Adrien’s POV
The vase shattered beside . Pieces scattered across the sterile floor, small white fragnts gleaming under the harsh light. But the sound that broke wasn’t the crash—it was her voice.
"Go away! I don’t want to see you!"
My heart felt like fragile glass cracking in slow motion. Every syllable hit like a hamr.
For a second, I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t even think. The room tilted, my pulse a dull roar in my ears.
My knees hit the cold linoleum floor before I even realized I was falling. The sound echoed in the silence she left between her sobs. My palms pressed flat against my thighs, shaking — no, trembling — as if my body couldn’t decide whether to hold itself together or let go completely.
My heart felt like fragile glass cracking under pressure — a slow, delicate ruin, splintering one piece at a ti. I could hear the fractures inside , could almost feel the shards carving through my chest. It hurts. God, it hurts so much.
I wanted to speak, to tell her sothing, anything that would undo the look in her eyes — that mixture of pain and exhaustion that said she was already gone. But no words ca. My lips parted uselessly. My throat burned. My chest felt tight, wired, like sothing inside had been disconnected — like my lungs and heart were no longer working together.
Why... why is she doing this?
My sweet Bella. My little bird.
I must have hurt her more than I ever understood.
The thought landed like a blade.
The air felt too thin. My chest burned, a sharp, constricting ache that crawled up my throat. I’m tired. God, I’m so tired. Exhausted in every part of —body, mind, soul. Every bruise and scar I’ve collected over the past few days suddenly scread awake, as if her words had re-opened all of them at once.
Her voice — "I want a divorce. I don’t want to do this again." — kept looping in my mind, cutting deeper with every repetition.
I could still feel her tiny fists against my chest. The warmth of her tears soaking through my shirt. The sound of her scream echoing through like shrapnel.
I pressed a trembling hand to my chest. It hurts. It feels like wires snapping inside , like my heart’s circuitry is disconnecting piece by piece.
I’ve been trying—trying so damn hard— to keep her safe, to keep her happy. And still, this is where we are.
Her voice, her shaking, her tears—it’s all I can feel. The pain, the blood, everything else fades compared to this.
This hurts worse.
Worse than when the bomb went off, killed so of my n and the heat burned through my back and palm like acid.
Worse than the glass that tore into my skin.
Worse than the bullets that tore through my shoulder and abdon.
Worse than my father’s words when he told that Caden—that bastard—was my brother.
Worse than his slap, his contempt, the way he spat that I’d beco a disappointnt.
The thought of her suffering, of my suffering being the cause of her pain, was a tornt far worse than any physical injury I had ever endured. It was an existential agony.
This... this is what breaks .
I don’t know what to do.
Her sobs were shaking the room, shaking . I wanted to reach her, but I knew if I did, she’d only pull away again. My hand hovered in the air for a second before falling limply to my side.
I forced a hand up, covering my face. I didn’t even realize a sound had escaped — a broken exhale that might’ve been a sob. My body shook once, twice.
"Isabella..." My voice cracked. "Please."
She didn’t look up.
Then I pressed the small silver button clipped to my pocket. A silent call for Kassel, for the nurses. My fingers were trembling so much that I almost missed it. The red light blinked back at like a silent scream for help.
"I’m sorry," I whispered, my voice almost gone. "I’m so sorry, Bella."
I pushed myself up slowly, every muscle screaming. The movent sent fire lancing through my body. I swayed for a mont before catching the edge of the nightstand. The room blurred at the edges, but I told myself to move. Just walk away. Let her breathe. Don’t make it worse.
I glanced at her one last ti. She was trembling, face hidden in her hands, sobbing like her entire world had caved in — and maybe it had.
"Isabella... please." The words barely left , cracked and unsteady. "Please don’t do this."
She didn’t look up. Didn’t even flinch.
’d just taken a step—when sothing slamd into .
Pain exploded in my abdon — sharp, hot, instantaneous. I looked down, blinking through the blur, and saw the remains of a porcelain figurine scattered across the floor. She’d thrown it — without thinking, without seeing.
And still, I didn’t feel anger. Just more breaking.
My hand instinctively covered the wound, breath catching in my throat. I looked down at it—nothing bleeding, but God, it hurt.
I could feel the tears gathering before I realized I was crying. They burned, spilling hot and quiet down my face. My vision blurred again, but not from pain—at least, not the kind that could be stitched up.
Her voice, raw and trembling: "Go away, Mr. Walton! I don’t want to see you!"
"Isabella, please," I whispered, my voice rough and small. I don’t even know what I am begging for at this point.
She was crying harder now, almost convulsing, and her sobs cracking through the room. The sound tore through .
"Please..."
Her sobs hadn’t stopped when the door burst open. Kassel rushed in first, followed by two nurses, their eyes darting between us. I took a step back — unsteady, chanical.
Kassel’s voice, sharp and commanding, cut through the chaos. "Move! Get the sedatives—her IV is out, she’s bleeding!"
Two nurses rushed to her side. I didn’t move. Couldn’t.
Her cries filled every inch of .
I turned my back to the scene, each step feeling heavier than the last. Every sound behind —the rustle of nurses, the beeping monitors, Isabella’s broken sobs—lodged itself deeper into my ribs.
I reached the door, but just before I crossed the threshold—sothing hit my back.
A small object, maybe another vase, maybe a cup—I didn’t even know.
It hit, cracked, fell to the floor.
The pain tore through , nearly buckling my knees again.
I didn’t turn around.
Didn’t react.
Didn’t breathe.
I just stood there, my back burning, my chest heavy, and whispered, almost to the air:
"I’m sorry, my love."
And then I walked out.
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