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And that had been, what, seven or eight months ago?
Even now, Acheron's mind instinctively sought to distance itself from the memories, and all he could remember was the tears running down her pale face and the stark emptiness that kept growing and growing inside of him.
It had made no fucking sense to him then, and it still didn't. Amelia had known what she was doing, had fucking known she could have cost him his entire business, and yet she had still fucking gone ahead and dumped all the contracts into the shredder.
Why the fuck are you doing this? WHY?
He had never yelled at her before, but at that time, it had been just too fucking much. That time, the tears that used to destroy him had only left him cold.
Please don't shout at me. Please, Acheron, please, don't be like this, please.
He had once thought that he could never be like Anthony, the pedophile that had been so obsessed with thirteen-year-old Amelia that he had made her his mistress. Anthony liked making Amelia beg to keep her under his power, and as the years had progressed, Anthony had made sure they always had an audience for it.
Beg or...
The threats varied, but they had one common denominator. They had all targeted Amelia's soft heart for the underdogs, and Anthony had known it.
And because Acheron had been one of those underdogs, Amelia had begged for him, too.
She had gone on her knees for him, more times than he could count, and while he had always strove to make it up to her, what she had done at his study had been the last straw, and Acheron had lost it.
Is it your turn now? You want me on my knees? Because that's what it looks like. You want me to be your bitch the way—-
She had slapped him, and it hadn't made a difference.
Anthony made you his bitch?
She had slapped him again and again, begging him to take the words back, but he had not.
And that was the last time they had seen each other...until now.
A heavy, numbing sensation filled Acheron's chest as he entered Amelia's room and saw what she had made of it. What could be torn had been ripped into shreds, what could be overturned had been overturned. Paintings that had once hung on the wall, curtains that had once covered the windows, and the expensive tea set that used to grace the console - all of it was on the floor now.
Broken bits and pieces everywhere, but not all of them were tangible.
Each time, the strokes of her madness were different, but they all painted the same devastating mess.
"Acheron."
She had finally noticed him, and his chest tightened as she came flying to him. He wrapped his arms about her, knowing to do anything else would kill her, and his chest tightened even more.
The silky feel of her hair, the paleness of her skin, and even the sound of her sobs - all of it were terribly, hurtfully familiar.
But there were also things that had changed.
She used to carry the scent of strawberries all the time, but now she smelled of sweat. She had always been the type to take pride in her appearance, but now she looked all dried up, her thinness dangerously beyond what was fashionable.
The changes did not disgust him at all, but it did make him sad.
This was not the Amelia he remembered, and it was for this reason that he could not and would not leave her.
"I only wanted a little," she whispered against his shirt.
"I know."
"Wickham wouldn't give me any."
"I'd fire him if he had."
