SILENT NIGHT BROKEN HEARTS

CHAPTER ONE

LUCIEN

The screaming is all I hear

High, sharp, cutting through the darkness like glass shattering. Then the blinding headlights. The smell of burning rubber. My mother’s hand reaching for me—

and slipping.

I try to grab her. I always try.

But I’m too slow.

I’m always too slow.

The world flips. Metal twists. A sickening crunch.

And then—

“PHONE RINGS"

I jolt awake, chest heaving. My fingers are clenched around the sheets, damp with sweat. The room is dark, silent, except for the constant buzzing in my ears—phantom echoes of a night I can’t outrun.

My phone vibrates again.

Of course.

Only one person calls this early.

I swipe to answer. “Grandfather.”

“You sound like hell,” he grumbles. “Nightmare?”

“It’s nothing.”

“It’s been thirteen years. Move on.”

Easy for him to say. He wasn’t the one trapped upside down in a mangled car, staring at the last breath leaving his parents’ bodies.

“What do you want?” I ask, rubbing the sleep from my eyes.

“The annual Christmas charity,” he says, too casually. “You’re going.”

“No.” The answer leaves my mouth instantly. “You know I don’t attend that thing.”

“It’s in your parents’ honor.”

“It’s a spectacle,” I mutter. “People pretending to care.”

He clicks his tongue. “Lucien. You can’t hide every year like a wounded wolf. Show your face. Shake some hands. Smile, if your face still remembers how.”

I pinch the bridge of my nose. “Grandfather—”

“Lucien.” His voice hardens, the tone that used to freeze me as a child. “Enough excuses. You owe this to them.”

A long breath leaves my chest. I hate when he’s right. I hate even more that I feel guilty.

“Fine,” I say. “I’ll go.”

“Good boy. Try not to scare anyone.”

He hangs up before I can curse at him.

I throw the phone aside and sit on the edge of the bed. Sweat clings to my skin. My heart still pounds too fast, too loud. The accident lingers behind my eyes like a ghost refusing to leave.

Another year. Another charity event. Another reminder of everything I lost.

I stand, stretching the stiffness from my muscles, and head to the home gym. It’s empty, quiet—just the way I like it. I start the treadmill, increasing the speed until the noise fills the hollow space inside my chest. Running helps. It’s the only thing that ever does.

Five miles. Ten. Breath ragged. Muscles burning.

Good. Pain means I’m here. Alive.

Afterward, I move to weights. Bench press. Deadlifts. The routine is muscle memory—predictable, unchanging. Unlike life.

By the time I’m done, sweat drips down my back, and the nightmare has faded into the corners of my mind.

I shower next. Hot water, steam, silence. I wash quickly; I’ve never liked lingering. Too much time in my own head is dangerous.

In the kitchen, I crack eggs into a pan and toast some bread. I could hire a chef, a housekeeper, an entire staff if I wanted. But I don’t. I can’t stand people hovering over me, doing things I’m perfectly capable of doing myself.

Maybe it’s control.

Maybe it’s stubbornness.

Maybe it’s the fear that if I let someone take care of me again… I’ll lose them too.

The toast pops up. The eggs sizzle. Normal. Grounding.

I eat in silence, staring at the empty chair across from me.

Another year.

Another charity.

Another crowd expecting the perfect son of the perfect couple.

I sigh and push my plate away.

“Let’s get this over with.”

But a small part of me—buried deep and chained tightly—wonders if this year will be different.

If something unexpected is waiting for me.