Page 19 of Broken Hearts

Deep down, there’s a worry that once this box of emotions is opened, it might not be possible to close it again. The fear of losing control looms over me.

Poppy places a reassuring hand on my shoulder. “You won’t be alone. We’ll be right there with you. And sometimes, opening that box is the first step to healing. We’re here for you, no matter what,” she says as if she can read my thoughts.

Her words resonate with me, offering a sliver of courage. The idea of facing my demons with Poppy and Nessa by my side gives me a sense of solidarity I didn’t realize I needed.

“Okay,” I say, a shaky resolve in my voice. “Let’s do it. Let’s smash some stuff.”

Poppy beams, her enthusiasm infectious. “That’s the spirit! It’s going to be… liberating, you’ll see.”

As we prepare to leave for the rage room, I’m not sure how I feel. This could be the release I need, a way to confront the chaos inside me in a place where it’s safe to let go. Maybe it’s exactly what I need to start putting the pieces of myself back together.

*****

I go with the flow, silently praying that I won't break. I shouldn’t; I’m strong. Max helped me regain my power. Yesterday’s confrontation with Cole stands as proof. I hurt him; I made a six-three athlete bleed. Facing a rage room should be within reach, considering the trials I already faced.

At least, I think so until we walk into the room where the three men are already waiting. Ethan, Liam, and the devil himself… Cole.

I feel some satisfaction at the bruise on his nose spreading under his eyes, knowing that if I didn’t manage to hurt him emotionally and destroy him mentally, I at least caused some physical damage, no matter how small.

My instincts tell me to turn around and leave, but my pride, that stubborn part of me, tells me to stay and stand my ground, to not flee from a moment in which he is the intruder, not me.

Poppy and Nessa throw me a worried glance, and I hate that their fun is dimmed because of me.

So I force a smile at them. I’m not sure they buy it, but they relax, and I concentrate on Ted, the facilitator, as he explains the rules, but honestly, all I want right now is to grab that metal bat closest to me and smash whatever is in my way, Cole included.

Once he finishes, I feel like the anger inside me is a living, breathing entity as I stand in the rage room, bat in hand. I feel it pulsing through my veins, a relentless tide urging me to unleash the fury that’s been simmering beneath the surface for far too long. And when my eyes land on a discarded TV, the perfect target for my pent-up rage, I don’t hold back.

With each swing of the bat, the glass shatters, sending shards flying like my shattered dreams. The cathartic sound of destruction is music to my ears, a symphony of my pain and betrayal. The more I hit, the more I feel the tight band of self-control starting to erode, and finally, it snaps.

A primal scream escapes my lips, a sound so raw and filled with anguish that it doesn’t sound human. It’s the cry of a wounded soul, a heart that’s been torn apart and left to bleed. I hate that he is always here, invading my space, my thoughts, my life. I hate that I ever trusted him, that I loved him, and most of all, I hate that a part of me still does. I hate the “what-ifs” and the “could have beens,” and above all, I hate myself for ever believing in a happy ending.

Suddenly, he is beside me, his presence like a dark cloud looming over my storm of emotions. His face shows concern, but how dare he? How dare he look at me with worry when he’s the root of all my pain?

“Angel,” he murmurs, and the sound of that nickname, a remnant of a love that’s long turned sour, ignites a fury inside me.

“Don’t touch me!” I snarl, my voice laced with venom. “Do not touch me ever again!”

He growls, a sound so low and primal that it sends involuntary shivers down my spine. “I’ll touch you if—”

I start swinging again, my movements chaotic driven, by my fury and despair. The bat slices through the air, a physical manifestation of my desire to sever all ties with him, to break free from the chains of our past.

With each strike, I’m not only breaking objects; I’m shattering the remnants of a love that once consumed me, a love that turned into a nightmare. This room, these broken pieces, they’re a testament to my journey—a journey of pain, of loss, and of a strength I never knew I had.

And as I stand there amid the wreckage of my own making, I realize that this is more than a release of anger. It’s a declaration of my independence, a statement that I will no longer be defined by the shadows of my past. I am Eva, not Cole’s “Angel,” and I am reclaiming my story, one swing of the bat at a time.

As the last vestiges of my rage dissolve into the air, punctuated by the sound of my bat clattering to the ground, I find myself sinking to my knees. The adrenaline leaves my body as quickly as it came, replaced by an overwhelming weariness. I start crying, the tears coming in a torrent I can’t control. Full, ugly sobs rack my body, the kind that comes from a place deep within, where all the pain and hurt have been festering, untouched and unacknowledged.

My vision blurs, the world around me dissolving into a watery haze. The sobs choke me, and it feels like I’m expelling every shard of pain and betrayal that has lodged itself in my heart over the past year. I can barely register the surrounding commotion, the sounds distant and muffled. I’m a crumpled ball on the floor, consumed by my own storm of grief.

Suddenly, I feel strong arms lifting me up, cradling me with a gentleness that feels alien yet desperately needed. “Shh, I got you,” a warm British accent soothes, and in my state of vulnerability, those words are a lifeline.

I allow myself to relax into Liam’s embrace, his presence a stark contrast to the chaos that has unfolded. In his arms, I find a strange sense of safety, a calm amid the storm that has been my life. His hold is secure, yet careful, as if he’s afraid of hurting me further.

He sets me on the leather back seat of his car, and Nessa settles beside me. Liam talks, but Nessa doesn’t answer. She focuses on me, and by the time we reach the parking lot of our building, the tears have subsided, and so has the anger, replaced by such bone-deep exhaustion and mortification at what they all witnessed that I can barely breathe.

God, they must think I’m completely unhinged, I think with a wince. They wouldn’t be completely wrong, though, would they?

I open the door to get out, but as Nessa starts to follow me, I turn toward her.

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