When He Broke Me, He Wanted Me Back

I didn’t argue. Didn’t flinch. I already knew the pattern.

I turned away, fists clenched so tightly my nails dug into my palms. Everything I had planned was in ruins. My escape was supposed to happen before the wedding. All the pieces were in place: fake identities, offshore accounts, routes mapped for a clean exit.

But I couldn’t abandon Enzo. Not now. Not when Vivienne wanted him paraded in that ceremony. Not when Darian’s eyes followed her like she was the foundation of some future he’d built with the woman who destroyed me.

So that night, I retrieved the burner phone I had stashed beneath the loose floorboard.

I dialed the number. One ring. Click.

“It’s me,” I whispered, voice tight. “The exit plan has to change. I’m not leaving alone.”

“Understood, ma’am,” came the response. “Everything will be adjusted.”

This time, I wasn’t fleeing.

This time, I was taking back what belonged to me.

“The plan’s updated,” I murmured into the small phone, low and controlled. “Enzo is the ring bearer. I can’t leave him behind.”

A pause, my fingers trembling slightly against the device.

“And there’s one more thing,” I added, voice tighter. “Eight years ago, after I faked my death… Darian had a tracker implanted in me. He never said where—just that it’s somewhere unreachable. He knew I’d try to run again.”

A long pause followed. Then:

“No problem, ma’am. We’ll handle everything on our end. But that tracker has to come out. Otherwise, this won’t work.”

I exhaled, relief just barely seeping in. “Alright. I’ll wait for your signal—”

“Lyra.”

The voice hit me like a gunshot. I spun. Darian stood by the door, still, eyes sharp, expression unreadable.

I snapped the phone shut and tucked it behind me. My heart thudded violently.

He advanced, gaze piercing, a predator zeroing in.

“Who the hell are you waiting for?” he asked, voice low but edged with warning.

Before I could answer, his hand shot out to grip my throat. Not enough to choke, but enough to remind me I wasn’t in control.

“You trying to run again?” he muttered, close enough that I could feel his breath. “Another man? Or are you gonna fake your death again and think I’ll let it slide twice?”

I gasped, “I wasn’t—I’m waiting for Enzo. He doesn’t know the ceremony location. He’s just a child!”

His hold loosened slightly, but his eyes remained cold, unyielding.

Without another word, he dragged me closer. His lips crushed mine, rough, harsh—no tenderness, no care.

His hands shoved me to the floor. My skirt tore as he forced me down. Hard. Ruthless. Unrelenting. I bit my lip to suppress a sound. I wouldn’t give him satisfaction.

When it was over, I lay on the cold marble, breathing shallow and quiet.

He bent over, brushing a stray strand of hair from my face, pressing a casual kiss to my temple as if nothing had happened.

“Lyra,” he murmured, calm now, “don’t betray me again. That tracker’s still inside you. Don’t forget it.”

His thumb brushed the ring on my finger—the one he gave me when he promised forever.

“The Eternal Bond collection,” he said, mockingly. “Vivienne wants it on the wedding day. Hand it over.”

My vision blurred. My throat burned.

“That ring… it was ours,” I said. “It meant something.”

He smiled as if I were being dramatic. “It’s a piece of metal. I could replace it ten times over if you want. Stop acting like a child.”

Of course. Just a ring. Just another lie.

I removed it slowly, fingers trembling, hiding nothing. Dropped it into his hand. He didn’t even glance at it.

Once he left, I finally let myself breathe. Then I moved. The tracker, the money, the plan—everything. I had to stay ahead.

I had already started liquidating everything he had given me: jewelry, cars, even the yacht. All converted to clean money in offshore accounts, under new identities.

Enzo was the only reason I hadn’t razed this place entirely.

---

That night, I dragged a steel barrel into the estate’s backyard. Inside went photos, gifts, the leather jackets stitched with our initials, hundreds of love notes.

And then—the black journal.

His obsession in ink.

He documented every detail: the hour I woke, the tea I drank, how I tied my hair when stressed, the music that soothed me after nightmares. He knew every corner of me.

He had loved me like a blueprint. A project. Not a person.

I dropped the journal in the barrel and struck a match.

Flames licked the papers, the fabric, the memories. His twisted version of love was devoured. Smoke curled into the night, heat brushing my face.

One tear fell. Just one. Landing in the ashes.

I didn’t cry again.

The fire died quickly. No trace remained. Only smoke. Only silence.

I stared at the sky and whispered, “Goodbye, Darian.”

And this time… I meant it.