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Thesmell of burnt croissants while perched on his lap had consumed my senses.
Thecallous attitude he exercised about my fucked up mind couldn’t be replicated by anyone.
Theway he looked at me likeIwas his entire world.Asif he couldn’t bear to be apart from me.Asif even a second away from me was torture.
Enough!
Stopit.Stopit.Stopit.
Ispent most of my life seeking solitude, even in misery.ButIdidn’t like the idea ofDamondead somewhere, suffering eternity in solitude.Thislife had turned meaningless without him.Thiswas now the only meaningful thingIcould do.JoinDamonin death.
Myfingers played with the scalpelIhad swiped from the doctor’s tray.Everyonehad finally left my room.Somewent to theICUto visitRose, others were in the cafeteria, and my mother was with the doctors.Mycousins were loitering in the hallway, seeking respite from the oppressive atmosphere.
Itwisted the scalpel between my fingers, feeling its coolness against my skin.Itwould be poetic ifIslit my wrist, replacing the fading red marks left behind by the handcuffs.Thethought brought a strange sense of comfort asItraced the sharp blade.
Theonly reasonIhadn’t sliced my wrist yet was becauseIwanted to live a few more minutes basking in the momentsIshared withDamon.
Blueeyes.
Thesmell of burnt croissants.
Dirtyblonde hair flopping messily over his eyes.
Ishook my head.Enoughalready.
Icould spend an entire lifetime within these memories, butDamonwas waiting.AndIknew he hated being apart from me for too long.
Mythumb brushed against the two stacked rings on my ring finger, feeling the tattoo underneath—my real wedding ring.Wehad promised until ‘death do us part,’but no one said only one of us had to die.
Bringingmy other hand forward,Ipressed the scalpel against my wrist.Bloodseeped out asIapplied pressure, but before it could do any significant harm, it was snatched away from me.
“Don’teven think about it,”Zanewarned in a steady voice.
ChapterThirty-Eight
POPPY
Stupid,irritatingZane.Hecouldn’t even let me die in peace.
“Youdo understand how selfish you’re being, right?You’llkill your mother if you do that.”
Isaid nothing, looking straight ahead.Howdid he know to come back and stop me?
Zanewatched me closely for a few moments, twirling the bloody scalpel between his fingers.Finally, he walked over to the abandoned tray on the other side of the room to gather gauze and tape.Hereturned to my bedside, sitting next to me.
“Whatthe hell are you doing?”Thosewere the first wordsIhad spoken in two days.Whatwas this,Zane, the nursemaid?
Heignored my attempt to pull away and spoke like we were old college chums. “Doyou know why you bug me so much?”
Irolled my eyes.Hisattempts at playing nice left much to be desired.
“Becauseyour mother will never love me as much as she loves you,” he spoke without meeting my gaze, focused on cleaning the cut on my wrist.
“Yetwhen the time came, she chose you overPapa,”Icouldn’t help countering.
“Yourmother never chose me overAmbani.Nordid she chooseAmbaniover me.”
Apuzzled frown tugged at my forehead.
