It was during her pregnancy with my oldest that I noticed the drastic change. The manic episodes. Outbursts. They were all aimed at me. I tolerated it, ensured she and her pregnancy were healthy and safe. But then my son was born, and she tried to hurthim.
No doctor seemed capable of pinpointing the diagnosis. When she was medicated, she seemed okay, but she was unable to care for our son, anything, or anyone. When she wasn’t medicated, her violent episodes flared. If they had only been aimed at me, I would have tolerated them. But they weren’t, soI had her committed to a private clinic that was staffed with the best doctors and care possible.
The strange part was that she hadn’t been violent toward any of us when we visited her at the clinic. So, I’d brought her home in hopes that we’d be a family. After last night, it was clear it’d been a mistake and all the years of hoping for something better had all been for naught.
I’d been shackled for almost two decades in a marriage with Amara. It didn’t just cost me years, but so much more. Sacrifices. Loneliness. Darkness.
All for fucking nothing.
In the heavy stillness, one memory rose from the depths of my mind. A single moment that had clung to me through years of solitude.
I’d fallen victim to my solitude only once, with a woman who had sad eyes and soft hair.
It felt like a lifetime ago, on a night thick with ghosts that seemed to haunt us both. We had been strangers, vulnerable to wounds too deep to name. Somehow, in those fragile hours before dawn, we had found comfort in each other’s arms.
Just one night.
One moment of weakness.
I shoved the memory back down where it belonged, burying it beneath the weight of emotions I refused to untangle.
Self-loathing. Disgust. Fury. Disappointment.
But not regret.
I should regret it. I should curse that moment, curse myself for the betrayal. Yet no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t.
“Papa.”
My daughter’s voice cut through the silence. It was low, raw and hoarse, a result of my wife’s attempt to strangle her.
Amara Suzanne Lykos was definitely not getting better, actually becoming more of a threat to my children than ever.
“Dad, it wasn’t your fault,” my eldest, Dimitros, added quietly.
I didn’t turn to look at my children—I couldn’t—because it had been my decision to bring the monster back into our home.
I really thought she had improved, but obviously I was so fucking wrong. I’d never been more wrong in my entire life. And it had almost cost me everything.
“Dad, we have to put an end to this,” my son continued.
Hearing my sixteen-year-old son’s despair nearly shattered what remained of my heart. Surely he couldn’t mean…
“She almost killed Aria,” he rasped on a shuddering breath. “We have to end her.”
She’d hurt Dimitros too, but he was too good of a soul to worry about himself. His sister was his entire world, and the moment he laid eyes on her, he swore he’d protect her until his dying breath. I just never imagined it’d be against his mother.
Their footsteps creaked on the hardwood as they moved closer. Dimitros stepped in front of me, still holding his sister’s hand as if afraid she might disappear if he let go.
Slowly, I raised my head and my chest tightened.
My son stood rigid in a dark suit despite the early hour, his shoulders squared with a determination no boy his age should carry. His dark hair was ruffled while he watched me with dark eyes far too old to belong to a sixteen-year-old. Everyone claimed he was an identical version of me at that age, but I disagreed. He was far more serious and a lot better than I ever was.
Beside him, Aria wore a high-collared lilac dress that covered most of her neck, hiding the bruises, while she watched me with her sad eyes. Her blonde hair, so much like her mother’s, flickered like gold whenever light hit it. She looked petite next to her brother, even though she was fairly tall for her age.
“Papa, please,” Aria said softly.
She released Dimitros’s hand and crouched in front of me. When our eyes met, my chest tightened. Her gaze was gentle, luminous, heartbreakingly familiar.
