The chaos that erupted in the wake of Hellen's departure sent shockwaves through our families, shaking their very foundations. My mother, consumed by fury and heartbreak, succumbed to illness, her frustration manifesting in a debilitating toll that no amount of care could remedy. Meanwhile, my father, equally outraged, steeled himself and begrudgingly approached Hellen’s family, offering apologies that felt like poison on his tongue, each word a bitter sacrifice for the sake of pride.
As for Mathew, he plunged into a pit of despair. The loss of Hellen shattered him, and he sought refuge in the bottom of a bottle, drowning his sorrows in alcohol that only deepened his agony.
In the face of this turmoil, my parents, concerned for my well-being yet blinded by their own pain, held whispered discussions. They concluded that I should be married off—to someone who could offer stability, a beacon of safety amid the chaos surrounding us.
But Mathew, fueled by desperation and heartbreak, would not go quietly into the night. One fateful evening, he burst into my house, reeking of whiskey, his eyes wild and bloodsho. He staggered toward me, pointing a trembling finger in accusation, “Mary! Don’t think I don’t know what you’re planning. Even if Hellen is gone, you can’t marry me!”
I endured the searing pain in my heart, forcing myself to meet his wild gaze with a calm exterior. “Mathew, you’re drunk!”
He stumbled back, momentarily thrown by my unwavering demeanor, but the fire in his eyes remained.
After all, he couldn’t convince his parents; they stood firm in their resolve, forcing him into a life he didn’t want.
Two years later, I found myself standing beside him once again, but the atmosphere had shifted. The air buzzed with anticipation as we stood obediently in front of the grand auditorium, a world of expectations surrounding us. Mathew wore a forced smile, his posture rigid.
The drunk Mathew gazed at me with a warmth that ignited something deep within my soul. When he held me close, his hot chest pressed against mine, I felt like I was melting into him, drowning in the intoxicating blend of love and desire. The man I had longed for, the one I had never dared to believe could be mine, was finally in my arms. It felt like a beautiful dream, a fantasy come to life.
But just as quickly as that bliss enveloped me, it shattered like glass against the unforgiving reality. As he lay on top of me, his breath warm against my skin, he murmured the name I dreaded to hear—“Hellen.”
Mathew's father had transferred the shares meant for Hellen to me, yet it sat heavily on my conscience. Every day, I awoke with the gnawing sensation that I was stealing something from someone else—something that belonged to a woman who had once held his heart. So, I buried myself in work, pushing myself harder, striving to create benefits that would make my ownership feel legitimate.
While Mathew raced through the mountains, adrenaline coursing through his veins, I toiled late into the night at the office, the glow of my computer screen casting shadows across my face.
As Mathew indulged in carefree nights filled with revelry, I was airborne, flying across the country, negotiating deals and shaking hands with strangers who barely knew my name.
In those moments of solitude, I found myself wondering if he missed me, if he ever thought of the sacrifices I was making for us. I would glance at my phone, hoping for a message, a sign that our lives were intertwined, yet the silence loomed large.
I also want to live a good life with Mathew and give him a child, but he never gives me the chance. It’s good enough that he can go home for two days out of ten.
Even when he came back, he slept in a separate room from me. He said that only Hellen was worthy of having his child, but I couldn't help but sneer at him, "It's a pity that Hellen only wants to have children with strangers."
That day, the rage in his eyes sent a chill down my spine. Mathew's grip tightened around my neck, and in that moment, I thought I would die at his hands.
Finally, he released me, standing up to put on his clothes with a disdainful sneer curling his lips. “If Hellen hadn’t left, do you think it would be your turn to lie in my bed?”
“Yes,” I shot back, my voice steady despite the storm raging inside me, “but your Hellen just doesn’t want to sleep in your bed.”
Anger surged back into Mathew's eyes.
“Why? Do you want to pinch me again?”
His jaw clenched. For a heartbeat, it felt like we were standing on the precipice of something—an understanding, a reckoning—but then he slammed the door behind him, the sound reverberating through the silence of the room like a thunderclap.