Page 61 of Twisted Love

I bury my face deeper into the pillow and try to go back to sleep, but it doesn’t work. I’m too aware of everything—my heartbeat pounding in my ears, the faint occasional gurgling noise of the central heating pipes, the soft rustle of the blanket every time I move. It all feels too loud, too much.

I scrunch my eyes closed, determined to will myself to sleep, but my mind won’t stop racing. Everything that happened last night keeps replaying in my head, looping endlessly until I want to scream. My throat is dry and my eyes are burning with unshed tears, but all I can think of is how much I want him back here, next to me. But I won’t call him back. I won’t give him the satisfaction of knowing how totally he’s broken me.

Minutes pass, maybe hours, and exhaustion presses down on me. My body feels hot and aches with the kind of weariness that no amount of sleep can fix. I need to get up, shower, and have a cold drink, but the thought of moving feels insurmountable. Instead, I stay where I am, hoping that if I stay still enough, the world will stop spinning around me.

But it doesn’t. It never does.

Eventually, I hear the faint buzz of my phone vibrating on the nightstand. I don’t want to look at it—I know it’s probably just another message from someone I don’t have the energy to respond to. But the persistent sound gnaws at me until I finally reach out, my hand shaking as I grab the phone.

The screen lights up with a string of notifications—missed calls and messages. The first one is from Sunny asking me about the big dance and wanting to know if she can stop by with a cake later that day. Her enthusiasm feels misplaced, a stark contrast to the heaviness in my chest.

Then I see a message from Charles.

Charles!

I stare in disbelief at his name. His message is brief, just enough to make my stomach tighten.

Something amazing has happened

I really need to talk to you.

Let’s meet soon.Love, C

The absurdity of it almost makes me laugh. Charles—the man I left at the altar, the man I thought I’d never hear from again—wants to meet. What could he possibly have to say? Part of me wants to reply, to ask him what’s so important, but I can’t bring myself to. Not when I feel shitty and everything in my life feels so tragic. I can’t bring another unstable variable to it. More than anything now, I need stability, comfort, and peace. I need to get better and go back to Mom and Dad.

With a sigh, I swipe away from his message and put the phone down. The truth is, I don’t want to see anyone. I don’t have the energy to pretend I’m okay, to smile and nod, and feign excitement for my newly married life that already feels like a disaster.

My thoughts drift back to Charles’s message. For a fleeting moment, I wonder what might have happened if I’d married him. I would have found out that he is no longer wealthy, far from it, and he couldn’t live to his side of the bargain. Would I have left immediately after he had broken my trust, or would I have stayed? Even though he was an ass to others, he was always kind to me.

Would I have ended up in this mansion anyway, trapped in a loveless marriage? I might have stayed with him, but not with him and his mother. I was really dreading living with her. None of that matters now. I’ve made my choice, and there’s no going back.

A sudden chill runs through me, and I realize the blanket has slipped off my shoulders. I sit up, the room spinning slightly as I do. My stomach growls a sharp reminder that I haven’t eaten all day. I know I need to, but even the thought of food makes me nauseous. My limbs feel heavy, my head foggy, and for a moment, I wonder if I can muster the strength to get out of bed at all.

Eventually, I force myself to move. The bathroom feels like a mile away, but I make it, clutching my phone as I go. The light is harsh, and I squint against it, leaning against the sink for support. My reflection in the mirror is not a pretty sight. Blotchy skin, dark circles under my eyes, and hair sticking to my damp forehead.

As I stare at my sickly, unattractive countenance, my mom calls.

I answer quickly, forcing my voice to sound bright and cheerful. “Hi, Mom.”

“Hello, sweetheart,” she replies. “You had your big Gala last night, didn’t you? How was it?”

“It was great,” I lie cheerfully.

“Are you not well? You don’t sound too good.”

“I’m fine,” I invent. “Just had a bit much to drink. Maybe I’m tired too.”

She pauses, and I can tell she’s debating whether to tell me something.

“What is it, Mom?”

She takes a deep breath. “Raven, I wanted to let you know... your father’s not doing too well.”

The words hit me like a punch to the gut. I grab the edge of the sink and hold on tight. “What do you mean? What happened?”

She hesitates, her voice trembling. “His treatment... there are complications. The doctors are concerned about his heart. They think it’s related to the stress on his body from the thyroid cancer and the medication. They’re adjusting his treatment plan, but...”

“But what?” I ask, my chest tightening.

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