My Guardian's Kiss, A Bitter Sweet Goodbye

Cora POV:

I arrived home soaked and shivering. A dull ache throbbed behind my eyes. I took a hot shower, the steam doing little to warm my chilled body, then collapsed into bed and fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.

The next few days passed in a blur of quiet solitude. The mansion was empty. Cole and Isabela were gone, presumably to their new city apartment. I found myself relieved by their absence. I no longer cared where they were. My focus was purely on my upcoming departure.

My father' s email arrived with flight details and pick-up arrangements. I checked the calendar. Only a few days left. And then it hit me. My flight was scheduled for Cole' s birthday.

A strange twist of fate. Perhaps this is my final gift to him, I thought, a bitter smile touching my lips. My absence. My freedom.

The day before my flight, I meticulously packed the last of my belongings. Most of my old clothes and books were donated. As the donation service personnel sifted through the items, the front door opened. Cole walked in, looking surprised.

"What's going on here, Cora?" he asked, his voice sharp.

I signed the last form, dismissing the two men with a nod. "Just clearing out some old clothes, Cole. Donating them."

He frowned, his eyes scanning the empty spaces in the living room. "You've changed," he murmured, a flicker of something unreadable in his gaze. "There's an... emptiness."

"Oh, by the way," he continued, changing the subject abruptly, "Isabela and I have moved into our new apartment in the city center. It's much quieter there."

I nodded slightly. Yes, it would be quiet without me, wouldn't it?

An old habit, stronger than my resolve, forced the words from my mouth. "Are you... are you having a birthday party this year, Cole?" I looked at him, my voice barely a whisper. "This would have been our tenth."

He flinched. "I don't want to talk about it." He turned, his back to me, and walked away, pulling a small suitcase behind him. The door slammed shut, echoing through the empty house.

My heart clenched. My eyes burned. I went back to my room, instinctively reaching for the bottom drawer of my nightstand. My hand closed on empty air. The drawer where I used to keep the torn pieces of my "Secret" painting was bare. I had already thrown them away.

Only one item remained: an old sketchbook. I pulled it out. Every page was filled with him. Cole. His profile, his hands, his intense eyes.

I remembered him, years ago, taking my small hand in his, saying, "I'm taking you home, Cora." I remembered him pinning a gold medal to my chest after my cello recital. "You're my pride, my glory," he'd whispered. And the single rose, "Wait until you're grown."

I need to scratch these memories out, one by one, I thought, my jaw tight.

The last page of the sketchbook was blank. For years, I had drawn a picture of us every birthday. This year, there would be no drawing of us. Instead, I picked up a pencil. I began to sketch. Cole. And Isabela. His fiancée. I drew them together, meticulously, until the dusk bled into night.

I heard the front door unlock downstairs. Cole. He stumbled in, clearly drunk.

"Cole? Are you alright?" I rushed down the stairs, reaching out to steady him.

He leaned heavily against me, his arm wrapping around my waist. The scent of whiskey and his cologne filled my senses. His hand slid up my back, his touch setting my nerves on fire. His hot lips descended on mine.