Charles' POV
The first thing I felt was the sting.
My hand. My foot. My chest.
Everything hurt — but in a way that told me I was still here. Still breathing.
The morning light crept through the curtains, pale and soft, touching everything it shouldn't. It made the dried blood on the floor shimmer faintly, like it was trying to make beauty out of the mess I'd made.
I blinked against the light, my eyes heavy, my throat dry.
The room smelled faintly of antiseptic and metal — Mother's doing, probably.
Someone had cleaned most of it while I slept.
I turned my head slightly. The shattered mirror was gone.
Only a faint smear on the wall where it used to hang.
For a moment, I just lay there, staring at the ceiling, my mind empty.
Then it all came rushing back — the call, the words, the glass, the blood.
Louis.
I pressed my palm against my forehead.
"Why did I do that?" I whispered. "Why did I let him get to me again?"
A quiet knock at the door pulled me out of my thoughts.
Before I could answer, it opened slowly.
"Hey."
Alistair stood there, dressed neatly as always, though his eyes looked tired. There was a hesitation in his expression — like he wasn't sure he was allowed to look at me.
"Mother asked me to check on you," he said softly. "She went to the pharmacy to get more bandages."
I nodded, unable to meet his gaze.
"Thanks."
He stepped closer, his eyes falling to my bandaged foot. "Does it hurt?"
I gave a small, humorless smile. "Only when I move."
He let out a breath that almost sounded like a laugh. "Then don't move."
For a while, neither of us spoke. The silence sat between us like something fragile.
Finally, he asked, "Charles… what happened last night?"
The question froze me.
I looked up — his gaze was gentle, curious, but not accusing.
I opened my mouth, but no words came out.
What was I supposed to say?
I shattered a mirror because your fiancé won't stop haunting me?
Because I can still feel his soul tugging at mine even when he's holding you?
My throat tightened.
"I just… lost control," I said finally. "I was angry. Tired. I don't know."
He studied me for a moment longer, then nodded — accepting the lie without pressing further.
That was Alistair. Kind. Thoughtful. Naïve.
He moved closer and placed a small tray on the nightstand. "You should eat. You haven't had anything since yesterday."
I looked down — toast, eggs, and a cup of tea. My stomach twisted.
I didn't deserve any of it.
But I forced myself to take a bite anyway.
He sat beside the bed, hands folded, watching quietly.
After a moment, he said, "You know… when I first met Louis, he used to talk about you a lot."
I froze.
"He said you were stubborn, sarcastic, a little bit too dramatic sometimes," Alistair continued, smiling faintly. "But he also said you were loyal. That you'd walk through fire for the people you loved."
I swallowed hard. "He said that?"
"Yeah." Alistair's smile faltered slightly. "He doesn't talk about you much anymore, though."
That ache in my chest — the one I thought I'd buried — came alive again.
Of course Louis didn't talk about me.
He'd buried me, too.
I forced a small smile. "We grew apart."
"Still…" Alistair tilted his head. "He sounded like someone who missed you."
I laughed softly, bitterly. "Then he hides it well."
He didn't know what to say after that.
And maybe it was better that way.
After a while, he stood. "I'll let you rest. Anna said she might stop by later."
At the mention of her name, I perked up slightly. "Anna?"
He nodded. "Yeah. She called this morning. Said she was worried about you."
I nodded, trying to act casual. "Tell her I'll be fine."
Alistair gave me one last look — that same gentle, pitying one — before he left.
The door clicked softly behind him.
And once again, I was alone.
I stared at the ceiling, then at the faint light bleeding through the curtains.
The world outside felt too bright, too peaceful for what I was carrying inside.
I examined my hands which were bandaged, then to my chest , I couldn't even recall how I got the wound and finally my foot.
No one knew.
Not Mother. Not Alistair. Not Louis' perfect world.Only Anna.
And maybe that was for the best.
Because if the truth ever came out, it wouldn't just break me — it would destroy all of them.
I felt… exhausted.
Not because I hadn't eaten well this morning, or because of the pain in my foot, or even the weight pressing down on my chest. It was something deeper — a kind of tiredness that made everything feel heavier than it should.
Mother had been hovering since sunrise. She wasn't exactly controlling — just… there. Watching.
Her eyes followed me everywhere, like a hawk tracking prey.
If I so much as shifted in bed, she'd glance up.
When I got up to use the bathroom, she followed me halfway and stood outside the door. I could feel her presence through the wood — her breath, her waiting. If she could've come in with me, she probably would have.
When I came out again and sat on the edge of the bed, scrolling through my phone, she didn't say a word.
Just sat there, silent, pretending to read a book while her gaze flicked to me every few seconds.
It wasn't anger. It was fear.
Fear that I'd shatter again.
But the silence made everything worse.
It wrapped around me like a blanket I didn't ask for — heavy, suffocating.
I tried to ignore it, my thumb mindlessly scrolling through meaningless posts, but the air between us felt thick. I almost wished she'd yell, or cry, or say something. Anything was better than this careful quiet.
I kept glancing at the clock. Anna was supposed to come by hours ago.
If there was anyone who could cut through this awkward stillness, it was her.
But Anna had a problem with time — or more like, a problem with taking things seriously.
She probably rolled over in bed, mumbled "five more minutes," and drifted right back to sleep.
I sighed. "She'll come," I muttered, more to myself than to Mother.
She looked up at me briefly, then back at her book.
I slumped against the pillows, staring at the ceiling. The quiet tick of the wall clock filled the room.
Still waiting.
Still watched.
Still pretending everything was fine.