I collapsed in a pool of my own blood, the pain almost knocking me out cold. But somehow, I still managed to inch closer to him, begging him to take me to the hospital.
"Dylan, please, my leg…"
At that moment, my sole focus was on saving my leg and preserving my career as a ballet dancer.
But he just stood there, coldly watching me, utterly unmoved by my pain. Then he forced me to kneel and apologize to Amara, threatening to destroy the only thing I had left from my mother: the pair of ballet shoes she had painstakingly hand-made for me while she was gravely ill.
That night, my pride, my entire sense of self, was shattered.
I'll never forget the gut-wrenching pain of my broken leg, nor the ice in his eyes when he threw the divorce papers at me while I lay in that hospital bed.
That gnawing humiliation still clings to me.
It's like a dark stain, rising with a rush of hatred whenever I think of it.
Now, when I look at Dylan, all that's left is pure, unfiltered hatred.
The flames have consumed the love I once had for him.