Chapter - 2
1097 Words
He was supposed to take me home. Instead, he drove me back to the place where he destroyed me.
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“That’s not the road to our house! You’re going the wrong way!” I snapped.
The words came out sharper than I intended, but I didn’t care. Irritation clawed up my throat as the car continued forward, as if he hadn’t heard me at all—or worse, as if he had and simply chose to ignore it.
Four years may have passed since I left San Miguel, but my memory of it hadn’t faded. Every street. Every corner. Every turn that once meant something.
This was the town where I grew up. Where I first learned how to love—and where I learned how love could ruin you.
I glanced at him. He remained focused on the road, hands steady on the wheel, expression unreadable. Calm. Too calm. Like I wasn’t sitting beside him, unraveling piece by piece.
“Don’t you want to talk to your dad first?” he asked finally, his voice even and controlled.
He didn’t even look at me.
That only made my frustration worse.
“Yes. So where are we going?” I asked, irritation sharpening my tone.
“Your dad is at the VincElla Hotel. We’re going there,” he replied, turning the wheel as if the decision had already been made long before I stepped into his car.
The VincElla Hotel.
My breath caught so sharply it hurt.
The name alone was enough to drag me backward.
My throat tightened as the gates came into view—tall, iron, and painfully familiar. The hotel our families built. The hotel Vincent himself named… VincElla. Years before everything fell apart. Years before we did.
The memories didn’t come gently. They crashed into me all at once.
The garden. The lights. The music. The day I became his wife in front of everyone—smiling without fully understanding what I was stepping into.
And the same place where everything ended without warning.
My chest tightened painfully, my fingers curling against my lap.
I didn’t even realize I was crying until my vision blurred and warmth slid down my cheeks.
No.
Not here. Not again.
“We’re here,” Vincent said.
His voice cut through the haze, pulling me back to the present.
I quickly wiped my face and turned away just as the car door opened. Cool air rushed in. A hotel staff member stood there, greeting us, but his expression faltered the moment he saw me.
Crying.
I forced a small, unconvincing smile and stepped out before Vincent could say anything. I walked ahead immediately, refusing to look back. Refusing to wait.
Of course, he followed.
He always did.
The lobby swallowed me the moment I entered.
Polished marble floors. Golden lighting. Soft music drifting through the air as if nothing painful had ever happened within these walls. Everything looked exactly as I remembered—perfect, untouched.
And that was the problem.
Because I remembered everything.
My steps slowed. My breathing hitched.
Four years disappeared in an instant.
I wasn’t twenty-two anymore. I wasn’t here in the present.
I was back there.
Back to the version of myself who smiled too much and believed too easily. Back to the girl who thought love meant forever.
My throat burned. My knees weakened.
I shouldn’t be here.
I wasn’t ready.
Another tear slipped free despite my effort to stop it. I turned slightly, trying to steady my breathing, trying to hold myself together—but my body betrayed me.
I stepped back.
Then another.
My balance faltered.
And suddenly, I collided with something solid. Warm. Unyielding.
Arms caught me immediately.
Instinctively.
My hands gripped the fabric of his shirt without thinking, as if my body recognized him before my mind could stop it. As if it still knew exactly where to fall.
I forced myself to breathe. Once. Twice. Three times.
Slowly, I looked up.
My heart dropped.
Vincent.
The world seemed to still again.
I pulled away immediately, as if burned. My steps stumbled back, putting distance between us as quickly as I could. My gaze dropped to the floor—anywhere but him.
Because if I looked at him—really looked—he would see everything.
The shaking. The tears. The way I was barely holding myself together.
And I refused to give him that.
“I’m good,” I said quickly, forcing the words out. I turned my face away before he could read anything else.
But I felt it.
His gaze remained on me.
Heavy. Observing.
“Are you okay?” Vincent asked.
For a second—just a second—I thought I heard something different in his voice. Not cold. Not indifferent. Something softer. Almost… concerned.
My chest tightened painfully at the thought.
Concern? From him?
After everything?
My nails dug into my palm.
No.
That wasn’t real. It couldn’t be.
“I’m okay,” I answered, too quickly, too firmly.
Before he could respond, I turned and walked away.
The elevator was right there.
I stepped inside and pressed the button immediately.
Please close.
Please close.
Please close.
But it didn’t.
A hand stopped the doors.
Vincent stepped in.
The space changed instantly—smaller, heavier, harder to breathe in.
Now it was just the two of us.
No escape.
The silence pressed in around me until even my breathing sounded too loud. I fixed my eyes on the rising floor numbers, focusing on anything but him.
But I could still feel him beside me.
Always.
“Are you sure you’re okay?” he asked again.
That same tone.
That same look.
And something inside me snapped.
Because I remembered another version of him—the one who made me feel small, replaceable, never enough.
“I’m okay!” I snapped. My voice echoed inside the elevator, louder than I intended.
Too loud. Too raw.
“I’m okay. I’m okay,” I repeated, sharper this time, as if saying it enough would make it true.
But it didn’t.
It only made my chest ache more.
Because I wasn’t okay.
I wasn’t fine.
I wasn’t strong.
I was breaking.
Right there.
In front of him.
Michael Vincent Dela Merced.
The only man I ever loved.
The only man who destroyed me without ever raising his voice.
The elevator kept rising, but I felt like I was sinking.
And in that suffocating silence, one truth settled heavily inside me—
Four years hadn’t healed anything.
It had only delayed the moment I finally broke again.
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