Chapter 52: The Fights
Chapter 52: The Fights
Anneliese’s POV
The papers are signed.
The court has finalized it.
The ring is gone.
And yet… why do I still feel married?
I sat at the edge of my bed, staring at my reflection in the mirror.
My hair was pulled up in a messy bun, and my eyes looked as if they’d been stung by a thousand bees. The skin beneath them was bruised with dark circles.
Three days had passed since the lawyer handed me the divorce decree, but it felt like time stopped the moment Damien handed the papers to me.
“I should be free,” I whispered, my voice hoarse. “This is what I wanted… right?”
But the freedom I’d always longed for now felt like a prison.
I stayed at Belinda’s house, in one of her guest rooms.
Even though I tried so hard to get him out of my head, every single thing reminded me of him.
The way he walked in with that proud silence. The way his cologne lingered in the hallways.
Sometimes, in the silence, I could almost hear his deep voice mocking me, calling me stubborn, impossible, childish.
My mind kept drifting to our kisses—the way his lips claimed mine, the embarrassment tangled in those moments. I thought of all the bad times, but God help me, I missed them all.
I pressed my palm against my chest as if I could hold the ache still, but it only grew worse.
\---
Belinda barged in later that evening, carrying bags of snacks. “You look like hell,” she said, flopping onto my bed. “Anne, seriously, you need to get out. Sitting here drowning in your own tears won’t fix anything.”
“I’m fine. I’m not crying. What should I cry for?” I rolled my eyes, though the cracks in my voice almost betrayed me.
“You’re not fine.” She grabbed my hand. “You haven’t eaten a proper meal in days, your eyes are red all the time, and don’t lie to me. I know you… you love him.”
“I don’t.” My answer came too fast, too sharp. “I never loved him and I never will!”
Belinda raised a brow. “Then why are you crying every night? Why do you still check your phone like you’re waiting for his call?”
I looked away. My phone rested beside me on the blanket, silent and cold. I hated how true her words sounded.
“I hate him,” I muttered. “He’s a fucking bastard. He hurt me throughout those three months, and now I have to go through this again. I hate him so much.”
“But hating someone doesn’t break you like this,” she whispered.
Tears spilled again, hot and endless. Belinda pulled me into her arms, and I sobbed against her shoulder. “I don’t want to love him,” I choked. “I don’t, but I can’t stop.”
\---
Nights were the worst.
I lay awake, staring at the ceiling, replaying every memory like an addict scratching at old wounds.
The fights. The cold dinners. The silly moments in the safe house when we argued over everything. The day he caught me stealing his food. The way his eyes softened when he thought I wasn’t looking. The faint brush of his fingers that set my skin on fire.
I covered my face with both hands, groaning into the dark. “Why can’t I forget you, Damien?”
Sleep rarely came. And when it did, he visited my dreams—pulling me into his arms, promising never to leave me. By the time my heart settled, I woke up clutching a pillow, crying, the sheets twisted around me like chains.
\---
Weeks passed. The news of our divorce had spread everywhere. Some people felt bad for me, but I hated the pity in their eyes.
Damien’s dad called, asking about the divorce, but I told him to ask his son. I was rude, but I didn’t care.
I threw myself into work—into modeling, into endless photoshoots that demanded smiles I no longer had.
Cameras flashed in my face, stylists fixed my hair, people called me perfect. Inside, I was breaking.
One afternoon during a shoot, the photographer said, “Anne, give me pain in your eyes. Think of heartbreak or something that hurts.”
My chest tightened. I didn’t even have to think. His face flooded my mind instantly, and the tears came without warning. The camera clicked, capturing my grief like art.
Everyone praised me, calling it raw, powerful, brilliant.
They thought I had summoned the pain as a professional. They didn’t know it was eating me alive.
\---
Belinda found me on the balcony that night, a cigarette trembling between my fingers. I had never touched one before, but tonight I needed to try. People smoked when they were broken. Maybe it would help me too.
I lifted it to my mouth, trying to inhale like I’d seen others do, when Belinda’s voice made me flinch.
“Anne,” she sighed, taking it away. “You’re not yourself anymore.”
“Maybe that’s a good thing,” I whispered. “Because myself is pathetic. Myself is a fool who still dreams of a man who doesn’t want her.”
Her eyes softened, but she didn’t argue. She just wrapped a blanket around me and stayed.
\---
Days blurred.
Sometimes I forgot to eat.
Sometimes I laughed too hard at nothing.
Sometimes I cried in the middle of traffic and didn’t care who saw.
At night, I replayed our last days together. The way he stopped talking to me. The way he looked almost relieved when the papers were finally signed.
“I hate you,” I whispered to the empty bed. “I hate you…”
But the silence always answered back.
\---
One rainy evening, I collapsed in the shower. The hot water scalded my skin, but I stayed on the tiles, hugging my knees, sobbing until I couldn’t breathe.
I remembered our wedding night—the cold walls between us, his mocking smile. I remembered swearing I’d never fall for him. I laughed at him. I swore I’d rather kiss a fowl than stay with him.
Three months later, here I was. Drowning in him even when he was gone.
“Why did you have to ruin me, Damien?” I cried into the steam. “Why couldn’t you just let me stay empty?”
\---
A month later, Belinda dragged me out to a small bar. The music was loud, the lights dizzy. Men tried to talk to me, but their voices felt far away. None of them were him.
I stepped outside, leaning against the wall, breathing in the night air. My heart felt like glass ready to shatter.
My phone buzzed in my pocket. For a moment, stupid hope rose. Maybe it was him. Maybe he regretted it.
But it wasn’t. Just work.
I laughed bitterly and shoved it back. My chest ached so badly I thought it might kill me.
I wish I could say I was healing. That I was moving on. That I had buried him in the past where he belonged.
But the truth was—I carried him everywhere. In my thoughts. In my dreams. In the hollow of my chest that wouldn’t close.
“I don’t love him,” I whispered again.
But the lie tasted bitter.
Because deep inside, I knew.
I did.
And that was what hurt the most.