Chapter 13 Persephone
Persephone
He didn’t say a word about the broken plate.
No sharp comment. No demand. Not even that smug little smile I hated so much.
Just a look. Bare chest, eyes cool like none of this mattered.
“Don’t do anything stupid while I’m gone. I have practice."
The door creaked open.
He didn’t glance back.
Didn’t wait for a reply.
Just walked out like he owned the air I breathed.
And the second the door shut behind him, the house went still.
Too still.
The silence didn’t feel like freedom.
It felt like limbo.
Like the storm had stepped outside to catch its breath—and would come back hungrier.
I stood there for a moment, fists clenched at my sides, trying not to let the weight of it all crush me.
The smell of coffee still lingered in the kitchen, clinging to the walls like memory. Sunlight spilled across the floors, soft and golden, like it didn’t know what kind of house it was trying to warm.
And I hated it.
I hated how loud the silence felt without him.
How the walls didn’t hum with threat, how the floor didn’t creak under the weight of his shadow.
How my skin didn’t buzz with fury and heat and confusion.
You’re sick, I told myself. You should be relieved.
Instead, I felt… unmoored.
Worse than trapped—adrift.
I grabbed my phone off the counter like a lifeline.
It lit up like a firestorm—missed calls, unread texts, notifications from social media—
And at the top of it all?
brEAKING: Castle Rock’s Hades Sinclair MARRIED in private ceremony. Who is Persephone King?
My stomach dropped.
The blood drained from my face, rushing to the space behind my eyes. I scrolled and scrolled; the headlines stacking up like bricks in a prison I hadn’t even noticed being built.
Photos of me. Of us.
Paparazzi shots. Screenshots from forums. Speculation. Gossip. Brutal captions.
#PoorPersephone
#HockeyHadesWife
#SinclairSins
I opened my messages—Callista.
Nothing.
Voicemail. Straight to dead air.
I tried again.
And again.
Still nothing.
My pulse roared in my ears.
And then—
A message popped up from Cliff.
Cliff
Persephone. Are you okay? What the hell is happening?
Do you need me?
I stared at the screen like it might burn me.
Then typed before I could stop myself:
I can’t leave.
He responded instantly.
I’ll come to you.
And I let the words happen.
Yes. Please.
Because I couldn’t take the silence anymore.
Not when it felt like it was wearing his voice.
I shoved my phone into my pocket, heart hammering against my ribs like it was trying to escape.
The kitchen was too quiet.
The shattered plate still lay in pieces on the floor—sharp white fragments glinting in the sunlight like tiny landmines, a perfect monument to everything I was trying not to feel.
I stared at it for a long second, then exhaled sharply through my nose.
Pull yourself together.
Cliff didn’t need to see me like this—hollowed out and brittle, one wrong word away from falling apart. I grabbed a broom from the closet and started sweeping; the bristles scraping against tile with every rough drag. Each crunch of porcelain was satisfying in its finality.
If I couldn’t control anything else, I could control this.
Clean. Wipe. Breathe. Repeat.
I moved through the kitchen with tight, clipped efficiency, wiping down surfaces like I could erase the memory of his voice, his gaze, his body standing too close.
But it was everywhere.
He was everywhere.
His scent still clung to the room—coffee and soap and something darker. Something that made my stomach twist with equal parts dread and… something I didn’t want to name.
Focus.
I tossed the shards into the trash like they were pieces of myself I didn’t need anymore.
One last swipe of the cloth. One last breath.
Then I turned on the shower.
No hesitation.
I needed the heat. I needed the noise. I needed to feel something that didn’t have his fingerprints on it.
The water poured over me, scalding and steady, and I tipped my head back until it roared in my ears loud enough to drown him out.
The ring on my finger felt heavier under the stream. I twisted it. I thought about ripping it off. Throwing it. Flushing it.
But I didn’t.
Because he’d know.
And he’d make me pay.
Not now. Not like this.
After, I wrapped myself in a towel and stared at my reflection in the mirror. Red eyes. Damp lashes. A mouth that still hadn’t stopped trembling.
Not from fear.
Not entirely.
Get it together.
I dug through the closet, shoving past the silk and lace he liked until I found something simple—a black ribbed dress that hugged my curves without clinging. Not soft. Not sexy. Mine.
No jewelry. No makeup. Hair up. Clean lines. Clean conscience.
I pulled the towel off and slipped into the dress like armor.
When I looked in the mirror again, I didn’t see prey.
I saw a woman waiting for a war.
And when Cliff arrived?
He wouldn’t find a broken bride.
He’d find the girl still standing inside the cage—and daring the devil to try again.
Not today, Sinclair.
The doorbell rang.
I flinched.
The sound cracked through the silence like a gunshot, startling me out of my own skin. My heart stuttered in my chest—just for a second—before I remembered. Cliff.
My feet moved before I could second-guess the decision. Across the hardwood, past the velvet box still sitting like a threat on the counter, past the scent of crêpes and tension baked into the walls.
I opened the door—and there he was.
Cliff.
Jeans. Fitted tee. Tousled hair. Concern written all over his face.
He looked like comfort. Like a memory of who I used to be before this madness swallowed me whole.
Before I could say a word, he stepped forward and pulled me into a hug.
Warmth. Scent. Familiar arms.
I melted into it. Just for a moment.
Let myself breathe in a body that didn’t carry danger. That didn’t make my pulse spike with fear or something worse. I let myself lean in, bury my face in his shoulder—
Until I remembered.
Where I was.
Who I was.
Whose I was.
I tensed.
He felt it immediately.
His arms didn’t drop. They tightened.
“Seph,” he murmured, his voice low, threading through my chest like a balm. “What the fuck kind of situation is this?”
I opened my mouth.
Nothing came out.
Everything I wanted to say tangled in my throat like thorns. The truth tasted bitter—too big, too ugly, too real.
But Cliff didn’t move.
He just waited.
So I let it fall.
“It’s Hades,” I whispered. “I didn’t want this. Any of this.” My voice cracked, splintering like glass. “But it doesn’t matter what I want anymore.”
He pulled back, eyes scanning me like he could piece everything together from the way I held my shoulders, the way I flinched at my own truth.
The dress was still clinging to my skin, and suddenly it felt like evidence. Like something he could smell on me. See in the way I couldn’t meet his eyes for more than a second.
“I’m stuck,” I said. “It’s like he’s wrapped himself around everything. I can’t move. I can’t think. I just—” My breath hitched. “I don’t know how to breathe in here.”
Cliff’s jaw tightened, but his eyes stayed soft.
He reached for my hand.
Took it like it was the most natural thing in the world.
Held on like he meant it.
“I’ll help you get out,” he said, voice steady. “Whatever it takes.”
The words hit something deep. Something fragile.
Hope stirred—soft and stupid.
Because a part of me wanted to believe that. Desperately.
That someone could fix this.
That someone could take me by the hand and pull me out of Hades Sinclair’s orbit like it was that simple.
But I knew better.
Still… I didn’t let go of Cliff’s hand.
And he didn’t let go of mine.
We stood there in the entryway, fingers locked, my pulse thudding in my ears and I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was being watched.
The front door swung open without a knock.
Just a single click—the sound of power reasserting itself.
Of ownership coming home.
And then he was there.
Hades.
His presence hit the room like a shift in gravity. The kind you felt before a storm. Before something snapped.
Sweat clung to his skin, glistening over muscles taut from practice. His gear hung off him, damp and dark, like a second skin molded to violence. He looked feral. Lethal.
And my stomach twisted.
“Funny,” he said, voice smooth like silk pulled taut across broken glass. “I don’t remember inviting guests.”
Cliff tensed beside me.
I felt the shift before I saw it—his stance turning solid, protective, like a wall raising itself brick by brick.
He stepped in front of me.
I wanted to move.
To tell him I didn’t need the shield.
That I could face Hades on my own.
But I didn’t.
Couldn’t.
Because Hades wasn’t just angry. He was controlled—and that was worse.
“Did you bring him into my house, Persephone?” he asked, not raising his voice. “Into our home?”
The word our tasted like poison in the air.
Cliff squared his shoulders. “She asked for help.”
The silence that followed was thick—suffocating.
Hades didn’t flinch.
He just tilted his head slightly, eyes locked on Cliff like he was measuring the size of the body he’d have to bury.
“Help?” he repeated, the word soft and poisonous. His lips curled into something that wasn’t quite a smile. “She’s wearing my ring.”
I looked down—instinct, shame, something else—and there it was.
That band of metal.
Cold. Heavy. His.
“She needs someone who can actually help her,” Cliff shot back, voice hardening.
Hades stepped forward.
I felt the shift in the air—like static rising off the walls.
“And what do you think you can do that I can’t?” he asked, every word dipped in menace.
Cliff’s fists clenched at his sides. “Stay out of her life.”
The laugh Hades gave wasn’t loud—it was low and dark, like the growl of thunder right before the lightning hits. “You think she wants you here?”
I stopped breathing.
The two of them stood there—shoulder to shoulder in defiance, in fury—and I was trapped in the eye of it.