Page 72 of Lords of Ruin: Savage

“I found out I had limited time,” she says, her voice suddenly fragile, laced with a kind of vulnerability I haven’t heard from her in years. “I didn’t want to die with regrets. I wanted to live, Willow. Really live.”

I blink, stunned by the confession. “What do you mean, you wanted tolive?” I ask, my voice thick with disbelief. “Youleftme, Mom. You left Dad. You didn’t even try to be a mother! How does running off to Paris and living your life without a care make any damn sense? What kind of living is that?”

She lowers her gaze, her face crumpling for a moment, but then she looks back at me with a sharpness in her eyes. “I wasn’t living before, Willow. I was suffocating, drowning in a life I thought I was supposed to have, not the one Iwanted. You think I wasn’t torn apart by leaving you and your father? But I had to do it. I couldn’t keep pretending everything was fine when it wasn’t.”

“You should have stayed,” I snap, my voice rising. “You should’ve stayed andfought. We needed you, Mom. I needed you. Don’t give me that ‘I had to find myself’ bullshit. You didn’t even try to fight for us!”

Her face hardens, and she leans in a little, her eyes fierce despite the weakness in her body. “You think I didn’t fight?” she shoots back, her words sharp like a knife. “You think I didn’t try to make something of myself before all of this? You think it was easy, walking away from everything, from you? But I couldn’t keep living for other people, Willow. I had to live for myself, even if it meant I wouldn’t be there for you. It wasn’t an easy choice, but it was mine to make.”

I feel the anger burn through me, hot and thick. “Your ‘living for yourself’ meantabandoningyour family. It meanthurtingus, Mom. You didn’t just leave, you left a wound that I’ve carried around my entire life. And now, you think you can just come back and make everything okay? You think you canapologizeyour way out of this?”

Her lips tremble, and I see her eyes glisten, but I’m past feeling sympathy. I’m past feeling sorry for her.

“I never wanted to hurt you,” she whispers, her voice cracking under the weight of her own regret. “But I couldn’t stay, Willow. I couldn’t. I was suffocating in my own life, and when I found out I didn’t have much time left, I realized that I needed tolive. Not for you. Not for anyone else. Just for me, for the first time in my life.”

I shake my head, tears pricking at the back of my eyes, but I fight them back. "Well, guess what, Mom? You can’t justlivefor yourself anymore. You’re dying. And you think you can fixeverything with a few words now? It’s too late. It’s too damn late.”

I stare at my mother, my chest tight, my stomach churning. The anger’s still bubbling inside me, but now it feels different—colder, harder. I can’t stand looking at her, can’t stand hearing her pathetic excuses anymore.

I throw a glance at Damien, who’s still watching me, his face etched with compassion and concern, but his silence is almost worse than anything he’s said.

Then, I turn back to my mom. “You know what? Forget it,” I snap, my voice sharp. “I can’t do this. I can’t keep doing this with you.”

My hands are shaking again, but not from anger—more like the weight of everything I’ve just realized. The bitterness that’s been festering for years suddenly rises up in my throat, and I can’t stop it.

I reach into my pocket, pull out a crumpled $50 bill, and slap it down on the table between us with enough force to make the paper flutter. Her eyes widen, like she’s not sure what to make of it. I don’t care.

“Here,” I say, my voice hard and final. “Get whatever you want. Your last meal, or whatever the hell it is. I don’t give a shit.”

I stand up abruptly, my chair scraping loudly against the floor, the motion sharp and jarring in the quiet diner. I can’t even look at her anymore. I’ve said everything I needed to say, and it feels like there’s nothing left.

I storm out of the diner, the sound of the door slamming behind me echoing in my ears. My heart pounds in my chest, a mixtureof fury and pain surging through me. I can’t believe this is happening. I can’t believe she thinks a few fucking words can fix everything after years of neglect, of abandonment.

I can’t breathe, can’t think straight with all the shit swirling inside my head. My legs carry me without thinking, the cold air outside hitting me like a slap to the face, but it does nothing to calm the fire burning within me. My hands tremble at my sides, and I mutter under my breath, “Fuck her. Fuck her and everything she did to me. I don't give a shit about her regrets now.”

I hear footsteps behind me, and before I can even register what’s happening, I feel Damien's presence—his heavy footsteps catching up to me.

“Willow, wait up,” he calls out, his voice a little too soft, too understanding.

I whirl around, my face flushed with anger. “No, Damien. I’m done. You want me to feel sorry for her? After everything she did to me, after the hell she put me through, you want me togive her a chance? Fuck that.”

His expression hardens, and I can see the frustration in his eyes, but I don’t care. "You’re being irrational," he snaps. “She’s dying, Willow. You’re going to regret this—regret shutting her out—just like I regret the last time I saw my mom.”

I freeze, his words slicing through the haze of anger in my head. “What the hell are you talking about?” I ask, my voice barely above a whisper.

Damien takes a step closer, his eyes locking onto mine. “My mom... she gave you her heart, Willow. She gave me everything she could when she was alive, and I was upset with her whenshe told me about you. I didn’t speak to her in her final hours. I didn’t give her the chance to make things right, and now... I can’t ever take that back. I’ll live with that regret for the rest of my life.”

My chest tightens at his words, but it only fuels my anger further. “You’re not me, and you don’t get to tell me how to feel about my mother.”

I take a step back, my hands balling into fists. “You have no idea what this feels like. So don’t fucking tell me how to handle it.”

Damien’s jaw clenches, and in a split second, he moves. One arm wraps around my waist, the other locking around my legs, and before I can even process what’s happening, he lifts me off the ground. I gasp, kicking my legs as I feel the shock of being thrown over his shoulder.

“Damien, what the fuck are you doing?” I scream, pounding my fists against his back, but he doesn’t budge.

“Shut up, Willow,” he growls. “You’re going back inside. We’re not doing this out here.”

I keep struggling, but the bastard is strong—stronger than I could’ve ever expected—and within seconds, I’m back inside the diner. Damien is holding me effortlessly as he makes his way to the chair where my mother is still sitting, sobbing.

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