Wedding Night Betrayal: A Five-Year War

Ariana Mcneil POV

The next morning, I carried a carefully wrapped gift to the institution. It was a small, delicate box filled with osmanthus flowers, my mother's favorite. Their sweet, lingering fragrance always reminded her of our family garden, a place of peace before the war. Entering the facility required Dorian's explicit permission, a stark reminder of his control, even over my last goodbyes. The guards, stern-faced men in crisp uniforms, scrutinized my every move. They watched me unlock the heavy doors, each click a dull thud in the silence.

I found my mother in her usual chair, staring out the window. Her face was gaunt, her eyes distant. I forced a smile onto my lips, a painful mask.

"Happy birthday, Mother," I said, my voice trembling slightly.

She did not respond. Her gaze remained fixed on some unseen point beyond the glass. I bit back the wave of despair that threatened to engulf me. I knelt beside her chair, opening the box of osmanthus flowers. Their delicate scent filled the sterile room.

"Look, Mother," I whispered, holding the box gently. "I picked them from the old garden. Just for you. Do you remember?"

I described the garden, the warmth of the sun, the bees buzzing among the flowers. Her eyes remained blank.

"Just a small nod, Mother," I pleaded, my voice hoarse. "Just a flicker of recognition. Please."

I knew this was my last visit. The pills in my pocket felt heavy, a cold promise. I needed some small comfort from her, a final crumb of love before I disappeared forever.

Suddenly, her hand shot out, striking the box. Osmanthus flowers scattered across the floor. She grabbed my hair, her grip surprisingly strong, pulling my head down. My face plunged into the scattered flowers, the soft petals pressing against my nose and mouth. Their sweet scent turned suffocating.

"Get out!" she shrieked, her voice raw. "Get out, you witch! You ruined everything!"

She pushed me, clawing at my face and neck. Her nails, surprisingly sharp, raked across my skin, leaving stinging trails.

"Go die! Just like your brother!" she screamed, her voice rising to a hysterical pitch. "You killed him! You killed him with your stubborn fight against Dorian! He promised to care for Kinsley, not you! You didn't listen! You deserve to die!"

The flowers clogged my nostrils, making it hard to breathe. I choked, gasping for air, the sweet fragrance now a choking haze. I tried to speak, to reason, but her hands were everywhere, pushing, pulling, scratching. She shoved me violently. My head struck the doorframe with a sickening thud. Pain exploded behind my eyes.

"Get out! Get out!" she shrieked again, her voice echoing in the small room.

Then, she leaned in, her eyes wide and frenzied.

"Dorian loves Kinsley! He always did! You just stood in the way! You should have known your place! He promised to protect her, not you!" she hissed, her breath hot on my face. "You ungrateful wretch! Go die! Go die!"

Tears streamed down my face, mixing with the crushed petals and the stinging blood from my scratches. My hands trembled, not from fear, but from the profound desolation that settled over me. I remembered her gentle hands, petting my hair when I was a child. I remembered her stories, her laughter, her quiet strength. Now, only hatred radiated from her. She truly believed I was the villain, the cause of all her suffering. Had I truly been so wrong? Had my fight, my stubborn refusal to break, truly destroyed everyone I loved?

I looked at her, my voice raspy, barely audible.

"Yes, Mother," I whispered, my eyes vacant. "I will. I will go die."

A moment of silence fell over the room. My mother froze, catching my dead gaze. Her eyes, clouded by madness, seemed to clear for a split second, a flicker of something resembling fear. Then, the madness returned. She shoved me out of the room, slamming the door shut with a final, echoing bang.

I stood outside her door for a long time, the pain in my head dulling, my body feeling strangely light. My legs finally moved, carrying me slowly to the nearest restroom. I splashed cold water on my face, washing away the blood, the tears, the sticky residue of the crushed flowers. I looked at my reflection. A stranger stared back at me, hollow-eyed, bruised, and utterly empty. The marriage, the war, the losses—it had all been a terrible, unforgivable mistake. Tonight, I would end it. For good.