Chapter 115 Life is Cruel

Chapter 115 Life is Cruel

Xavier’s POV

After practice, I tug on my seat belt to put it on, and drive back home, ready to see my princess’s beautiful face.

But something catches my attention.

It’s an envelope peeking from under the passenger seat, and it looks really familiar.

So I reach out to pick it up, and it suddenly hits me. It’s the letter that the lawyer guy was talking about.

The one written by mom.

I had removed it earlier, tossing it aside as something irrelevant, before taking the property transfer documents to somewhere safer.

Now, I’m curious to know what exactly she wrote.

I was, when I received the letter, but it died down after I was reminded of her negligence.

Breaking the seal, I slip out a folded paper, careful not to tear it.

The first line instantly catches my attention.

“I love you.”

I check again to be sure it’s the same letter Lauren made mention of, and strangely, it is.

Is this really from my mom?

I read again without being biased, and the handwriting actually matches.

It wasn’t even typed, she took her time to scribble this out, and the thought alone is quite unsettling.

“I love you, and I’m aware I have never said these words to your face.”

I pause to read the line again.

Fuck it.

I’ll just read all of it at once.

“I am writing this to express my deepest apology to you, Xavier.

There is no reason or excuse to give, but the fact is, I was never happy in that marriage, and in fact, never wanted anything to do with him, or you.

Which is very wrong.

You shouldn’t suffer for the mistakes I made, and if I knew I wasn’t going to handle this well, maybe I shouldn’t have become a mother at all.”

I swallow, hating the fact that there’s this tightness lingering in my chest. I shouldn’t be feeling anything.

So why am I?

“Giving everything I ever owned to you isn’t just me trying to clear my conscience, but I owe that to you.

It’s not compensation, treat it as a debt that would never be enough.”

Rubbing the bridge of my nose, I look out through the car window, contemplating whether I should keep reading, or trash it.

“I’ve chosen to start life afresh, and oddly, my strength came from watching you choose yourself and make your own choices.

I was never bold enough to do this, until the day you stood up to your father.”

The paper shakes in my hand as I try to finish the last line.

“I am proud of you, your achievements, and the man you have come to be. Most importantly, I am sorry for a lot, and I know that you were never a mistake.”

I sit there for a long moment, the engine still off, the letter trembling slightly in my grip.

I don’t know what to do with this. Years of telling myself I didn’t care, that I’d buried whatever I felt about her leaving, and one page undoes all of it in under a minute.

I’m not even angry. I expected to be angry.

What I feel instead is something quieter, and somehow heavier, like a door closing on a room I didn’t know I was still standing in.

I fold the letter carefully, sliding it into my jacket pocket, close to my chest, before finally starting the car.

I’ll process this later. Right now, I just want to see her.

The drive home is quiet, my mind still half caught on her words, but the second I step through the apartment door, every thought of my mother evaporates.

Jasmine is sitting on the couch, completely still, staring at nothing.

“Princess?” I call out, but she doesn’t move.

My chest tightens immediately. This isn’t her usual quiet.

“Jasmine.” I drop my bag by the door, crossing the room in a few quick strides, crouching in front of her. “Hey, look at me.”

Her eyes finally lift to mine, but they’re glassy, distant, like she’s looking through me rather than at me.

“What happened?” I ask, my voice softer now, trying to coax something out of her.

She doesn’t answer.

“Talk to me, please.” I take her hands in mine, and they’re cold, trembling slightly.

A long silence stretches between us before she finally speaks, her voice barely above a whisper.

“My painting was destroyed.”

For a second, the words don’t register. I just stare at her, waiting for more, for context, for anything that would make this make sense.

“What?” I ask, certain I misheard her.

“My painting.” She repeats, flatter this time, like saying it twice has drained whatever was left in her. “It’s destroyed.”

The understanding hits me slow, then all at once, like a wave that takes its time pulling back before it crashes.

I’ve watched her work on that painting for months. I’ve seen her hands shake over it, seen her cry quietly while staring at it, seen the relief on her face the day she finally finished it. I know exactly what that canvas cost her, every single layer of paint on it was a piece of something she survived.

And someone took that from her three days before she was supposed to show the world who she’d become.

Something in me shifts, fast and hot, replacing the ache from the letter in my pocket with something far more violent.

“Who did this?” My voice comes out lower than I intend, rougher.

She just shakes her head, not answering, not even looking at me anymore.

I stand up so fast the room tilts for a second, my hands curling into fists at my sides.

I want to break something. I want to find whoever walked into that hall and put their hands on the one thing that mattered most to her, and I want to make them understand exactly what they took.

This isn’t sadness. I’ll get to that later, I’ll hold her, I’ll let her cry into my chest for as long as she needs.

But right now, all I feel is rage, sharp and consuming, at whoever did this, at every person who’s ever made her feel small, at her father, at the world that keeps finding new ways to take things from her right when she finally starts believing she’s allowed to have them.

Why is life so cruel to the most beautiful soul ever?

Just why?