, I got hired by **Atelier Lumière**, a small but respected art company near the Seine. They curated exhibitions, restored old paintings, and worked with modern artists. I became an assistant in their design department...sorting sketches, organizing materials, preparing concepts.
It wasn’t glamorous, but it was something.
Something of mine.
Something that didn’t hurt to wake up for.
The people were kind.
Paris was gentle in ways home had never been.
Sometimes, late at night, I’d sit by the river and draw...faces, silhouettes, places I wanted to forget. Dominic’s eyes. His smile. The outline of his shoulders. I tried to erase him with every stroke.
But he stayed.
On the way my hand shook when I remembered his touch.
In the way I avoided certain songs.
On the way I still checked my phone even though it never lit up.
Healing wasn’t linear.
It was messy.
Just like us.
The first time I felt something was wrong was on a chilly morning near the end of my first month in Paris.
I was walking to work with a warm croissant in one hand and my sketchbook in the other when a strange dizziness hit me. I paused on the sidewalk, gripping a lamppost as the world tilted slightly.
Maybe I hadn’t eaten enough.
Maybe I was tired.
Maybe...
But when I checked my phone for the date, my breath caught.
My period was late.
Not by a day.
By over a week.
I stopped breathing.
My heart hammered violently. A cold wave washed over me. My fingers tightened around my phone until my knuckles turned white.
No.
No, no, no.
I whispered to myself, “It’s just stress… right? It must be…”
But my voice shook.
And deep...deep...inside me, a terrifying truth whispered back.
This time… if I was late…
It wasn’t a lie.
It wasn’t a setup.
It wasn’t a trap.
It was real.
And the memory of that night with Dominic...his trembling hands, his desperate kisses, our bodies pressed together like we were trying to hold onto each other through a storm...came rushing back so sharply I almost stumbled.
My pulse pounded loudly in my ears.
I pressed a hand to my stomach, breath trembling.
No test in the world could have prepared me for the thought forming in my mind.
“What if… I'm really pregnant?”
- Writer
