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Charles' POV
"I love you."
The words burned as they left my lips — like a confession offered on broken glass.
And before he could say anything… I hung up.
Silence.
The phone slipped from my hand and landed on the floor with a dull thud. I stared at it, empty, until the silence in my room started to scream. My chest hurt so bad it was almost funny — that kind of pain that feels too deep to be real.
How could I say that?
How could I just give in, again?
My heart loved him, but my head… my head hated him. Hated the way he could tear me apart with one sentence. Adopted rat.
He said it like I wasn't even real.
A sob ripped out before I could stop it. I pressed my hand against my mouth, but it kept coming — that ugly, shaking kind of crying that feels like drowning.
He begged for me once.
He begged his mother to adopt me. I remember his small hand gripping mine when we were kids, whispering, "You're my brother now, okay? Always."
Always.
Now he said it like it meant nothing.
Now he looked at me like I was the mistake that crawled into his perfect life.
I dragged myself to the mirror and stared. My eyes were red, my cheeks blotched. There was no trace of the calm, collected Charles everyone knew. Just me — broken, ridiculous, and in love with someone who kept pretending not to feel it back.
And yet, even without his mark, I still felt him.
Like his presence lingered under my skin — a ghost that refused to fade.
No matter how far he went, no matter who he loved, a part of me would always turn toward him. Instinct. Curse. Fate.
"Why does it have to be you, Louis?" I whispered, voice trembling. "Why couldn't it be anybody else? Somebody who'd accept me. Somebody who wouldn't reject me. Somebody who'd take me whole — as I am. Who wouldn't leave their mate for someone better."
My throat tightened. "You were fated to me. You were supposed to spend your life with me. So why?"
The question tore out of me like a scream as I stared at my reflection. My face — puffy, red, streaked with tears — mocked me. I reached for the basin, scooped up water, and splashed it on my face, hoping it would cool the fire inside. But it didn't. It just hissed against the heat of my anger.
The voices came next.
Sharp. Cruel. Too familiar.
You're stupid.
You're useless.
He never loved you.
He never wanted you.
I clutched my head. "Stop," I whispered. "Please, stop."
But they didn't stop. They screamed louder until the air in the room felt too heavy to breathe.
"I hate you!" I shouted — but I didn't know who I meant anymore. Him. Myself. Everyone.
"I hate me," I choked out next, a sob breaking through. "I hate everybody!"
The rage exploded before I could stop it. My fist shot forward, connecting with the mirror.
The sound — a sharp, splintering crack — echoed through the room.
Shards of glass scattered, glittering with pieces of my reflection.
Blood dripped down my knuckles, bright and vivid, painting the sink in streaks of red.
And still, I couldn't stop shaking.
Because even with my hand bleeding, and my reflection shattered, all I could see in the fragments was him.
For a moment, there was silence.
Only the sound of my breathing — ragged, uneven — and the soft drip of blood from my hand onto the tiles.
The mirror was gone, but his reflection still clung to me. His words replayed again and again, each one sharper than the glass beneath my feet.
"You're an adopted rat playing at tragedy."
I sank to the floor, clutching my bleeding hand to my chest. My tears mixed with the blood — I didn't even care which was which anymore.
Why did it hurt so much? Why did I let him have this much power over me?
I pressed my palm harder against the wound, almost like I wanted to feel the pain — like it was proof that I was still here. That I hadn't already disappeared somewhere between love and hate.
I laughed — a weak, trembling sound that didn't sound human. "This is pathetic," I whispered. "I'm pathetic."
I looked around the room — at the broken glass, the overturned chair, the faint smell of iron in the air. Everything felt distant, like I was watching someone else's life fall apart.
A shard of glass glinted near my foot. I picked it up, turning it between my fingers. It caught the light just right — sharp, clear, beautiful. Just like him.
"I hate you," I whispered again — but my voice cracked in the middle. "I hate that I still love you."
My hand trembled as I traced the glass across my palm — not enough to cut, just enough to feel that thin line of danger. Just enough to feel something real.
My chest heaved. The walls felt too close. The air too heavy. The silence too loud.
I pressed my forehead against the cool floor and closed my eyes, whispering to no one,
"I just want it to stop. Just for a moment. I just want it all to stop — just for a moment. I want to let it all go quiet.
I didn't know how long I've been sitting there, but a dull ache in my stomach reminded me I hadn't eaten since yesterday — since that call from Mother. My body felt weak, empty. I pushed myself up, still feeling dizzy and unsteady.
Then pain sliced through my foot — sharp, blinding. I looked down, while raising the affected foot upwards.
I saw a huge piece of broken glass buried deep in my skin. I collapsed back onto the floor, clutching my leg, watching as blood seeped out, steady and dark. But even that pain felt distant .
Because nothing — not even this — compared to what I felt, it couldn't be compared to the heart break, self loathing and confusion.
Charles, you've always been so selfish and hateful, are you really the victim or are you just acting this way.
I should be feeling happy, glad even that Louis was with someone better, a lot more charming, perfect in every angle.
I turned my head towards the cracked mirror beside me. The reflection that stared back wasn't me — not anymore. My eyes were wild, my hair tangled, my expression twisted into something unrecognizable.
I looked like someone who could do something reckless.
My gaze shifted to the shard of glass beside me. I picked it up, my fingers trembling. I stared at it, unable to look away. My mind filled with thoughts I didn't want to admit — thoughts that scared me. They were dark, ugly, and loud, whispering things I didn't want to hear.
I didn't even notice the tears slipping down my cheeks.
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I stared at the shard of glass in my hand.
It caught the faint afternoon light, reflecting my face — wild, broken, hollow.
I didn't even recognize myself anymore.
My thoughts blurred together. One voice said put it down. Another whispered end it. The noise inside my head grew louder, and I pressed my palms to my ears, trying to drown it out.
"I can't," I whispered. "I can't do this anymore."
The walls seemed to close in. My breathing quickened. My vision swam.
And just when I thought I'd disappear into that darkness completely—
"Charles!"
The sound of her voice cut through everything. Mother.
The door slammed open, and she was there — her eyes wide with fear, the color draining from her face as she took in the shattered mirror, the blood, the chaos.
In the doorway, Alistair stood behind her, pale and shaking, tears already forming in his eyes.
"Charles, sweetheart," she whispered, crossing the floor before I could even think. Her hands, warm and trembling, cupped my face. "What have you done to yourself?"
The sound of her voice cracked something inside me worse than any wound could.
"I—I didn't mean to," I stammered, my voice breaking. "I just… I don't know what's wrong with me."
Her thumb brushed a smear of blood from my cheek. "You're hurt. That's what's wrong. You're hurt and you're alone."
Alistair knelt beside us, quietly pressing a towel against my bleeding foot. He didn't say anything — he didn't have to. The gentle pressure of his hand said enough.
Mother pulled me into her arms, cradling me like I was a child again. "You don't have to carry all that pain alone, my love. Not anymore."
I wanted to argue. To push her away. To tell her that it was already too late. But I couldn't.
I just cried. Loud, shaking sobs that felt like they were tearing me apart from the inside.
And for the first time in years, I let someone hold me while I broke.