The Hollow In Her Chest
1816 Words
Serena’s POV
I should have kept walking.
Should have gone straight to my room and buried myself under the covers until sleep claimed me, no matter how restless I felt.
But his words echoed too loudly in my head.
“Be careful with Damien… He’s not as heartless as he seems. And that might be the most dangerous thing about him.”
It sounded like a riddle. A warning. A truth laced with something deeper.
My feet slowed, then stopped. My fingers tightened around the cold glass of water I held. I could feel my heart thudding in my chest, unsure if it was anger, curiosity, or something else entirely that made me turn back.
Vincent was still standing in the kitchen, swirling the amber liquid in his glass, watching the way the light fractured through it. He didn’t look surprised when I stepped back in.
“Changed your mind?” he asked smoothly, not looking up.
“You can’t say something like that and expect me to walk away,” I said, my voice a little sharper than I intended.
He finally raised his gaze to mine, one brow lifted. “I thought you might come back.”
I stepped further into the kitchen, placing the water glass on the counter more forcefully than needed. “What did you mean? About Damien?”
Vincent sighed, taking a long sip before setting his glass down. He leaned both hands on the counter, his posture relaxed but his gaze thoughtful.
“Damien puts up walls,” he began, his voice lower now, more serious. “Cold ones. Thick ones. The kind you can’t scale or knock down. People look at him and think he’s unfeeling, unreachable. Even Eleanor used to say that sometimes.”
The mention of my sister made my chest tighten.
“But he isn’t?” I asked softly.
Vincent shook his head slowly. “No. That’s the thing. He feels everything. He just hides it so well, it convinces even himself that he doesn’t.”
I furrowed my brows, crossing my arms. “That still doesn’t explain why you said it’s dangerous.”
He looked at me then—really looked. And I saw something flicker in his eyes. A kind of seriousness that erased all traces of his usual charm.
“Because when someone who claims they feel nothing… actually starts to feel something—” he paused, his voice dropping to nearly a whisper, “—they don’t know what to do with it. And sometimes, they destroy it before it can destroy them.”
My breath caught in my throat.
He wasn’t smiling now. There was no teasing, no flirtation, no mask. Just truth.
“Damien loved Eleanor,” he said quietly. “In his own way. But he didn’t know how to show it. He kept her at arm’s length for so long that by the time he started trying… it was already too late.”
I swallowed hard, my throat suddenly dry.
Vincent straightened and walked over to the sink, rinsing out his glass. The silence between us stretched, heavy and thick. I wanted to say something—but I didn’t even know what I was feeling.
“And now,” Vincent added, drying his hands with a towel, “you’ve stepped into a house full of ghosts.”
My stomach twisted. “I didn’t come here to replace her.”
“I know.” He turned to face me again, arms crossed, leaning against the sink. “But you did. Whether you wanted to or not.”
I blinked rapidly, stung by the truth of it.
I didn’t want to replace Eleanor. I never could. She had been everything I wasn’t—graceful, elegant, composed. She was their mother. Damien’s wife. The twins’ entire world.
But they cried for me now. Reached for me. Trusted me.
And now I shared her bedroom’s corridor. Her children’s lullabies. Her husband’s last name.
“What should I do?” I asked softly, feeling small, uncertain. “Walk away?”
Vincent tilted his head, eyes narrowing. “Would you?”
“No,” I whispered. “Not from the twins.”
He nodded like he expected that.
“Then be careful,” he said again, stepping closer, his tone softer now. “You’re already in deeper than you think. And Damien… he doesn’t know how to love without fear. If he starts to feel something for you—he’ll fight it. Or worse, punish you for it.”
I stiffened.
“I’m not looking for him to love me,” I said firmly. “I’m here for Lucas and Lucy. That’s all.”
“Maybe that’s how it starts,” Vincent murmured. “But feelings are tricky things. Especially in houses like this—where everything is quiet and heavy and filled with what used to be.”
I felt a chill crawl across my skin. The room suddenly felt colder, darker.
“Why are you telling me this?” I asked.
He smiled again, softer this time. “Because you’re young. Because you’re not stupid. And because I think you might be the first person who’s walked into this house and genuinely cared about something other than themselves.”
My throat tightened. I wasn’t sure what to say to that.
Vincent grabbed his jacket from the chair near the kitchen door, slipping it on. “Goodnight, Serena.”
“Goodnight,” I said, voice barely above a whisper.
He walked out, the sound of his shoes echoing faintly down the corridor.
I stood alone in the kitchen, the low hum of the refrigerator the only sound. My glass of water sat forgotten on the counter.
I should have felt comforted.
But instead, I felt shaken—like something in the foundation beneath me had shifted.
Damien was not heartless.
And maybe, just maybe, that terrified me more than if he truly was.
Vincent’s words wouldn’t leave me.
What did he mean by that? I didn’t know. But his eyes... they had been kind. Almost too kind. The kind that made me feel seen in a way I didn’t know I needed until I felt it.
And yet, I walked away with something sharp wedged beneath my ribs.
The hallway to the bedroom stretched endlessly as I walked back. Each step felt heavier, slower, as if my legs were dragging the weight of choices I couldn’t undo. Choices I’d made because I thought they were right. Because everyone said they were.
The door to my room—our room—opened with a soft creak. But the silence inside was deafening.
It was beautiful. Almost coldly so.
The tall arched windows were veiled with sheer curtains that moved gently with the breeze. The bed was perfectly made, untouched, as though even the silk pillows knew I didn’t belong here. The walls were painted in calm neutrals, elegant and tasteful—lifeless.
I didn’t move at first. Just stood there, the dim evening light casting shadows across the room. I let the door close behind me, the sound final, like something quietly locking in place.
I was twenty-three.
And I was married.
To a man I had no intention of loving. To a man who hadn’t touched me since the moment we signed our names on that paper. Damien Black—my sister’s widower. The father of the twins. My… husband.
My stomach twisted.
I didn’t want his love. I was sure of that. Love would only make this harder. This wasn’t a fairytale. There were no soft kisses in the kitchen, no warm laughter filling these halls. No gentle hands pulling me close at night. Just silence. Distance. A man who treated me like a roommate in a museum made of grief and regret.
And yet… despite everything, despite how sure I was, the weight of this decision had started to settle in my bones.
What had I done to myself?
I sat down at the edge of the bed slowly, like if I moved too fast the whole illusion would crack. I stared at my hands, now bare of any jewelry except for the thin wedding band that mocked me with its simplicity.
I had dreams once.
I had wanted to marry for love. I had wanted a partner who saw me—not as someone who could take over Eleanor’s role, not as a convenient solution to a tragedy, not as the caretaker of two innocent children—but me. Serena.
But no one had asked what I wanted.
Everyone thought about the twins. Damien thought about them. My parents thought about them. Even Vincent, for all his charm and secrets, had looked at me with sympathy when talking about them.
And I loved them too. God, I loved them. Lucy’s sleepy eyes, the way she always reached for me first. Lucas’s gummy smile, the tiny fist that always curled into my shirt when I fed him. They were the only light in this shadowed house.
But what about me?
What about the girl who once painted until her fingers were sore? The girl who wrote love poems in the margins of her textbooks and imagined meeting someone who would memorize her laugh?
That girl didn’t belong here.
She didn’t belong in a loveless marriage with a man twelve years older who refused to look her in the eye for longer than a moment. She didn’t belong in cold rooms or long corridors or quiet dinners filled with strained politeness.
She didn’t belong anywhere anymore.
I bit my lip hard to keep the tears at bay. But it didn’t stop the ache.
What scared me more than anything was that I was beginning to forget how that girl felt. I was already becoming someone else—someone quieter, smaller. Someone who lived by obligation, not by desire. Someone who tucked away dreams in exchange for duty.
Vincent’s words echoed again.
“Don’t lose yourself.”
Too late.
Or maybe not yet.
But it was close. I could feel it.
I let myself fall back onto the bed, the mattress swallowing my weight. I stared at the ceiling, at the intricate molding I would eventually memorize out of sheer boredom or loneliness.
I had chosen this. No one had forced me. I had walked into this with my eyes open and my heart locked shut.
But it didn’t make it hurt any less.
I turned onto my side, curling into myself, the sheets cool against my skin. From down the hall, I thought I heard the soft sound of one of the twins stirring. I almost got up. Almost ran to them. Because they were the only thing anchoring me here.
But I stayed. Just for a moment.
Because for once, I needed to sit in the quiet and remember what I’d lost.
I wasn’t sure I’d ever get it back.
- Writer
