Chapter 6
1091 Words
The night wind sliced through Kirsten's skin like a blade, sharp and merciless.
She didn't go home or to a hospital. Instead, she wandered aimlessly through the deserted streets in the dead of the night. The bleeding from her arms and legs had stopped, but her expensive gown clung to her skin, stiff with dried blood and dried champagne. Every step tugged at the fabric and sent a dull, stinging pain through her nerves.
Yet this physical pain was a mere whisper compared to the agony tearing through her heart.
Her phone buzzed suddenly in her clutch.
Kirsten didn't break her stride. Mechanically, she pulled it out. Marion's name glowed on the screen.
It was a text.
[Have you treated your wounds? Get them bandaged at a clinic. About tonight—try to understand. Verena's family is in talks for a major deal with us. She couldn't get hurt on my watch—the consequences would have been disastrous.]
He offered no apology and no concern.
He just gave her a cold, calculated explanation.
While she was standing there, drenched in blood and humiliation, all he could think of was his business, his profits, and how to appease another woman's family.
Kirsten stared at the screen, and for the first time, even her bitter urge to laugh had abandoned her.
She'd lost. Utterly and completely. Not to Verena, but to the fearless girl she'd been eight years ago, to the love she'd poured everything into—a love that now felt like a cruel joke.
Calmly, she deleted the text, silenced her phone, and tossed it back into her bag. Then she turned toward the apartment, the one she'd once believed would be her forever home.
*****
The moment she opened the door, darkness enveloped her. The apartment was cold and lifeless.
Kirsten didn't bother with the lights. She walked straight to the bathroom. In the mirror, she saw herself—hair tangled, makeup smeared by champagne, and her face as pale as death. The champagne gown was marred with stark bloodstains, a grim testament to the night's humiliation.
Expressionless, she peeled off the dress—now a mockery of her hopes—and threw it into the trash. She stepped into the shower, cranking the water to its coldest setting. Icy streams pounded her body, stinging her scabbed wounds.
The bone-chilling cold made her tremble, but it also sharpened her mind with a clarity she'd never known.
From the medicine cabinet, she grabbed antiseptic and gauze. Facing the mirror, she cleaned and dressed her wounds in silence, pressing the alcohol-soaked cotton to her skin. The sharp sting didn't make her flinch.
This physical pain was nothing. She was already numb.
By the time she finished, it was past midnight.
Kirsten slipped into pajamas just as the sound of the keypad lock clicked at the entrance.
Marion was back.
He looked exhausted, his tie askew, his handsome face shadowed with fatigue and the faint smell of liquor. Seeing only a single floor lamp glowing in the living room, he paused, then hurried toward her.
"Why aren't you asleep?" He reached for her arm. "Your wounds..."
Kirsten stepped back smoothly, dodging his touch.
Marion's hand froze midair, his expression darkening.
"I'm tired," Kirsten said, her voice flat and hollow.
Those words built an invisible wall, shutting out his concern and probing. Marion's brows twitched with frustration. He tried to soften his tone, as though coaxing a child out of a tantrum. "Kirstie, don't be like this. I messed up tonight. I'm sorry."
He paused, pulling a velvet box from his pocket and holding it out to her. "Let's not fight about this. We have dinner at Ballard Manor with the family in a few days. Tomorrow, I'll take you shopping for a new dress—how's that?"
He thought a grand birthday party and an expensive gift could erase the pain and humiliation.
Kirsten's gaze lingered on the elegant box, but she didn't take it.
She simply looked up at him and said, very softly, "Alright."
Then she brushed past him, heading for the bedroom. "I need a shower."
Marion stood there, watching her cold, distant silhouette fade into the bedroom. Something sharp twisted in his chest. He couldn't name it, but it felt like something important slipping through his fingers.
The sound of running water filled the bathroom.
Kirsten showered for a long time. When she emerged, Marion had succumbed to exhaustion, asleep on the bed.
She stepped out, her skin carrying the clean, fresh scent from her shower. The man on the bed breathed evenly, his brow still furrowed, as if even sleep couldn't ease his troubles.
This was the man she'd loved for eight years.
Every feature of his face—those brows, those eyes, those lips—she had memorized through countless caresses. They had shared so many nights wrapped in each other's arms, so many moments of intimacy. She had drifted to sleep against his chest, his heartbeat her lullaby, believing their love was eternal.
Kirsten reached out, fingertips trembling slightly, and brushed his furrowed brow one last time. A gesture of farewell more than comfort.
Perhaps sensing her touch, Marion's throat moved, and he murmured a name in his sleep.
"Rena..."
His voice was tender, laced with a dreamy affection.
Kirsten's hand froze, then recoiled as if scorched by fire.
Her last flicker of warmth, her final thread of hope, shattered in that moment.
Even in his dreams, he was thinking of someone else.
She no longer had a place in his heart—not even in his sleep.
Kirsten's chest heaved once, then stilled into a lifeless calm. She didn't cry. Her eyes didn't even redden.
A person who was dead inside couldn't shed tears.
She stood, turned, and walked to the corner of the closet, pulling out a suitcase she'd packed days ago.
It held little—just a few of her own clothes and a photo album, the only keepsake she wanted to carry forward.
Dragging the suitcase, she didn't glance back at the man on the bed.
At the foyer, she took the apartment keys from her bag and placed them gently on the shoe cabinet. The soft clink they made was barely audible—but in the silence of the apartment, it echoed like thunder.
In fact, it was the final sound of their shared life.
Kirsten opened the door and closed it softly behind her.
With her suitcase rolling behind her, Kirsten stepped into the night.
She never looked back.
- Writer
