Page 89 of The Tattoo Artist

As I walk away, the weight of my decision weighs heavily on my shoulders. The tears blurs my vision, but I knew that I had to give him the space he needed, even if it meant walking away from the man I love.

I rush down the stairs, hastily grabbing my phone and shoes before bolting out to the car. As if the weather mirrored my turmoil, rain pours down heavily. Unlocking the car, I slid inside, feeling the heaviness of my emotions overwhelming me. Tears streamed down my face as I slam my hands against the steering wheel in frustration and despair.

Over and over again.

In that moment, it felt like I was running away not just from Ares but from all the hardships and uncertainties that life had thrown my way. I didn’t know how to handle the flood of emotions or the complexities of my memory loss, so I chose to escape instead. The sound of rain hitting the car’s roof echoed my inner turmoil, and I sat there, feeling lost and vulnerable.

As I grip the steering wheel tightly, I knew that running away was just a temporary solution. I couldn’t avoid my problems forever, but at that moment, I needed space and time to process everything that had happened.

Something I should have done from the moment I found out.

I didn’t know where I was going, and it didn’t matter. All I knew was that I needed to escape from the overwhelming reality and find a moment of solace.

And there was only one place for that.

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

ARES NICOLAIDES

IT HAD BEEN THREE DAYS.

Three days, and it felt like the world had come crashing down on me in one. Each passing moment felt like an eternity, filled with uncertainty and pain. I found myself sitting on the couch in my tattoo room, the silence echoing through the space.

My eyes were fixated on the painting she had done on the wall. The colours and brushstrokes seemed to dance before my eyes, but my heart was heavy with everything that had transpired. In the stillness of the room, memories of our time together flooded my mind.

The laughter, the love, and the moments that now felt like distant echoes of the past. I longed to reach out and touch her, to hold her close and tell her how much she meant to me. But the reality was that she was slipping away, and I couldn’t do anything to stop it.

Every brushstroke was a reflection of the passion and creativity that had brought us together. The colours were vibrant, just like the love that had once filled our hearts. But now, those colours seemed to fade, mirroring the fading memories of a love that once burned bright.

As I stare at the painting, a mix of emotions washes over me—sadness, longing, and a sense of helplessness. I wish I could turn back time, to when things were simpler, when she knew who I was, and when we were truly connected.

When I wasn’t a stranger to her.

But life had other plans, and now I am left grappling with the reality of our situation. The painting on the wall seemed to hold the answers I desperately sought, but it was just an artwork—an inanimate reminder of a love that was slipping away.

In the days that follows, I knew I had to find a way to cope with the pain instead of running from it. The painting on the wall would remain a cherished memory, but it was time to focus on finding strength in the present and hope for a future that might bring us back together, even if it meant starting anew.

But she doesn’t want that.

She broke up with me because I pushed her too far.

And Adonis warned me. He did. I just have a knack for not listening, for thinking I know my own wife. But the reality is, she isn’t my wife. Not anymore. She is-I am just a stranger to her. A man that met her a couple months ago.

I stand up, grabbing my jacket along. I quickly open my draw and take out my wedding ring before slipping it on, I haven’t worn this in so long. That it almost feels wrong. I head out of the room and pass by Aliza who was texting on her phone. “Close the store.” I speak.

“What?”

I walk down the pavement towards the bar, my thoughts consumed by the chaos inside me. Since she still had my car, I had no choice but to walk. I reach the bar and push the door open, greeted by a subdued atmosphere that contrasted with its usual liveliness. I made my way to the front and took a seat at the counter. Christian, the bartender, approached me with a knowing look.

“Usual, Ares?” He asks.

“Something stronger. Vodka. Just give me the whole bottle,” I replied, my voice heavy with the weight of my emotions.

Christian folds his arms across his chest, concern etched on his face. “You know that means I have to take your car keys, right?”

“I’m not driving. My wife took—I’m not driving,” I assure him, wanting to drown my pain in the sharpness of the alcohol.

He nods understandingly and turns around to fetch a bottle of vodka. Placing it in front of me, he hands me a glass of ice. Unscrewing the lid, he pours the clear liquid into the glass, and I wasted no time in consuming it. With each sip, I felt the fiery liquid course through my veins, numbing the pain and dulling my senses. I welcomed the burn with open arms, seeking something else to distract me from the heartache of losing her.

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