Page 72 of My Dark Divine
He won’t like seeing me like this. He’ll call me weak and grumble about how I need to hold it together, just like always.
I climb the stairs, my sniffs betraying the turmoil within. I had hoped—prayed to every god I could think of—that no one would be home when I returned, but of course, my prayers went unanswered. I can never find a moment of peace.
Not in this house.
I quicken my pace, the sound of his voice growing nearer and more frantic. As I pull open the bathroom door, I step inside and lock it behind me. I shut my eyes, letting the illusion of solitude take me away for a brief moment.
A strange sense of peace envelops me like a heavy cloud, providing a false sense of calm and warmth. I swallow the thick lump in my throat and step away from the door, knowing it will take him a while to break through.
For now, I can have a moment alone.
I turn my face toward the mirror and take a few tentative steps forward, feeling my knees buckle under an unseen weight. My eyes trace the outline of my face as I turn it to the side, drawing a path with my finger. Slowly, I move it up, following the contours of my cheek, my nose, and back to my chin, smudging the foundation in the process. Beads of sweattrickle down my forehead, washing away the thin layer of powder I applied earlier.
His fists beat relentlessly on the door, sending shockwaves through my body, but I ignore them. The doctor’s words echo in my mind like a broken record, replaying everything he said over and over, as if I haven’t already endured enough pain in his office. The disgust etched on his face, the tone of his voice as he spoke about me…
Disgust. Disgust. Disgust.
All my confusion, anger, and sadness seem to vanish without a trace, replaced solely by this emotion. It roots itself deep inside me, wrapping tightly around my organs like a vile ivy, seeping poison into my system.
I tilt my head from side to side, searching for something I will never find—a glimpse of beauty, a tiny sign that maybe, just maybe, I can be fixed, and that I might stop feeling this way. But it’s absurd to even try. No matter how much makeup I apply, how much time I spend styling my hair, or how carefully I pick my outfits, I will never feel pretty. I seem to have a talent for making things worse, turning myself ugly not only on the outside but on the inside as well.
I’ve allowed this to bend and break me, and I fear it can never be fixed. I feel weak, incapable of finding my voice or standing out in any way. It feels like I was born by mistake. I know how selfish it is to think about ending my life, especially when so many people fight for every breath, those who desperately want to live.
But it doesn’t stop me from thinking about it.
I raise my hands and look at the dried blood around my nails. Even gloves can’t shield me now. The pain I’ve inflicted on my skin can never be concealed, not even by the thickest layer of fabric.
The sound of the door handle jiggling is the only thing anchoring me to this world. I close my eyes, hoping to let my mind wander, but the noise prevents me from doing so.
I can feel the cracks in my thick wall of resistance. Hot tears seep through my lashes, trailing long streaks down my cheeks. I reach up to wipe my eyes, only to smudge my mascara, making myself look even scarier than I already am. It feels like the real me is pushing through. I gaze at my reflection, watching as the disgust and anger toward who I’ve become grow thicker, overtaking everything I have left.
Adrenaline floods my system, making my breath shallow and rapid. I strike the mirror with my fist, and it shatters into countless jagged pieces. Pain shoots through my knuckles, but I don’t stop—my fist continues to collide with the fragments of my reflection, splitting it into more ragged shards.
Blood drips down my arms, and when I look at my hand, I notice a shard lodged deep in my palm, its edges cutting into my skin. More blood pools, and I find myself captivated by the sight. The sharp metallic scent blends with sweat and the faint remnants of my perfume, creating a dizzying, suffocating stench.
The door begins to give way as Dad slams something hard into it, and I know I don’t have much time. I need to tell him that everything is fine. He needs to see the happy version of me—the one he wants to see.
Me with a wide smile on my face.
Dropping the shard of glass to the floor, I bring my blood-soaked fingers to my mouth. I press the tips against the corner of my lips, dragging two fingers up to my cheek and drawing a deep red line. Once I’m sure it looks convincing, I move to the other corner and repeat the action.
Just as I finish, Dad bursts through the door, sending a cloud of dust swirling in the air. He’s panting, but as soon asour eyes meet, he stops breathing entirely, his mouth hanging open in shock.
“Don’t worry,” I say, holding a smile. “I’m happy, Dad.”
Cameron Real Estate Development is Reye’s family’s top competitor. Ava Cameron, the head of their marketing team, is an old friend of Chloe’s. They were best friends for years until their partnership fell apart and turned into rivalry—complicated further by Ava’s affair with Chloe’s boyfriend at the time.
Today, I’m hitting three targets at once—giving Chloe an easy task, offering her a chance for revenge, and, most importantly, gearing up for the explosive outcome of her performance. I’ve never been fond of getting my hands dirty in the process. Involving myself physically requires extensive planning and plotting, burning through nerve cells, and in the end, it still tends to get messy.
West loves to call me a cunning snake for a reason.
Excitement bubbles inside me as I stand among the crowd, eagerly awaiting Chloe’s moment on stage. Half of what she’s going to present today is a fabrication; the other half is only partially true, and the remaining ten percent is real—just with a sprinkle of lies. Cameron RED is ranked right below Lucas’s company, and that’s definitely not a good thing. I’m surprised we haven’t taken action against them sooner.
Among all our competitors, they stand out as the strongest, backed by a powerful legacy built over generations. Their family is renowned for its impeccable reputation and unwavering dedication to their work. I dealt with them a couple of years ago, but this time, it will be for a greater cause.
Chloe steps onto the stage—the same one on which West and I once performed—a wide smile plastered across her face as she begins her speech. It’s so easy to manipulate some people that I find myself getting bored. Humans are laughably predictable—I always use the same tactics to bend them to my will, and they inevitably comply.
I don’t pay attention to the words flowing from her lips; I’ve gathered every piece of information she’s now sharing, so I know the outcome. Instead, I concentrate on the crowd’s reactions. No one knows I’m here—I’ve camouflaged myself well enough to blend in and chosen a spot far enough from everyone else, high enough to see her face and predict what will happen, yet low enough to avoid raising any suspicions.
