Page 97 of My Dark Divine
I can only hope I don’t end up down there myself.
My mother always told me that if I played by the rules, I would achieve my dream life. She had a warped concept of happiness. To her, that meant allowing a man to bend and break me, ruining me from the inside out. From a young age, she paraded me around like a showpiece in hopes of attracting a wealthy suitor.
She made me forget the universities I had dreamed of attending and the path I had aspired to forge for myself. Instead, I was led to believe that true happiness lay in living under someone else’s thumb—obedient and smiling, accepting money as if it were the ultimate prize.
‘He could’ve had anyone, but he chose you.’
That was her refrain whenever I tried to tell her about my husband, who was nothing more than a disgusting pig that drugged, beat up, and used my body whenever it suited him. According to her, I was the ungrateful one, fabricating stories.
And as twisted as it was, I began to internalize her words. She was my role model, even long after I married Zayden. It wasn’t until years of chemotherapy and medication left her exhausted and angry that she died, proving her beliefs to be complete bullshit.
Not everything can be bought with money.
Thousands of dollars were spent on her treatment, but it led nowhere. She passed away, hollowed out—pale, drained, and wearing that angry, disappointed scowl etched into her face.
It’s funny how it happened right after death claimed Zayden, bringing an end to years of my suffering. After all that pain, once they were gone, the agony vanished as well. The feeling my mother used to call ‘laziness’ faded into background noise. I felt revitalized, able to get out of bed without tears.
A strange feeling, considering that both my husband and my mother have died, but still. I regained some control over my life, and since then, I’ve merely existed—managing responsibilities, holding down a job, and appearing to have a purpose. I promised myself I would never let anyone into my life again, not after the hell I’ve endured—the hell that changed me into someone I hardly recognize.
Then came West. And just when I thought he had left me for good, he returned at the moment I was losing everything. He helped me shower, carried me to the bedroom, tucked me in, and told me he was going out to buy painkillers. I barely registered his absence before he was back—not just with the painkillers, but also with some spare clothes from the little shop downstairs. And pads.
Fucking pads.
I had completely forgotten to ask him for them, yet West, being the attentive asshole he is, picked them up anyway. He got one box of each size, saying—and I quote—’I don’t know shit about stuff like that, so I bought each size just in case.’
After paying the delivery man and locking the door, he turns to me with two large bags of McDonald’s in hand. His eyes meet mine, and I catch a flash of guilt in them. “It’s the closest place around. Not very fancy, but you need to eat, and something tells me you don’t want to wait any longer.”
A weak smile spreads across my face, straining against the dryness under my eyes. Smiling feels so strange that I can sense how unnatural it looks. “One thing you didn’t know about me is that I actually prefer chicken nuggets over fancy oysters.”
He sets the bags down on the bed, a smirk pulling at his lips. West is dressed simply in sweats and a sweatshirt, with no sign of his usual rings or flashy watches. His cologne is gone, replaced by his natural scent, which oddly comforts me. I want to breathe it in deeply, wrapping myself in it until it consumes me.
I shift closer to the food he laid out before me, a growl erupting from my empty stomach as I fight the urge to drool. It feels like years since I’ve eaten, especially food like this—the best kind of food.
“I didn’t know what you’d like to drink,” he says, pulling out a carton holder filled with various drinks—Coke, tea, orange juice, and something that looks like a raspberry smoothie. Did he buy everything they had on the menu? “Choose.”
“I can’t drink Coke, caffeine, or strong tea during these days,” I rasp, reaching for the orange juice. It’s the kind of drink that can bring a dead person back to life.
“Jesus. How long are you forced to live without caffeine?” he asks, and I have to suppress a stupid smile that threatens to appear. It’s odd that he sounds genuinely interested in something so simple.
“It depends. Usually, it’s four to six days, but sometimes less. These days, though, I prefer hot chocolate with a thick layer of caramel on top.”
He chuckles, grabs his cheeseburger, and takes a bite. “Noted.”
I love how he never asks the wrong questions and acts as if he didn’t find me curled up on this bed, covered in blood and sweat. Shame burns through me at the thought, and a part of me wants to explain, to justify myself, to lie and say it wasn’t what it looked like and that I’m fine and he doesn’t need to worry.
But he stays silent about it and doesn’t look disgusted by me. On the contrary, he seems… happy to see me, even after everything that’s happened between us.
“Why didn’t you call my dad?” I ask, slowly dipping a French fry into the sauce, my eyes downcast. “After you found me, you could’ve told him where I was instead of dealing with this mess.”
“What mess?” he replies nonchalantly, his gaze steady on me—I can sense it. Still, I’m too scared to look up. “I’m not dealing with a mess. I’m spending time with my fiancée.”
Only after a moment do I realize my fingers are sticky from repeatedly dipping the French fry all the way to the end. When I bring it to my mouth, a storm of thoughts churns inside me, each one sparking a warmth that only West can ignite. It’s not his job to babysit me. He could have made sure I was okay and handed me over to my dad, but hechoseto stay. He chooses to spend time with me, even when I feel and look as revolting as I am.
“Eat. You haven’t taken your painkiller yet, and you need to eat well before you do if you want it to work,” he says gently, his voice cutting through my reverie.
I can’t help but smile as I chew my food, realizing he’s quoting me. I was the one who explained this basic yet important rule back when things were only starting to get so confusingbetween us. The fact that he remembers it sends butterflies fluttering up my ribcage.
“It doesn’t hurt as much as before,” I admit, focusing on my food. Of course, I still feel the echoes of the agony I’ve endured over the past two weeks, along with the cramps, but it’s bearable now.
