Annice Turner POV:
A searing pain ripped through my stomach, pulling me back from the brink of unconsciousness. My body spasmed, a violent tremor shaking me from head to toe. I gasped, a painful, wheezing sound, trying to suck air into my burning lungs. The acrid smell of smoke and dust filled my nostrils, making my nausea worse.
"Annice! Annice, where are you?" Augustine' s voice, frantic and distan, cut through the panicked screams of the crowd. He was calling for me, his tone laced with a desperate urgency.
I tried to answer, to call out, but all that came out was a choked whimper. My body felt like lead, heavy and unresponsive, trapped in the suffocating embrace of the crowd. Every muscle screamed in protest, and my vision swam with black spots.
Then I saw her. Cristina, her face streaked with tears and dirt, clinging to Augustine's arm. "Augustine, my ankle! I think it's broken! I can't move!" she wailed, her voice surprisingly strong despite her supposed injury. Her eyes, however, darted to me, a flash of malicious triumph in their depths.
Augustine hesitated for a fraction of a second. I saw the internal battle playing out on his face: concern for Cristina, the ingrained instinct to protect, battling with the desperate search for me. Then, with a resigned sigh, he scooped Cristina into his arms, carrying her like a fragile bride. He glanced over his shoulder, his eyes meeting mine for a fleeting moment. A flicker of regret, of helplessness. Then he was gone, swallowed by the surging crowd, leaving me behind. Again.
My phone buzzed, vibrating painfully against my ribs. It was a message from Augustine. A single word: "Stay."
Stay? After he'd left me, again, for her? A bitter, hollow laugh escaped my lips, a dry, rasping sound that turned into a hacking cough. My stomach was a knot of fire, twisting and turning, threatening to erupt. I tasted blood, metallic and warm, on my tongue.
I wiped my mouth, the back of my hand coming away stained crimson. Stay. The word hung in the air, a cruel joke. He wanted me to stay here, in this suffocating chaos, while he played the hero to his perfect, fragile mistress. My heart, or what was left of it, hardened into a cold, unyielding stone.
This wasn't the first time he'd asked me to "stay" while he abandoned me. The memory of our first anniversary, a day that should have been filled with joy, flashed before my eyes. I had planned a surprise trip for him, a romantic getaway to the Tuscan countryside, a place we'd always dreamed of visiting. I'd spent months saving, meticulously planning every detail, a secret love project.
I was waiting for him at home, the tickets in my hand, a hopeful smile on my face. He was late, unusually so. I called, but his phone went straight to voicemail. Hours stretched into eternity. The wine I'd chilled for our celebratory toast grew warm, then cold again. The romantic dinner I'd cooked sat untouched, its aromas slowly fading into the silent house.
Around midnight, a car pulled up. Not his. A taxi. He stumbled out, disheveled, his eyes bloodshot. And then I saw her. Cristina, her hand resting intimately on his arm, her hair mussed, her dress askew. They were laughing, a careless, unburdened sound that ripped through me like a physical wound.
I stood frozen in the doorway, the tickets still clutched in my hand, a foolish, naive smile still plastered on my face. He saw me then, his laughter dying on his lips, replaced by a look of stunned horror. Cristina, ever the actress, quickly composed herself, her smirk twisting into a feigned look of concern.
He walked past me, into the house, his eyes avoiding mine. I heard her voice, a silky whisper from the taxi, "See you tomorrow, Auggie." Tomorrow. Like he hadn't just shattered my entire world.
He came into the living room, a cheap bouquet of convenience store roses clutched in his hand. "Annice? What are you doing up? Happy anniversary, love." His voice was too bright, too forced.
I just stared at the roses. They were the same shade of fuchsia Cristina had been wearing. "Where were you, Augustine?" My voice was barely a whisper, thin and reedy.
He flinched, then swallowed hard. "Working, love. Big deal came up. Had to close it." He tried to reach for me, to pull me into his arms, but I recoiled as if burned.
"Working?" I scoffed, a bitter laugh bubbling up. "Or were you working on your new relationship?" My voice was rising now, cracking with the pain I could no longer contain. I threw the tickets at him, watched them flutter to the floor, symbols of a love he had defiled.
His eyes widened, a flicker of guilt finally registering. He looked down at the tickets, then back at me, his carefully constructed lie crumbling around him. "Annice, I can explain-"
"Explain what, Augustine?" I shrieked, the raw pain finally erupting. I grabbed the nearest object, a beautifully crafted ceramic vase, a gift from my mother, and hurled it at the wall. It exploded into a thousand pieces, mirroring the fragments of my heart. "Explain why you chose her? Explain why you keep betraying me? Explain why you told her about my mother, about my trauma?" My voice was a raw, guttural scream, a primal cry of agony. The claustrophobia, the fear of abandonment, the memory of my mother's lifeless body-it all surged to the surface, overwhelming me. I curled into a ball on the floor, shaking uncontrollably, sobbing until I thought my chest would split open.
Augustine had rushed to me then, wrapping his arms around my trembling body. "I'm so sorry, Annice," he'd whispered, his voice thick with tears, his own body shaking. "I'll end it. I swear. I'll end everything with her. I'll never hurt you again." He held me for hours, until the sun came up, until my tears were exhausted, until I was a hollowed-out shell. He called Cristina from my phone, with me listening, and ended their affair, or so he claimed. I wanted to believe him. I needed to believe him. I needed someone.
I had been so naive. So desperately in need of love that I clung to the very person who was destroying me. I was a child trapped in a burning house, reaching for the hand of the arsonist.
Augustine had "ended it." For a while. But the wounds never truly healed. They festered, turning into something dark and cancerous, both literally and figuratively. And now, he had left me again. For her. The message on my phone glowed, a mocking beacon in the dim, smoke-filled chaos. Stay.
My vision cleared, a cold, hard resolve sharpening my focus. I grasped the metal railing next to me, dragging myself upright. My stomach still burned, but the pain was a distant hum compared to the icy clarity of my purpose. I wouldn't stay. Not for him. Not for anyone. I would make him regret leaving me, regret betraying me, regret ever knowing me. And Cristina? She would pay too. Everyone would pay.
