45. Venetia
M y mother always told me that if I played by the rules, I would achieve my dream life. She had a warped concept of happiness. To her, that meant allowing a man to bend and break me, ruining me from the inside out. From a young age, she paraded me around like a showpiece in hopes of attracting a wealthy suitor.
She made me forget the universities I had dreamed of attending and the path I had aspired to forge for myself. Instead, I was led to believe that true happiness lay in living under someone else’s thumb—obedient and smiling, accepting money as if it were the ultimate prize.
‘He could’ve had anyone, but he chose you.’
That was her refrain whenever I tried to tell her about my husband, who was nothing more than a disgusting pig that drugged, beat up, and used my body whenever it suited him. According to her, I was the ungrateful one, fabricating stories.
And as twisted as it was, I began to internalize her words. She was my role model, even long after I married Zayden. It wasn’t until years of chemotherapy and medication left her exhausted and angry that she died, proving her beliefs to be complete bullshit.
Not everything can be bought with money.
Thousands of dollars were spent on her treatment, but it led nowhere. She passed away, hollowed out—pale, drained, and wearing that angry, disappointed scowl etched into her face.
It’s funny how it happened right after death claimed Zayden, bringing an end to years of my suffering. After all that pain, once they were gone, the agony vanished as well. The feeling my mother used to call ‘laziness’ faded into background noise. I felt revitalized, able to get out of bed without tears.
A strange feeling, considering that both my husband and my mother have died, but still. I regained some control over my life, and since then, I’ve merely existed—managing responsibilities, holding down a job, and appearing to have a purpose. I promised myself I would never let anyone into my life again, not after the hell I’ve endured—the hell that changed me into someone I hardly recognize.
Then came West. And just when I thought he had left me for good, he returned at the moment I was losing everything. He helped me shower, carried me to the bedroom, tucked me in, and told me he was going out to buy painkillers. I barely registered his absence before he was back—not just with the painkillers, but also with some spare clothes from the little shop downstairs. And pads.
Fucking pads.
I had completely forgotten to ask him for them, yet West, being the attentive asshole he is, picked them up anyway. He got one box of each size, saying—and I quote—’ I don’t know shit about stuff like that, so I bought each size just in case.’
After paying the delivery man and locking the door, he turns to me with two large bags of McDonald’s in hand. His eyes meet mine, and I catch a flash of guilt in them. “It’s the closest place around. Not very fancy, but you need to eat, and something tells me you don’t want to wait any longer.”
A weak smile spreads across my face, straining against the dryness under my eyes. Smiling feels so strange that I can sense how unnatural it looks. “One thing you didn’t know about me is that I actually prefer chicken nuggets over fancy oysters.”
He sets the bags down on the bed, a smirk pulling at his lips. West is dressed simply in sweats and a sweatshirt, with no sign of his usual rings or flashy watches. His cologne is gone, replaced by his natural scent, which oddly comforts me. I want to breathe it in deeply, wrapping myself in it until it consumes me.
I shift closer to the food he laid out before me, a growl erupting from my empty stomach as I fight the urge to drool. It feels like years since I’ve eaten, especially food like this—the best kind of food.
“I didn’t know what you’d like to drink,” he says, pulling out a carton holder filled with various drinks—Coke, tea, orange juice, and something that looks like a raspberry smoothie. Did he buy everything they had on the menu? “Choose.”
“I can’t drink Coke, caffeine, or strong tea during these days,” I rasp, reaching for the orange juice. It’s the kind of drink that can bring a dead person back to life.
“Jesus. How long are you forced to live without caffeine?” he asks, and I have to suppress a stupid smile that threatens to appear. It’s odd that he sounds genuinely interested in something so simple.
“It depends. Usually, it’s four to six days, but sometimes less. These days, though, I prefer hot chocolate with a thick layer of caramel on top.”
He chuckles, grabs his cheeseburger, and takes a bite. “Noted.”
I love how he never asks the wrong questions and acts as if he didn’t find me curled up on this bed, covered in blood and sweat. Shame burns through me at the thought, and a part of me wants to explain, to justify myself, to lie and say it wasn’t what it looked like and that I’m fine and he doesn’t need to worry.
But he stays silent about it and doesn’t look disgusted by me. On the contrary, he seems… happy to see me, even after everything that’s happened between us.
“Why didn’t you call my dad?” I ask, slowly dipping a French fry into the sauce, my eyes downcast. “After you found me, you could’ve told him where I was instead of dealing with this mess.”
“What mess?” he replies nonchalantly, his gaze steady on me—I can sense it. Still, I’m too scared to look up. “I’m not dealing with a mess. I’m spending time with my fiancée.”
Only after a moment do I realize my fingers are sticky from repeatedly dipping the French fry all the way to the end. When I bring it to my mouth, a storm of thoughts churns inside me, each one sparking a warmth that only West can ignite. It’s not his job to babysit me. He could have made sure I was okay and handed me over to my dad, but he chose to stay. He chooses to spend time with me, even when I feel and look as revolting as I am.
“Eat. You haven’t taken your painkiller yet, and you need to eat well before you do if you want it to work,” he says gently, his voice cutting through my reverie.
I can’t help but smile as I chew my food, realizing he’s quoting me. I was the one who explained this basic yet important rule back when things were only starting to get so confusing between us. The fact that he remembers it sends butterflies fluttering up my ribcage.
“It doesn’t hurt as much as before,” I admit, focusing on my food. Of course, I still feel the echoes of the agony I’ve endured over the past two weeks, along with the cramps, but it’s bearable now.
When I first heard his voice and felt his arms around me, I thought I was hallucinating. Still, I began to feel better. His presence, even if it were just a figment of my imagination, made everything feel a little more manageable.
‘ Thank you ’ swirls on the tip of my tongue—two simple words that feel necessary after everything he’s done for me. But a voice whispers in my ear that if I start being too nice or too appreciative, he’ll disappear before I can even blink. As if even the word ‘nice’ doesn’t apply in our situation.
I know he deserves it, but I can’t bring myself to say it. Not right now. The moment feels too intimate, too comfortable.
Too perfect. I don’t want to ruin it.
I want it to last as long as possible before we slip back into our usual routine.
The rest of the time passed in a haze as we sat in front of the glowing screen of an old, barely functioning TV, critiquing the terrible acting on the show. It didn’t feel like I had spent two weeks rotting in this bed while he was somewhere else. We didn’t discuss the situation, and a part of me was grateful for that. My instinct is to always avoid difficult conversations, preferring detours or simply abandoning the road altogether.
But another part of me—the one that was quieter during our viewing—began to gnaw at me. Despite my reluctance, I knew we’d need to talk sooner or later. I preferred to put it off until tomorrow. I’d been through enough, and my cramps had left me utterly drained.
When I hear him snoring beside me, I grab the remote and turn off the random show. Oddly enough, the sound doesn’t irritate me. There’s something peaceful about the way he sleeps, a certain charm in the little whistles his nose makes. I set the remote on the nightstand and scoot closer to him. He stills as I wrap my hands around his neck and drape my leg over his hip, clinging to him like a koala to its bamboo. A shudder runs through me, a tiny thread of awareness trying to break through the haze of my muddled thoughts.
What am I doing? Why am I doing this? Ever since he got here, I don’t recognize myself. I feel calmer and less desperate, yet I crave his touch as though it’s something I’ve been dreaming of.
Well, despite the thick walls of my pride, I did dream of it.
I squeeze my eyes shut as he rests his hand on my shoulder and pulls me closer. I can tell he’s still asleep—he keeps making those funny noises with his nose—but he’s more aware than he was a moment ago. His thumb starts to trace lazy circles on my shoulder, and I nuzzle into the crook of his neck. Fried food, black tea, and that cheap mango-scented shower gel cling to his skin and clothes, but there’s one scent that stands out more.
Chemicals. I remember noticing it the first time we met. I never thought drugs had a smell. The ones I took, or that Zayden used with his friends, never registered as anything I could detect. But with West, it’s different—a barely perceptible aroma of bitter chemicals that makes me feel nauseous, even from a distance.
I lift my head, searching for his eyes, but the darkness makes it difficult. The faint glow of streetlights seeps through the window, offering barely enough light to see.
I realize I’ve never even asked him if he’s okay. He found me, took care of me, and quite literally saved my life. I can’t imagine how much longer I would have lasted without food or water.
He even gave me his shoes. They’re soaked, lying somewhere in the corner of the room. He had to rush out for food in wet socks before buying slippers from the shop downstairs.
I don’t understand why he bothers with me so much. I surely don’t deserve any of this, and I have no idea how to repay him. He never acts like he expects anything in return, but I want to show him my gratitude. I want to care for him the way he cares for me.
But I don’t know how. I’ve tried to care for people in my life before, and it always ended badly. The scars of my past have changed me, and I’ve forgotten how to be anything but a rotten piece of indifference.
Bringing my hand up, I find his jawline. His stubble pricks at my fingertips, rough against my skin as I trace gentle patterns across his face. I shift my weight, climbing further onto him, unbothered by the weight of my body. Two weeks without proper food have left me thinner.
With every breath I take, the chemical scent settles deeper into my lungs. A tear rolls down my cheek, and my lips tremble as the realization sinks in.
I’m the reason he relapsed. And I know all too well that one moment of peace won’t be enough to conquer addiction. It’s never enough. Even I want to jump back into the pit and swallow a couple more Xanax pills.
Even so, I try to fend off the creeping negativity, battling the oppressive weight it threatens to bring. With a selfish longing, I allow this peaceful moment to settle over me, closing my eyes and leaning into the warmth of his skin.
So wholly mine.
“You are my hero,” I murmur softly, pressing my words to his skin, grateful that he’s asleep and won’t hear them.
Yet deep down, I wish he could.