"Please don't go," I begged, my voice cracking as tears streamed down my face like a broken faucet—one that no one bothered to fix. "Please, Nyssa, don't leave me."

I gripped her hand—cold, lifeless. My dear sweet Nyssa Albright, now condemned by the so-called "unspeakable acts" she'd never even committed.

Her body lay there, crumpled in the dirt like a ragdoll someone had carelessly discarded. Blood seeped into the earth beneath her, soaking into the fabric of her torn dress. My hand reached out to her, but the weight of my guilt felt heavier than her lifeless form. My dear, sweet Nyssa… she didn’t deserve this.

The last thing she saw before her death? Me. Henry Novar. The monster who’d pushed her away. The fool who had turned his back on her for her.

All thanks to that two-faced snake, Dahlia Vayne.

Oh, Dahlia. The woman who dared to claim I’d gotten her pregnant. Excuse me? I’m a virgin, for crying out loud! I’m saving myself for marriage, thank you very much. It’s like she skipped Anatomy 101 and went straight to Gaslighting for Dummies. Yet somehow, everyone believed her. Why? Because she wore the ultimate trump card: a family heirloom.

A necklace I’d given to someone one summer—a promise made when we were kids, naive and full of empty, innocent promises.

It was the kind of promise seven-year-olds make. "I’ll marry you one day!" they say. Right after promising to become astronauts or superheroes. But somehow, Dahlia—that Dahlia—strolled around wearing it like it was some golden ticket, claiming she was my childhood sweetheart. Oh sure, Dahlia, nothing screams romantic destiny like a compulsive liar with a vendetta and zero concept of personal space.

Meanwhile, my Nyssa— I mean Nyssa was caught in the crossfire.

When I transferred back to the neighborhood, I spotted her by the school gate. It was like a scene straight out of a teen drama. Her eyes widened like she'd seen a ghost. A handsome ghost. (Yes, I’m aware that sounds like I’m full of myself, but let’s be real, it’s true.) She froze, her mouth hanging open like she might faint.

It was adorable. I didn't fall for her ok? I didn't but I can't help but look for her in the crowd. 

Also unlike every other girl in school, she didn’t throw herself at me or try to get my number. No. Nyssa kept her distance, hovering at the edge of my peripheral vision, as if respecting my boundaries. It was refreshing. Finally, someone who didn’t act like I was some kind of prize to be won. Naturally, I started craving her attention. Because, well, I’m an idiot.

It wasn’t just that I couldn’t stop staring at her—though, let’s be honest, it’s hard not to when she’s the kind of girl who could probably read the entire dictionary and still find a way to look cute while doing it. No, what really caught my attention was the way she poured herself into her studies. She was a scholar at this prestigious academy, while I was over here trying to figure out which way to hold a textbook without being bored halfway.

Naturally, I started asking her for help. I mean, who wouldn’t?  I’d ask her questions, and she’d always answer—though, in the most adorable way possible.

"Uh... so, um," she stammered, pushing her glasses up the bridge of her nose, "y-you want to know how to s-solve the equation, right?" She paused, blinking rapidly like she was trying to reboot her brain. "S-sorry, I mean, I-I mean, y-yes! The equation. Right."

I couldn’t help but grin. "Yeah, that’s right. Please, enlighten me, great Sage " I said, trying to keep my voice serious but failing miserably.

She flushed, her face turning a soft shade of pink as she fumbled with her notes. "N-no, I’m not a sage," she mumbled. "I just r-read a lot... y-you know, books and stuff."

"Books and stuff? Wow, such modesty," I teased, leaning in a little. "I’m definitely not going to let that ‘books and stuff’ strategy work for me, though. You know, if you’d be willing to help me out a little more…"

Her eyes went wide as if I’d just asked her to recite the alphabet backwards while jumping on one foot. "Y-y-yes! I-I mean, of c-course! I-I can help you!"

"Good," I said, pretending to look serious. "Because if I fail this exam, I’m blaming you."

She froze for a second, her mouth opening and closing like she was trying to decide whether or not I was joking. "W-what?! N-no! It’s not… I-I mean, I-I won’t let you fail. I-I’ll help you. P-promise."

I chuckled at the way she nervously clasped her hands together. "I appreciate it, really," I said, offering her a smile. "You’re my best chance at not failing this class. Besides, if I get an F, I’m pretty sure my mom will ground me for life."

"Y-you d-don’t want that," she said, her eyes widening with a mix of horror and concern. "I-I mean, I don’t think you’d survive... being grounded."

I raised an eyebrow. "Oh, I think I’d survive. I’ve got a pretty strong willpower. I just… need to avoid homework as much as possible. Like, y’know, always."

She gave me an exasperated look, but there was a hint of a smile tugging at her lips. "Y-you’re hopeless," she muttered, but it wasn’t mean—more like a teasing observation.

"Hopelessly charming," I shot back with a grin, leaning back in my seat. "At least, that’s what I keep telling myself."

She stammered again, her voice barely above a whisper. "C-charming? I-I d-don’t know about that."

I grinned even wider. "Oh, trust me, you're not the first one to say it."

She rolled her eyes, but there was a definite blush creeping up her neck. "I-I d-don’t s-say that," she mumbled, glancing down at her notes like they were suddenly the most fascinating thing in the world. "But… I-I can still help, I-I guess."

I winked. "You’re a lifesaver, you know that?"

"Y-yeah, I-I know," she muttered, her voice laced with embarrassment but also something else—something I couldn’t quite put my finger on.

And sure, I think she might have a bit uh a really huge of a speech impediment—it was like her tongue was a little too busy trying to catch up with her brain—but honestly? I respected the heck out of her. She had a scholarship, and if she could make it through that despite her  poor vocabulary skills.

But hey, I respected her space. I wasn’t about to turn into one of those rom-com protagonists who can’t take a hint. You know, the ones who show up in front of the girl’s house holding a boombox, yelling her name at 3 AM because they "need to talk." I wasn’t that guy. Not yet, anyway.

Besides, who needed to chase after her when she was already letting me tag along in the first place?

Then I got comatose. (Too much of  a jump, isn't it?) Yeah let's skip a couple of years but this happened when I was 18 years old.

I was knocked out cold after an attack by my family's rival company, unable to move for weeks. But I could smell. A woman’s scent—a calming, flowery fragrance that lingered by my side like a soft breeze on a summer day. No, I wasn’t being a creep; I’m a man, not a dog. Still, it was a comforting presence. But when I finally woke up, I saw Dahlia. And her scent? It was sweet, yes, but sickeningly so. It made me want to vomit.

But how could I push her away? She claimed she’d been taking care of me while I was out. And my family? They bought it. Hook, line, and sinker. "Not only did she take care of you, she’s your childhood sweetheart!" they said.

Great. Just great.

Then, of course, Dahlia wore the heirloom. The icing on this ridiculous cake was my parents—who didn’t even question her story. Instead, they guilt-tripped me with the classic, "You made a promise as a child, and you’re going to honor it."

Like, why did you give me, a seven-year-old, something that precious?? A promise made at that age is about as meaningful as me promising to become a professional dragon tamer.

Anyway, I was starting to recover when something weird happened. Dahlia wouldn’t leave my side.

But… where was Nyssa?

She wouldn’t have just left me, would she? She respected my boundaries, sure, but not visiting me while I was in a coma? That seemed like a boundary too far. Did the staff not let her in, because her speech impediment was making her a suspicious person?

Maybe she couldn’t handle looking at my handsome, unconscious face. I could forgive her that.

And then…

One afternoon, I turned a corner and found Dahlia crumpled at the bottom of the stairs, wailing like a banshee. Her face was streaked with tears, her arm bruised, and she was pointing an accusatory finger. I glanced up the staircase, where Nyssa stood frozen, her eyes rimmed red, as though she’d seen something that shook her to the core.

It took everything in me not to believe it. No way could Nyssa have pushed her. No. Freaking. Way.

But Dahlia? She milked it for all it was worth, clutching me like a barnacle. She kept sobbing about how “Nyssa tried to kill her.”

Kill her? Really, Dahlia? I’ve seen better acting in commercials.

But, damn it, I couldn’t hate Dahlia. Not after how she’d supposedly helped me when I was out cold.

And Nyssa? Her eyes told a different story. I could see the pain in them, the guilt, the hurt. She didn’t even have to say anything. I saw it all in a single glance.

For the next few years, my life became a twisted carousel of forced smiles, unspoken resentments, and constant internal battles. It was like I was living in some sort of warped soap opera, where I was the lead role trying to avoid the plotlines I knew were coming for me. Only, instead of dramatic music and sharp, clever dialogue, it was filled with awkward silences, guilt trips, and a lot of coughing awkwardly in the background.

It started innocently enough—at least, I told myself that. I’d spend my time sneaking away to be with Nyssa. She was always the calm in my storm, the only person who didn’t expect anything from me besides my company. The two of us would meet in secret, ducking out of my family’s watchful eyes as they continually tried to shove Dahlia down my throat like some unpleasant pill that just wouldn’t go down.

We’d sneak off to the quiet park near the outskirts of town, where the air always smelled like freshly mowed grass and the occasional waft of someone’s barbecue. Nyssa would bring me books—books she insisted I needed to read, for my "mind"—and I’d pretend to be fascinated by them while secretly hoping we’d just talk about anything but my tragic fate.

“I think this one will help you,” she’d say, pressing a book into my hands. “It’s about ancient cultures. It’s really interesting. Here, I’ll read the first page—”

“Nyssa,” I’d interrupt, “can we... just not? Can we just not pretend like I’m not being held hostage by my family and my future fiancée?”

She’d always laugh, the kind of laugh that made everything feel less heavy, and I’d smile, because that was the only time I felt like I could breathe. When it was just us. No pressures. No expectations.

But of course, this wasn’t my reality. No, my family had other plans. They were relentless in their pursuit to make Dahlia my fiancée—like some sort of inheritance auction. Every time I saw them, it was the same spiel:

“You can’t fight this, son. The Vaynes are good people. Good for the family legacy. Think about your future—your responsibilities.”

I’d roll my eyes as they tried to sell me on her. They’d parade Dahlia in front of me like some shiny new toy, and I was supposed to accept it. Accept her. I couldn’t. But that didn’t stop them from trying.

We’d have dinners in the grand dining hall, where my family would sit around in their meticulously tailored suits, like some kind of well-oiled machine. They’d talk about business, about growth, about wealth—and then, somehow, in the midst of all that, they’d casually slip in:

“Don’t forget, your fiancée will be joining us soon. We’ll need to finalize the engagement before the next board meeting.”

And there she’d be, sitting across from me, pretending to care about how the company was doing while batting her eyelashes at me like she was auditioning for a role in a high school drama club. I wanted to scream. I wanted to tell them all to shut up and listen, but I couldn’t. I had no voice in this. No say.

I didn’t belong here. Not with Dahlia.

But even though I wasn’t with Dahlia, she was always there, lingering in the background. Whenever I tried to escape to Nyssa’s world, she’d be right there, waiting for me, clinging to my family’s expectations like a toddler with a favorite blankie. And every time I stepped foot into her world, into her version of reality, I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was drowning.

Dahlia was always there, hovering around, constantly playing the part of the loving fiancée. She’d smile at me in that way that made me want to gag, her fingers always brushing against my arm or shoulder in public, reminding me that no matter how much I resisted, it didn’t matter. I belonged to her in my family’s eyes.

The pressure was suffocating. Every glance from my parents, every calculated move from Dahlia, it all came crashing down on me. I spent so many sleepless nights staring out my bedroom window, watching the stars, wishing for some escape. The only thing that kept me going was the thought of Nyssa, her face in my mind, the way she made me feel when we were together.

But I had to keep up appearances. I had to pretend. My family wanted me to be the heir, to wear the crown, to continue the legacy. And all of that meant pretending to play this game with Dahlia. They’d put me in board meetings, teaching me how to look the part of the CEO. They’d call me into meetings where I’d have to learn how to make the right decisions with people I didn’t care about, and all the while, Dahlia would sit by my side, like some sort of well-behaved doll, nodding and smiling.

"Don’t you see, son? This is your future," my father would say, tapping his fingers on the table like he was hammering a nail into my chest. "We’ve built this empire. It’s your turn to lead it."

But all I wanted was a life without this. I wanted freedom. I wanted to be with Nyssa.

Yet, every time I tried to reach out for something real, something that actually mattered, my family would crush it. Like a kid trying to reach for a candy bar on the top shelf, only to have his parents tell him no. And worse, Dahlia always stood beside them, smiling like she knew exactly what they were doing, as if she were the queen of this kingdom I never asked to inherit.

Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

There was no way out. My fate had been sealed long before I could even think about escaping. And as much as I wanted to hold on to Nyssa, I knew I was losing her, one forced meeting at a time.

The next couple of years were like living in a bad dream I couldn’t wake up from.  Even though I’m now in college. Every morning, I’d drag myself out of bed, not from any sense of responsibility or motivation, but because I knew I had to play my part. I had to wear the mask that my family expected me to wear. The heir to the throne of a business empire I never asked for.

My days became an endless series of rehearsals for the role I never auditioned for. Every time I sat at the breakfast table, my parents would pour me a cup of coffee with a side of expectation. My mother, always perfectly composed in her silk blouse, would glance at me over the rim of her cup.

“You’ve been quiet, dear. Did you think about the meeting later?” she’d ask, as though there were any choice in the matter.

And then there was my father—leaning back in his chair, his fingers steepled together, the embodiment of control. “Your future as the next CEO is depending on you making the right choices, son. You’ll need to start stepping up more. We’ve got a lot to plan.”

Yeah, I bet they had a lot planned. I wasn’t included in any of it, except as a figurehead, a pawn in a game of wealth and power. And standing beside them, smiling like she was the queen of my future, was Dahlia. Every. Single. Day. It was like they’d cast her as my fiancée in some sick family drama, and I was the unwilling lead.

Dahlia was... Dahlia. Always wearing that same smile—the kind you give when you’re trying a little too hard to convince yourself that you're in control. She’d drop little comments, meant to remind me of our supposed “connection.”

“Don’t worry, darling,” she’d say, touching my arm with a practiced tenderness. “I’m sure everything will go smoothly with the board. I’ll be there to support you.”

Support me? More like suffocate me with her presence. But I couldn’t exactly push her away—not with my parents watching my every move, their eyes silently screaming do your duty, son. And no matter how hard I tried to distance myself, there she was, like a shadow, lingering just a little too close, always ensuring that no one forgot that I was hers.

It was maddening. And on top of all that, every time I’d catch a glimpse of Nyssa—she was there, standing in the distance like the sun just out of reach. I could see her from a distance, always with that soft, kind expression on her face. But she never came close. She never tried to touch me anymore. She respected my space, just like she always had, but this space was different. This space felt like a wall that neither of us could break through anymore.

The guilt weighed heavily on me, and it was crushing. I’d catch glimpses of Nyssa in the college school halls, or even at the café where we used to meet in secret. Her eyes would linger on me for just a second, but she wouldn’t come over. She wouldn’t try to talk to me, and I couldn’t blame her. What would I say? How could I explain that the man I was forced to be wasn’t the man she once knew? How could I explain to her that I wasn’t the one driving this train, that I was trapped?

So, I watched her from a distance. We’d pass each other in the hallway, and I’d catch her eyes for a split second. Sometimes I’d smile—sometimes I’d nod—but it was always forced. Always suffocating.

But no matter how much I ached to reach out to her, I knew I couldn’t. Not anymore.

Dahlia, on the other hand, had only grown bolder. She didn’t just play the part of my fiancée—she owned it. She would follow me everywhere. Meetings, events, dinner parties. You name it, she was there. Every time I’d try to sneak away, she’d somehow pop up with that same disarming smile.

“You’re a bit distant today, darling,” she’d say, her hand resting lightly on my shoulder as we walked into yet another one of my family’s suffocating affairs. “Is everything okay?”

Everything? Everything was terrible, but I couldn’t tell her that. So I’d smile. “Yeah, I’m just tired. You know how it is.”

And there was always the subtle reminder—whether it was her hand on my arm or the way she’d look at me from across the room, like she owned me. Like I belonged to her. It was exhausting. But what could I do? My family would never believe me. They wouldn’t believe that I wasn’t in control of my own life. They would never understand the pull that Nyssa still had over me, the way her absence felt like a weight I couldn’t shake off.

And yet, Dahlia never stopped. She kept pushing, smiling her sickening smile. Every time she’d walk into a room, her presence would immediately fill it. She’d glide around like a phantom, never quite touching anything, but always in the way. The way she spoke to me at those family events was like nails on a chalkboard.

“We need to talk about our wedding plans,” she’d say, her voice sugary sweet and so, so false. “Have you decided on the venue yet? I was thinking something classy—maybe a little more extravagant, don’t you think?”

My stomach churned. Weddings? I couldn’t even begin to imagine it. Every word she spoke about it felt like a chain tightening around my chest. But no matter how much I resisted, I couldn’t break free.

There were days when I could almost feel Nyssa’s presence, even though she wasn’t there. Sometimes, I’d be sitting alone in my study, looking out at the city skyline through my window, and I’d hear the faint sound of her laugh echoing in my mind. The way she used to look at me, the way she used to hold my hand—it all felt like a dream I couldn’t reach anymore.

But despite all the pressure from my family, the suffocating presence of Dahlia, and the growing emptiness in my heart, there was one thing I could count on: I couldn’t stop thinking about Nyssa. She was the one thing in my life that still felt real. The only thing that made the constant noise of my family’s expectations fade into the background.

I kept telling myself that I’d fix things with her. I kept telling myself I’d find a way out of this nightmare. But the days dragged on, each one blending into the next, until it felt like I was stuck in a loop of my own making. And with every passing day, I could feel the space between us growing wider.

The worst part was that Dahlia wasn’t done. Oh no, not by a long shot. At our so-called “engagement ceremony” (because apparently, nobody, least of all me, got a vote), she handed me a drink. It looked innocent enough—a glass of sparkling something that promised to “loosen me up.” I should’ve known better. But, like the fool I am, I took it. Big mistake. Huge.

Next thing I knew, I woke up in a bed that wasn’t mine. The sheets were too silky, the room too dimly lit in that sad, sad way that made everything feel like a poorly executed attempt at romance. The air reeked of cheap perfume, a little too much lavender and something faintly floral—probably the scent of regret—and the lingering smell of... well, something else. Maybe the aftermath of whatever disaster I had just unwittingly gotten myself into.

I blinked. Once. Twice. Okay, no, that didn’t fix anything. I tried to sit up, but my head felt like it was in a vice, as if someone had stuffed a watermelon in my skull and was trying to wring it dry. And then... oh god. I looked down at my body—at my abs.

Yeah, you read that right—abs. Who do you think I am? A guy who just lets that go to waste? (Yes, I know, I’ve got abs, and yes, people notice. Just accept it.)

But there they were, hickeys. On my abs. Bruises littered my arms, some of them looking like someone had been playing whack-a-mole with a baseball bat. Seriously? Who even does that? Who puts hickeys on someone’s abs? I don’t mind if it would be Nyssa but--

I froze. Oh no. No, no, no. This couldn’t be happening.

And then, as if the universe had a sick sense of humor, I turned to my left to find Dahlia sprawled across the bed, snoring softly like some kind of deranged cartoon character. She was asleep. Probably dreaming about how she was the hero of her own twisted romance novel where I, the unwitting prince, had been won by her.

I don’t even know how long I lay there, staring at the ceiling, trying to reconcile this absolute mess. And then it hit me. Oh no. What if... what if she took my precious first time? The one I’d been saving for My Nyssa? Nyssa! I mentally screamed.

I glanced at Dahlia’s smug, sleeping face. No, this wasn’t real. This couldn’t be real. I was saving myself for Nyssa, the woman who actually respected me—and my boundaries. Not... not this. Not her.

I sat up and looked at my surroundings, trying to ignore the pounding headache that felt like it was conducting a drum solo in my brain. The room was way too glamorous for my taste. Ornate, satin curtains hung like they were auditioning for a role in a bad soap opera. . A single lamp flickered ominously in the corner, like it was about to betray me and set the room on fire.

No, I couldn’t think about this. I had to focus. I took a deep breath and tried to gather my thoughts.

Turns out, Dahlia had spiked my drink—hard. She used me. She manipulated me. And now, the worst part was, she was parading around claiming I was the father of her “baby.” Spoiler alert: It wasn’t mine. I’m a virgin, for crying out loud. Or I think I still was.

I felt the panic start to rise in my chest like a tidal wave. My precious first time—gone. I had been saving it for Nyssa, for crying out loud! This was supposed to be my story, not some sick, twisted soap opera starring Dahlia Vayne.

I shook my head, trying to clear it. “This is it. This is where I draw the line.”

I stood up slowly, my legs wobbling a little like a newborn giraffe. No. Dahlia was going down.

But as I gathered my strength, my mind couldn’t stop spiraling. What had happened to me? How had I gotten here? I glanced at the door, wondering if I could make it out without Dahlia waking up and delivering her version of the world’s worst TED talk.

I stared at her one last time, that smug, victorious grin still plastered on her face. I rolled my eyes. "Yeah, enjoy it while it lasts," I muttered to myself, bracing myself for the inevitable confrontation.

Dahlia may have thought she had won this round, but if there’s one thing I know about me, it’s that I don’t lose—not when it matters.

And this time, I was going to make sure Nyssa was not going to be part of this sick game.  That girl has Speech impediment issues, I can’t let her be in this mess.

My parents? They welcomed Dahlia with open arms, completely ignoring every single red flag waving in my face like a neon sign. They saw her—saw her smile, her fake sweetness—and thought she was the perfect match for me. I couldn’t even look at her without feeling sick. But they didn’t care. They didn’t want to see the truth. Dahlia, with her carefully crafted image, was the perfect fit for their idea of what I needed.

And Nyssa? She became Dahlia’s favorite punching bag. First figuratively, then literally.

“Do you really think you can just walk around like you own the place?” Dahlia would sneer when Nyssa wasn’t looking. “Get a life, you little witch.”

I saw it, I saw everything. Dahlia spread her lies—painted Nyssa as the other woman, a homewrecker, a witch, a villain in her twisted little drama. I couldn’t stand it. I couldn’t stand watching Nyssa suffer, her eyes getting duller with each passing day, the weight of Dahlia’s lies suffocating her.

I tried. I really did. I tried to fight for Nyssa, tried to shout, to say something—anything—but how do you fight someone who’s in your head, twisting your thoughts until you can’t even recognize your own voice? It’s like fighting shadows in a fog. Every time I’d try to speak, the words would come out wrong.

I’d tell myself, Leave Nyssa alone. She deserves better. But my lips would move, and out would come: “Nyssa, why are you ruining my life?”

It was like I wasn’t even me anymore. My mind was a stranger to me, and Dahlia was controlling everything.

It got worse. So much worse. Dahlia started drugging me. First, it was a little here, a little there—just enough to make me dizzy, to make me feel unsteady. And then? It wasn’t just dizziness. It was confusion, a spiraling sense of paranoia. I’d wake up not knowing what had happened the night before. My body stopped listening to me. I’d tell myself, Don’t drink that. But my hand would reach for the glass. Don’t trust her. But I’d find myself laughing at her jokes. It was like I was trapped in a bad video game, and Dahlia was the one pressing all the buttons.

I became cruel. Harsh. Nasty.

It was as if the more I pushed Nyssa away, the more I convinced myself that I was doing it for her own good. I thought if I made her hate me enough, she'd leave. She'd save herself from the nightmare I was dragging her into. But deep down, I knew it was just easier to make her hate me than to face the reality of how badly I’d let her down.

But she didn’t.

Nyssa had been walking beside me after another long day, her head down as always. I could feel her eyes on me, and I hated it. I hated the way she still cared, the way she still wanted to fix what I was breaking. So I broke her first.

"You don’t get it, do you?" I snapped, turning to face her. "You’re just a burden. You think you’re helping, but all you’re doing is making everything worse. Just—just go home. Forget about me."

She flinched, the words cutting through her like a blade. She opened her mouth to speak, but no sound came out. I didn’t need her to say anything.

"Good," I muttered, walking away

I had to make her hate me. I had to make her so angry, so disgusted with me, that she’d leave. She’d run away, and she’d be safe. But as I watched her, it felt like I was losing a piece of myself with every harsh word.

"Why do you always have to act like everything’s my fault?" I sneered one afternoon, pushing her back when she tried to help me study. "Stop pretending you can fix me. You can’t."

Nyssa’s face crumpled in confusion, but she didn’t argue. She never did. Instead, she turned away, her voice small but hurt. "I just wanted to help you, Henry. Why can’t you see that?"

I looked at her, my heart twisting. But I didn’t stop. I couldn’t stop. "Help me? You’re just making things worse. Stay out of it."

The final straw. I had said everything I could think of, done everything I could to destroy what we had. She was crying now, and I just stood there. I felt nothing. Nothing but relief.

"Go ahead and cry," I told her. "It’s what you do best. But don’t think it changes anything. It doesn’t. You’re better off without me."

Nyssa dropped to her knees in front of me, tears streaming down her face. "Please, Henry. Please don’t push me away. I need you."

I stepped back, turning my eyes away from her. "No, Nyssa. You need to leave."

Despite everything she still stayed.

And then came the night that everything broke.

One moment, I was stumbling through the city streets, lost in a haze of panic and numbness. The next, I heard the screams. Nyssa’s screams. I rushed toward them, but it was too late. Dahlia’s people had already cornered her, dragging her through the dirt like she was some kind of animal. They branded her a witch—my Nyssa—a witch—and they beat her until she couldn’t even stand.

I got there just in time to hold her as she bled out, her small, fragile body shaking in my arms.

“Nyssa... Nyssa, no...” My voice cracked, the tears falling before I could even understand what was happening. “I’m so sorry... please, please don’t leave me...”

Her eyes, once full of life, were clouded over now, distant and cold. “I never wanted to leave you... I... I never...”

A strangled sob escaped me, my chest tight with regret. “Nyssa, I... I love you.”

But she only managed a pained smile, her lips trembling as she gasped for breath. “You don’t... You stopped loving me, Henry. I... I felt it. You let me go. You pushed me away...” Her voice was faint, breaking with the weight of years of heartbreak. “I wish I left you.”

And then her breath stopped.

At 27 years old she's now gone.

Everything stopped.

The moment she died, something inside of me snapped. Or maybe it unsnapped. The fog in my brain lifted. The curse was gone. For the first time in years, I was free.

And I hated it.

Because Nyssa was gone. Gone, because of me. Because I was too weak to fight back. Too cowardly to stand up to the woman I’d let control my life. And now... now I was alone. And it wasn’t freedom that filled the space. It was emptiness.

Grief consumed me. It was all I could taste, all I could feel. Food tasted like ash, like dirt in my mouth. I could barely sleep. Every night was a battle to close my eyes and not see her face, not hear her voice, not remember what I’d lost.

And then, my abs? Those hard-earned abs that used to be my pride and joy? Gone. Gone with everything else. RIP to the real victim. I’m basically just coping at this point.

Eventually, my body just gave out. I couldn’t take it anymore. Every day felt like I was dragging myself through molasses, each step heavier than the last. The guilt, the grief, the constant strain of pretending everything was fine—it was too much. I could feel it weighing on me, like an invisible anchor pulling me deeper and deeper into darkness. It wasn’t just my mind anymore. My body was breaking too. My hands trembled when I reached for food, my legs buckled when I tried to stand, and my heart—a heart that had been broken so many times it hardly mattered anymore—started to falter.

There was no way out. No escape. I could feel the weight of it all, crushing me, every breath a little more labored than the last.

The last few days had been a blur. I’d barely slept. I hadn’t eaten properly. Every time I closed my eyes, I could still see Nyssa’s face—her broken expression when I pushed her away. My chest clenched at the thought. But there was nothing I could do to fix it now. Nothing but spiral further.

The pain... the exhaustion... it all blended together.

I remember sitting on the edge of my bed, staring at the wall, the flickering light of a distant street lamp casting long shadows across the room. My head felt like it was filled with cotton, my thoughts slipping through my fingers like water. Everything around me seemed to be moving in slow motion, but I couldn’t keep up. I couldn’t fight it anymore.

I slumped over, my body giving in, and I think I passed out right then, somewhere between one breath and the next. The world went black, like someone had flipped a switch, and everything I knew—every hope, every regret—disappeared into nothingness.

And then, it was like the universe had a cruel sense of humor.

I woke up in a sterile room, but this time, it wasn’t my room. The lights were too bright, too sharp. My head was pounding, and I could barely keep my eyes open. For a moment, I thought I was dead. Maybe I was. Maybe this was the afterlife—though, if it was, it didn’t exactly feel like a peaceful resting place. The air smelled too clean, too sharp. The floor was cold beneath me, like it was trying to freeze the warmth back into my bones.

My parents were there, too. They were standing by my bedside, eyes wide and red, like they’d been crying for days. Their hands were clutching mine, their voices a blur of panic and relief.

"You’ve been in a coma for weeks!" my mom's voice cracked, and I could feel her grip tighten around my hand, like she thought if she let go, I might disappear again.

Weeks?

I blinked, trying to piece together what was happening. The fog in my head wouldn’t lift. It felt like I was waking from a dream, but everything was too real. Too sharp. Too… wrong.

I tried to speak, but my throat was dry, my voice barely a rasp. "What… what happened?"

My parents didn’t answer right away. They just stared at me, too lost in their own emotion to notice how confused I was.

And then it hit me. I didn’t feel like myself. I didn’t feel like I was where I was supposed to be. Something was off. Something was wrong.

I blinked at the calendar on the wall, trying to focus on the dates, but the numbers kept swimming around in my vision.

The shock hit me harder than anything before it.

The date—it couldn’t be right. It was a week earlier. The day before everything went wrong. The day before Nyssa... before I lost everything.

I couldn’t breathe. My chest tightened with the weight of realization. I wasn’t just waking up from a coma. No. I was back in time.

My mind screamed in panic. How is this possible?

I staggered up, my body protesting, but I didn’t care. I needed to get out of there. I had to understand what was happening.

But just as I tried to get my bearings, I smelled it. That scent. That familiar, comforting smell that I hadn’t smelled in what felt like forever.

I froze.

The 18-year-old Nyssa Albright.