Her frigid eyes cut me deeper than outright hostility ever could. She doesn’t look at me–not directly, not fully–her eyes skimming over me as if I am merely another fixture on the field, an obstacle to navigate.
“Is that nto what you deserve, oh great Aplha King?” Horace growls low, threatening.
He is not wrong. I’d be lying if I didn’t at least acknloddge how hot and painflly the indifference stings–a sharp twist of irony. How easily our roles have reversed. Once, she sought connection, warmth, love–things I dismissed carelessly. arrogantly.
Now that I desperately crave her acknowledgment, she offers cold formality instead.
I wish she would just scream.
Cry.
Something.
Anything.
“Square your shoulders,” I instruct, my voice clipped and professional. “The judges will mark us down if your posture collapses during the transition.”
Siena’s eyes flash, a brief spark of hatred before she adjusts her stance. “Better, husband?” The last word drips with venom. God, even when she despises me, her form is perfect. Five years together and she still moves like she’s part of me. We move through the routine, our bodies perfectly coordinated despite the chasm between our hearts.
“Your grip is too tight,” I say flatly, adjusting her fingers on my shoulder. “You’re leaving bruises.”
“How inconvenient for you,” she whispers, close enough that only I can hear. “Imagine having permanent marks from someone you trusted.”
I deserve that. I deserve worse.
“This competition is our last obligation,” I remind her, voice steady while my pulse hammers. “After next week, your lawyer can finalize everything.”
Her nails dig slightly deeper as we spin. “Can’t wait to sign those papers.”
The silence between us screams with every step, every turn, every forced point of contact. My eyes betray me, tracing the elegant lines of her face, the shadows beneath her eyes, the slight tremble in her fingers when our bodies press together.
I still remember when that trembling meant something else entirely.
“Let’s take five,” I announce abruptly when her wedding ring–still worn for appearances–catches the light.
“What’s wrong, Raiden? Afraid we’ll actually win and have to stand on that podium together?” Her smile is razor–sharp. Tell her you’d stand anywhere with her. Tell her you’d give up every trophy to go back.
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“Your timing was off in the third sequence,” I say instead, my heart fracturing with each cold word. “If we don’t synchronize perfectly, the Mendozas will take gold.”
Her expression hardens as she drinks from her water bottle, her eyes never leaving mine. Has she always carried this fire, this unflinching ability to face what hurts her? My heart aches at the realization
“I’ll do you one better. Have a good day Raiden.”
“Siena-“I protest. “We’re not finished!”
My words fall on deaf ears. He boots crunch awya in the opposite direction. Whether I was finished or not is of no consequence–Siena is done.
***
“Raiden, can we talk? I miss you.”
“I cooked your favorite meal tonight, hoping you’d join me. Please stop by.”
“I had a rough day today. I could really use your company, even just for a few minutes.”
Her vulnerability seeps from the screen, raw and honest, reaching out desperately for connection.
My breath catches painfully as I realize the extent of my cruelty–not overt hostility, but something far worse: cold indifference, neglectful silence, the slow erosion of her trust and affection.
There’s something so final in these old messages. Something I did
not will myself to see.
I bury my face in my hands, heart pounding painfully as I fight the urge to scream out my frustration. How could I have been so blind, so utterly detached from the warmth she offered freely and consistently?
Now, faced with the bitter consequences, regret claws mercilessly at
my soul.
A sharp knock at the door interrupts my spiraling thoughts. “Raiden.”
Lila.
She is sharp with an air of unmistakebale contempt, “Have you seen how everyone fawns over Siena now? She’s manipulating them, playing the innocent victim. You can’t honestly be falling for her theatrics?”
I stare at her incredulously, suddenly aware of the ugly bitterness staining her voice, her eyes narrowed venomously in a way I’d never noticed before. Her eagerness to undermine feels wrong, malicious. Doubt creeps into my mind, casting long shadows of suspicion over every interaction we’ve ever shared.
“Perhaps I’ve been manipulated,” the words slip from me quietly, deliberately.
The declaration is startling in its honesty, but I have no regrets.
Lila recoils as if struck, eyes widening in shock, anger quickly replacing surprise.“What?” she demands, voice trembling with outrage. “How…how dare you-”
But I hold up a hand, silencing her protest. I’ve said enough. “Leave,” I murmur firmly, my voice edged with finality.
“Raiden-”
“Do as you are commanded!” I snap, the snarl inmy throat borne more fo Horace’s rage than any fury I could alone conjure. The sound of teh shattering phone ringing through my ears before my eyes have tiem to witness the cranage of glass that now litters the floor.
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Lila stares for a moment longer, defiance warring with disbelief, before she turns sharply, slamming the door behind her with a resounding echo.
Left alone, I sink to the floor, drained yet strangely relieved by this small respite, this small freedom.
I owe more than apologies. I owe action.
And perhaps, just perhaps, there is still time to mend what I’ve broken, piece by painful piece.
