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Chapter 51
Logan was Matilda’s only Achilles‘ heel.
Her eyes pinned Willow with a ferocity that seemed to pierce through her smug grin. It was like looking directly at the sun–blinding and unbearable.
How was her son faring at the Boyd family?
Swallowing her trembling voice, Matilda mustered a cold facade. “Are you done? If so, please leave. The studio doesn’t have the luxury of entertaining people who have nothing better to
do.”
People who have nothing better to do?
Willow almost erupted again, but Matilda’s defeated stance delighted her. With a smug curl of her lips, she strutted out of the studio like a victor leaving the battlefield while Matilda’s gaze followed her, icy and lingering–her eyes at that moment as fierce as Yvan’s had ever been.
—
A day without progress, every collaboration was sinking like a stone in the ocean, and not a single response to her invitations.
Matilda slumped in her chair, curling in on herself in silence. Gideon was away on business, and their project likely wouldn’t secure the deal they needed.
Was this the end? Text property © Nôvel(D)ra/ma.Org.
No…
She looked down at her right hand, the crisscrossed scars and the stub of her little finger a constant pain. Even though the wounds had healed and stopped bleeding, the scars were a perpetual ache.
The darkness of her past haunted her, a reminder of the madness she once embraced.
The brighter the love had shone, the more intense the hatred that now burned. Matilda’s right hand could no longer bear weight; even making a fist was a struggle. Nevertheless, she clenched her fist tightly, her arm shaking, but her grip fierce.
She couldn’t be defeated, not again. With her other hand, she fished out a pill and swallowed it with water, sitting in front of the computer, taking deep breaths, clutching at her chest as if trying to force more air into her lungs.
But it was futile.
Her chest felt tight, suffocating, gasping for breath.
Tears mixed with pain surged from within, and Matilda let out a sound like a trapped animal in distress.
“Logan, what do I do? How do I save you, and how do I save myself?” She yelled.
She once read, “The greatest regret of my life is that the one who pushed me into hell also once led me to heaven.”
But Matilda thought, Yvan never took her to heaven, only cast her straight into hell. All her suffering, he was the root. Not once was there tenderness.
She had been naive, unwilling to face the truth until now, still gasping for breath in Yvan’s shadow.
Willow had left with a swish, not bothering to shut the door behind her.
Such a lady was likely unused to such things, always having attendants to close doors for her. So, when she left, the studio door remained ajar, letting the cold pre–winter wind howl in.
Papers on the desk fluttered wildly in the breeze.
Matilda sunk into the couch, her face sickly pale, and slowly turned her gaze toward the door as the night grew darker. She realized she lacked the strength to close it, just as she lacked the courage to face Yvan.
The night wind was cold, carrying sighs that might belong to anyone, swirling through every corner of this glittering metropolis. It witnessed the warmth and coldness of human relationships but remained as elusive as ever, carrying away nothing but time and temperature.