Chapter 78 The Scar That Spoke!

Chapter 78 The Scar That Spoke!
Celia POV

My disobedience had altered the course of my life, and I saw my youthful self with clearer eyes, finally understanding the compromises I had made in the name of love.

The man Jacob became was a shadow of the young man I had met years before. The burning ambition that once defined him had faded into a wisp of smoke. The loss of our baby had broken something in him, and he never found his way back. He leaned on alcohol as a crutch, then succumbed to gambling, and ultimately betrayed our vows through infidelity.

As his gambling spiraled, we watched everything we had built together crumble. The financial devastation was catastrophic, leaving us with almost nothing. It was a draining and disheartening existence, a far cry from the life I had known. What Jacob never discovered was that I had kept my parents’ house. The rental income I received every six months, combined with the modest fees from my teaching, became our secret lifeline. Without it, I honestly do not know how we would have survived. Those small, steady streams were our only threads of hope in an existence defined by loss and uncertainty.

Over time, our relationship transformed until communication between us had all but ceased. He developed a pattern of returning home late and intoxicated nearly every night, which left him sleeping through the late hours of the morning.

The promise he had made to come home sober so we could finally have the conversation we desperately needed, still hung in the air. But as I waited, it became painfully clear that the pull of alcohol had triumphed over his willingness to hear me. My anticipation soured into disappointment at the sound of his uneven footsteps. He stumbled through the door, his breath sharp with liquor, and pushed past me with an uncaring force, as if I were merely an obstacle.

He slumped onto our bed, his disheveled state a testament to his indulgence. He seemed ready to surrender to sleep, our once-cherished connection now a distant memory. Defeated yet resolute, I sat on the edge of the bed, the weight of unspoken words and broken promises filling the space between us. The distance felt vast, a stark reminder of the rift widening in our relationship.

"I want to talk to you."

"I'm too tired."

"You promised you'd come home sober."

"Celia, I know you want to leave me, but that's not going to happen. So get that out of your mind."

He had effortlessly deciphered the words on the tip of my tongue. The truth was, I had never intended to leave him for good, but I desperately needed space. My love for him was undeniable, but I just wanted to go away for a little while.

He had easily understood the words I had not yet spoken. The truth was, I had never planned to leave him for good. I only needed space. My love for him was still there, but it had become hard to breathe under the weight of it. I did not want to abandon him. I only wanted to go away for a little while, long enough to hear my own thoughts again before his ruin swallowed me too.



I lay in the quiet of our room, searching my memory, trying to remember the last time my husband had touched me with the tenderness of a spouse. The space between us in our bed felt wide and cold. I had tried to close that distance with small gestures, a gentle hand on his back, the soft brush of my fingers against his shoulder, but all I received was the steady sound of his breathing. He was right beside me, yet he felt painfully far away. Had he already fallen asleep so deeply that I could not reach him?

In one last attempt to feel close to him, my hand brushed against his arm. I meant the touch to be gentle, almost pleading, but as my fingers moved over his skin, I accidentally pushed up the sleeve of his worn shirt. There, in the faint light of the small lantern, I saw a scar I had never seen before.

For a moment, I could not move. My hand pulled back as if I had touched fire, and a sharp coldness moved through me. The room around me seemed to shrink. Questions filled my mind, heavy with guilt and confusion. When had Jacob gotten this injury? How had I lived beside him for so long and failed to notice such a large, angry mark on his upper arm? How many nights had he slept beside me with that wound hidden beneath his sleeve while I knew nothing?

It showed me how wide the distance between us had become, that I could miss a wound carved into his very skin.

Driven by a painful mix of curiosity and fear, I reached for the small lamp from the other room. My hands were not steady as I brought it closer. Its warm glow revealed something that felt cold and troubling. This was no faint line; it was a rough, discolored scar. The skin was raised and uneven, a lasting sign of pain etched into his flesh. It looked strange to me, almost unnatural, and I could not understand how it had formed such a hard, leathery layer, as if the wound had once festered without care.

I stared at it, unable to look away. Whatever had caused it had not been small. Whatever pain had made that mark, Jacob had carried it alone.

My mind raced as I stared at the scar. One question kept echoing in the quiet room.

When had this happened?

I searched through the last few years, trying to find the moment that could explain it, but my memories felt blurred, like shapes hidden behind fog. Then something came back to me, sudden and sharp, like lightning tearing through a dark sky.

Saintilia...

A story she had once told me rose from the place where I had buried it. It was about the night she was raped, a story I had tried not to carry too closely. Her voice had carried a strange, poisonous pride when she spoke of fighting back. At the time, I had dismissed her words as the anger of a bitter woman. I had not wanted to believe her. I had not even allowed myself to sit with what her words might mean.

But now, with that scar lying before me, her words returned with terrifying clarity.

“The moment I sank my teeth deep into his right arm, I knew I had left a permanent mark on him.”

She had said it with cold certainty. She had described his pain as if it were the only justice she had been able to claim. Back then, it had sounded cruel, almost impossible. Now, it felt like proof of something I was terrified to name.

“Saintilia...” I whispered.

My voice trembled, and for a moment, I could barely breathe. Pieces of the past began to shift and fit together, forming a picture I did not want to see.

Continue……