The mansion was silent. A night breeze entered through the open window, making the white curtains flutter like ghosts.
Alex stood in the middle of the room, wearing an unbuttoned navy-blue shirt and dark pants. His face was pale; the dark circles under his eyes betrayed nights of insomnia.
Helen stood in front of him, wearing a light black dress that clung to her figure. She had her arms crossed, and her impenetrable expression made her seem unreachable. She had lost some weight, but her gaze remained the same: fierce, full of determination Alex had never seen before.
—I want a divorce— Helen declared firmly.
The words pierced him like knives. Alex felt a lump in his throat, as if the air in the room had become suffocating.
—No— his voice came out hoarse, barely a whisper.
Helen pressed her lips together with disdain.
—You can't refuse. I've already made my decision.
Alex took a step forward, his hands trembling, but he tried to reach her.
—Helen, please... — he whispered desperately — Don't do this. Give me a chance.
She let out a bitter laugh and pulled her arm away before he could touch her.
—A chance? For what? So you can destroy me again?
Alex shook his head, feeling a burning in his chest, a desperation that devoured him alive.
—I love you, Helen. I've always loved you.
His eyes burned with rage.
—No. You don't love anyone. If you had loved me, you would have never doubted me. You would have never betrayed me, never humiliated me, never hurt me... — Her voice cracked for a moment, but she quickly regained control — I will never forgive you, Alex. Never.
The impact of those words was worse than any punishment. Alex felt his soul being torn apart. He took another step and grabbed her by the arms, with the urgency of a man clinging to the last thing he had left.
—I won't let you go — he whispered, with pain and stubbornness mixed in his voice— No matter what you say, I won't lose you.
Helen looked at him with a cutting coldness and freed herself from his grip.
—Then get ready, because I'm going to make your life a living hell — she said with a cruel smile, although her eyes reflected an abyss of sadness and resentment — If you don't let me go, you'll wish you had.
Alex watched her walk away, feeling as if his world were crumbling as the door closed behind her. The war between them had begun.
The first time Helen didn't come home at her usual hour, Alex felt the weight of uncertainty in his chest. He looked at the clock over and over, pacing through the house with heavy steps, anxiety eating away at his thoughts.
When the door finally opened at dawn, he saw her enter with a terrifying calm. Her hair was disheveled, the lipstick that had once been flawless now smeared on her lips, and on her neck, as clear as a silent scream, there were unmistakable marks.
Alex froze. His gaze traced every detail of her appearance: the slightly wrinkled dress, the dark circles, the smudged makeup she hadn't bothered to fix.
—Where were you? — he asked in a rough, furious tone.
Helen dropped her purse on the table indifferently. Then, she looked at him with an expression he didn't recognize.
—With another man — she said coldly, almost uninterested.
Alex felt the air choke him painfully in his throat. He clenched his jaw and fists, but couldn't do anything except stare at her, hoping, praying that it was a lie, a provocation.
—No... — his voice trembled, pride and pain fighting within him —Tell me it's not true.
Helen took another step closer, tilting her head with a flash of mockery in her eyes.
—Hurt, aren't you? — she whispered.
Alex felt a burning in his chest, helplessness taking over him. His mind clouded, and a sensation of suffocation overwhelmed him.
Then, she laughed. A low laugh, devoid of joy, cruel in its emptiness.
—Now you know how it feels.
Tears filled Alex's eyes. He stood there, watching how the woman he once loved had become someone he no longer recognized.
When Helen closed the door to her room, the weight of her own actions fell on her like a stone loss. She leaned her back against the cold wood and closed her eyes tightly, trying to contain the pressure building in her throat.
She ran her fingers over her neck, brushing the marks, and a shiver ran down her spine. Disgust surged up her chest like a suffocating wave, twisting her stomach. She ran to the bathroom, turned on the light, and looked at herself in the mirror.
The reflection staring back at her was that of a stranger. Red eyes, mascara stains on her cheeks, faded lipstick...
She turned on the faucet harshly and washed her face, scrubbing desperately as if she could erase what she had done, as if the water could take away the dirt she felt clinging to her skin. But it wasn't that simple.
Holding onto the edge of the sink, she breathed heavily. She hadn't done it for pleasure or for love.
She had done it out of anger, revenge, an irrational desire for Alex to feel just a fraction of the pain he had caused her.
And yet, now, alone in her room, she only felt an overwhelming emptiness.
She collapsed onto the bed, hugging her knees to her chest, the echo of her own cruel laugh ringing in her ears.
A laugh that wasn't truly hers, that didn't come from joy but from bitterness.
Tears began to fall, silently, in the dark.
After that day, the nights became an escape, an abyss Helen dove into without fear or remorse. Every night, she dressed in clothes that accentuated her figure — short, tight dresses in vibrant colors, fabrics that caressed her skin like an invisible lover — and meticulously applied makeup, darkening her eyes and painting her lips a vivid red, as a warning.
She went out aimlessly but always ended up in some bar. Dark bars, with flickering neon lights and the echo of hollow laughter. She sat at the bar, crossing her legs with the confidence of someone who had nothing to lose, and drank until the alcohol burned her throat.
Sometimes, she let a stranger talk to her, letting their fingers brush her arm with boldness. Other times, she took the initiative herself.
It didn't matter who they were.
A late-working executive, a student seeking thrills with an older woman, a married man lying about his ring.
The names didn't matter, the faces didn't matter.
Only losing herself between unfamiliar sheets, among bodies that only asked for a few hours of fleeting pleasure.
But when she returned to the mansion, reality stabbed her like a dagger in the chest.
Sometimes, as soon as she crossed the door, she found Alex waiting.
He didn't say a word. He just looked at her with mute pain, with guilt reflected in his eyes.
And then, she would explode.
—Don't look at me like that! — she would scream, stumbling, with the taste of liquor still fresh on her lips —You have no right!
He never answered. He just watched her, as if every word she threw was another dagger piercing his soul.
On her worst nights, she would hit him with clenched fists, fueled by accumulated suffering.
—You killed me — she would whisper through sobs, her hands shaking — And now, I'm this... thanks to you.
Alex simply held her wrists gently, preventing her from hurting herself further.
—I know...—he murmured in a hoarse voice— And still, I won't leave.
Helen would pull away, retreating to her room to cry herself to sleep.
But when the sun filtered through the curtains in the morning, the cycle would begin again.
Because she no longer lived. She was just destroying herself, one night at a time.
There were nights when the pain dragged her without mercy.
No matter how hard she tried to drown it with liquor, with meaningless touches, or with the poison of resentment, it always returned. And when it did, it led her to the door of the room that had once belonged to Luke.
Helen would open it with trembling hands, as if just touching the wood could burn her.
Inside, everything was untouched.
The toys were still in place, the small bed neatly made with race car sheets, as if he could come running back to her at any moment.
She would approach the closet and slide her fingers over the tiny rope that still smelled of her son. She would take his favorite teddy bear — that worn brown bear — and press it desperately against her chest.
—My baby... — she would whisper with a choked voice.
And then, she would collapse.
She would sit on the floor, clutching the memories, and cry.
Cry with such a deep pain that it seemed like her body couldn't bear it.
On the other side of the door, Alex heard it all.
He pressed his forehead against the wood, squeezing his eyes shut, feeling the guilt consume him more each day.
He heard Helen's sobs and felt them like knives digging into his skin.
Because he had condemned her to this life.
Because he had thrown her into this hell, blinded by his arrogance, by the greed of another woman.
He cried too, in silence, his fists clenched, the unbearable weight of guilt crushing his chest.
He remembered how happy they had been.
The excitement of waiting for their son.
The sleepless nights planning their future.
The days full of laughter and sincere love.
And how he had destroyed it all.
By his own blindness.