When He Broke Me, He Wanted Me Back

“Mom… please… don’t leave me. Not again. I can’t… I’m so sorry… I’m so, so sorry…” I clawed through the wet soil, hands shredded and bleeding. My nails were cracked and caked with dirt. My dress clung to me, soaked and heavy with mud and ash. I didn’t care.

Even Darian’s men looked away, unable to stomach the scene. But Darian? He just stood there, motionless, eyes fixed on me as I sank into the grave alongside her.

The rain didn’t let up. And neither did I. Because when the last person who truly loved you is gone… there’s nothing left to come back to. You rot with them.

---

I don’t even remember how they got me back to the estate. One moment I was screaming in the downpour, digging through the wet ashes, and the next, the world had gone black. My body was wrecked—fevered, bruised, broken. My mind stopped even trying to fight. I collapsed the moment we reached the gates and never stood again.

Days passed. Maybe a week. Perhaps more. Time blurred. Everything around me was silent, distant, unreal. The only human presence came in small, quiet gestures. The housekeeper—soft-spoken, discreet—helped me clean, changed my clothes, guided me to swallow my pills without prying.

Then someone else appeared.

Enzo. My little brother.

“Lyra,” he whispered, voice barely audible. “You’re hurting again.”

I blinked through the darkness, throat raw and sore.

“Why… why are you always hurting?” he murmured. “I want… I want us to leave. Far away. Trees, open skies… just us. I don’t like this place.”

I turned enough to hold him, weakly, but still holding. His small hand wiped at his nose on my sleeve, and he tried to offer me a smile.

“I’ll save… I’ll save enough money,” he continued. “We’ll run away. Just you and me. Like… magic.”

I wanted to say yes. I wanted to promise him freedom, soon. But all that left my lips was a whispered, “I’m trying, Z. I promise I’m trying.”

He nodded, nuzzling into me, and finally fell asleep in my arms—the last fragment of safety I still had.

And Darian? Gone. Somewhere, far away, wrapped around Vivienne—the woman who faked her death, returned, and acted like the universe owed her every stolen second.

Photos of them surfaced everywhere. Laughing beside the Seine. Clinging to each other in Paris. Frozen together in some icy blue cavern in Antarctica.

The world’s most feared heir with his first love back from the dead.

I stared until the sharp pain in my chest dulled into something icy, lifeless. And then I began stripping away the memories, piece by piece—the way he held me when I cried, the man he killed at a party for touching my arm, the private island he closed off just to make me smile on my birthday. All of it—erased.

---

Then, one morning, they returned.

No warning. No hint.

Darian walked into the living room like the months hadn’t killed me slowly from the inside out. Tie loosened, posture casual.

“Vivienne says the only thing she regrets is not marrying me,” he said, voice flat. “So I’m fixing that. We’ll get a divorce now, and I’ll finally give her the wedding she wanted.”

Not a glance in my direction. Just the words, cold as a business transaction.

I looked at him—the same man who once whispered he’d bury the world for me, called me his religion in a world of lies—now sizing me up like background noise.

I wanted to ask, “Do you love her?” But the answer had been clear since the moment she came back.

I almost asked, “Did you ever love me?”

But before I could, Vivienne called his name. Soft. Sweet. Calculated.

His face softened instantly. Eyes lit up. Years of absence in his gaze, and suddenly I was invisible.

I held my breath. Then forced a smile, bitter and cracked.

“Congratulations,” I said quietly. “I hope you’re happy together.”

He cocked his head. “What was that?”

“Nothing,” I whispered, still smiling. “Just wishing you luck.”

He lingered, hand on the doorframe, as if weighing something, then Vivienne’s voice called again. And just like that, he turned, following her, leaving me behind.

---

The following days blurred in preparation for their wedding. Vivienne orchestrated every call, every photo shoot. Darian stayed beside her, sharp in tailored suits, cold eyes, practiced grin.

He planned every detail like a campaign. Guest list reviewed. Flowers measured. Timelines calculated. Not once had he put such effort into our wedding.

Then, a few days before the ceremony, Vivienne appeared before me, that same plastic smile she had when she handed me our mother’s locket.

“Lyra,” she said, warm, sugary, “I realized we don’t have a ring bearer. Wouldn’t it be perfect if Enzo did it? He’s practically family.”

I didn’t respond at first. I just stared.

Then I rose, voice low, deliberate.

“There are thousands of children you could have chosen. But you picked him. Why?”

She blinked, offended, rehearsed. “I just wanted it to be meaningful. Someone familiar. Safe. Someone we both know.”

“No,” I said, locking eyes with her.

Tears welled, still theatrical. She turned to Darian, clinging to his arm.

“Honey… I didn’t mean anything. Lyra misunderstood. I just want someone safe, someone we know.”

Darian smirked, pinching her nose like a mischievous child.

“You’re such a headache,” he said. “Fine. You win. Enzo it is.”

Then he looked at me. No trace of amusement. Just sharp, cold eyes cutting through me.