Chapter 166 Carson’s Bitter Reflection
Carson sat slouched on the edge of his couch, an empty glass dangling loosely from his fingers.
The living room around him was dim and messy—half-empty bottles lined the table, old newspapers scattered across the floor. The television flickered quietly in front of him, the only light in the room.
He wasn’t really watching—at least not until her name came up.
“Tonight’s guest is Anabelle Brooks, founder of Belle Interiors, recently named ‘Designer of the Year,’” the host announced cheerfully.
Carson’s hand froze. His heart gave a sharp, painful jolt. Slowly, he lifted his head, his bleary eyes fixing on the screen.
And there she was.
Anabelle walked onto the stage, elegant and confident, her smile calm but bright. The audience applauded, cameras flashed, and the host shook her hand.
She looked nothing like the woman he had once shouted at, ignored, and taken for granted. This woman radiated strength.
The host leaned forward. “Anabelle, your company has become a sensation in less than two years. How does it feel to have built such an empire?”
She smiled modestly. “It feels rewarding. I had to start from scratch, and there were moments I doubted myself. But I kept going because design was what made me feel alive.”
Carson swallowed hard, his throat burning. He poured another drink, the liquid sloshing over the rim. “You sure did,” he muttered bitterly.
The host continued, “People say your work has redefined modern living. What’s your secret?”
“There’s no secret,” Anabelle replied softly. “You just have to turn your pain into purpose.”
Her words hit him like a knife. Pain into purpose. He looked down at his shaking hand, gripping the glass too tightly.
The irony stung—he had been the cause of that pain, and now she had used it to rise higher than he ever could.
He downed the drink in one gulp, grimacing. The alcohol burned its way down, but it didn’t dull the ache. Nothing ever did anymore.
On the screen, the camera zoomed in on her face. Her eyes sparkled, her laughter light. She looked free—so far from the woman who used to cry behind closed doors because of him.
Carson leaned back on the couch, his head pounding. “Look at you,” he muttered. “Perfect, successful, untouchable.”
His voice was laced with envy, but deep inside, it wasn’t anger he felt—it was regret. A deep, suffocating regret that had been festering for months.
The interview ended with applause, and the show switched to a commercial. Carson stared blankly at the dark screen reflection of himself—a man with hollow eyes, unshaven, dressed in a wrinkled shirt. He looked nothing like the confident man he once was.
“Look at you,” he said to his reflection, his voice low. “You’re a mess.”
He reached for the remote and turned off the TV. The silence that followed was deafening.
He rubbed his temples and let out a shaky breath. His thoughts wandered back—back to the days when Anabelle was still his.
She used to smile at him in the mornings, soft and genuine. She had believed in him, even when he didn’t deserve it.
And what had he done? He had broken her.
He pushed himself up and stumbled toward the kitchen, grabbing another bottle. The fridge light glared harshly, illuminating the empty beer cans piled inside.
He laughed bitterly. “You always said I’d destroy myself if I didn’t stop,” he whispered. “Guess you were right, Ana.”
As he poured himself another drink, his phone buzzed on the counter. It was his mother, Victoria.
He hesitated, then answered. “What is it, Mother?” he said tiredly.
“Carson,” Victoria’s voice came sharp and cold, “I just saw the news. Do you realize what a fool you’ve made of this family? Again?”
He rolled his eyes. “If this is about Anabelle’s success, don’t start. I already know.”
“Know? The entire city knows!” she snapped. “While she’s winning awards, you’re drowning yourself in alcohol. Do you have any idea how humiliating this is?”
Carson sighed, leaning against the counter. “You don’t have to remind me.”
“I do,” she hissed. “Because you threw away everything—your career, your reputation, and the one woman who ever cared about you!”
“Enough, Mother!” he shouted suddenly, slamming the bottle on the counter. The sound echoed through the kitchen.
Victoria was silent for a moment. Then her tone softened slightly. “You need help, Carson.”
He laughed bitterly. “No, I need a time machine.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
“Ridiculous?” He chuckled emptily. “You were the one who told me Anabelle wasn’t good enough. That she’d hold me back. You said I needed someone with power, someone like Bridget. Remember?”
“Don’t you dare blame me,” Victoria snapped. “You made your own choices.”
Carson’s voice cracked slightly. “Yeah. And look where they got me.”
He hung up before she could respond and threw his phone onto the couch.
For a long moment, he just stood there, breathing heavily, the silence pressing against his chest.
Finally, he sat back down and switched the TV on again. The news replayed the award highlights, showing Anabelle shaking hands with other successful business leaders. She was smiling, her eyes full of life.
“She looks happy,” he murmured. “Happier without me.”
His eyes stung, but he didn’t cry. He hadn’t cried in years. The guilt sat heavier than tears ever could.
He remembered the last time he saw her—standing in front of him, calm but firm, telling him there was no future for them.
Her voice had trembled slightly, but her eyes had not. He hadn’t listened then. He thought she’d come back. She always did.
But this time, she hadn’t.
Carson leaned forward, elbows on his knees, staring at the screen as if he could step through it and undo everything.
“You were right to leave,” he said quietly. “You deserved better.”
The room smelled of whiskey and regret. Outside, rain began to fall against the window, soft and steady.
He ran a hand through his hair, his fingers trembling. For the first time in a long while, he admitted the truth to himself — he had destroyed every good thing in his life with his own hands.
The woman who once loved him had turned her pain into art, her heartbreak into strength. And he had turned his guilt into poison.
He stared at the blank TV screen again, his reflection faint and broken. “You did this, Carson,” he whispered. “You lost her. You lost everything.”
As the night grew darker, he poured himself another drink, though it no longer tasted the same. The bitterness inside him was stronger than any alcohol could numb.
He drank anyway, hoping the silence would fade. But it didn’t.
In his mind, her voice lingered — calm, gentle, full of life. And the more he remembered it, the more he realized that she had moved on, while he was still standing in the ruins of what he had destroyed.