Chapter 37
CHAPTER 37
RAVEN
T he door clicks shut, and the silence that follows is so complete I can hear myself breathing. I stay under the covers, curled in on myself, the warmth of the blanket doing little to thaw the cold hollow feeling in my chest. Every muscle in my body feels locked in place, like moving would shatter me into pieces too small to ever put back together.
I hate how his presence lingers even after he’s gone, like a shadow creeping into every corner of my thoughts. I hate the way my skin still burns from his touch, no matter how much I loathe it. But most of all, I hate the way I still feel tethered to him, as if his absence is more terrible than his presence.
I bury my face deeper into the pillow and try to go back to sleep, but it doesn’t work. I’m too aware of everything—my heartbeat pounding in my ears, the faint occasional gurgling noise of the central heating pipes, the soft rustle of the blanket every time I move. It all feels too loud, too much.
I scrunch my eyes closed, determined to will myself to sleep, but my mind won’t stop racing. Everything that happened last night keeps replaying in my head, looping endlessly until I want to scream. My throat is dry and my eyes are burning with unshed tears, but all I can think of is how much I want him back here, next to me. But I won’t call him back. I won’t give him the satisfaction of knowing how totally he’s broken me.
Minutes pass, maybe hours, and exhaustion presses down on me. My body feels hot and aches with the kind of weariness that no amount of sleep can fix. I need to get up, shower, and have a cold drink, but the thought of moving feels insurmountable. Instead, I stay where I am, hoping that if I stay still enough, the world will stop spinning around me.
But it doesn’t. It never does.
Eventually, I hear the faint buzz of my phone vibrating on the nightstand. I don’t want to look at it—I know it’s probably just another message from someone I don’t have the energy to respond to. But the persistent sound gnaws at me until I finally reach out, my hand shaking as I grab the phone.
The screen lights up with a string of notifications—missed calls and messages. The first one is from Sunny asking me about the big dance and wanting to know if she can stop by with a cake later that day. Her enthusiasm feels misplaced, a stark contrast to the heaviness in my chest.
Then I see a message from Charles.
Charles!
I stare in disbelief at his name. His message is brief, just enough to make my stomach tighten.
Something amazing has happened
I really need to talk to you.
Let’s meet soon . Love, C
The absurdity of it almost makes me laugh. Charles—the man I left at the altar, the man I thought I’d never hear from again—wants to meet. What could he possibly have to say? Part of me wants to reply, to ask him what’s so important, but I can’t bring myself to. Not when I feel shitty and everything in my life feels so tragic. I can’t bring another unstable variable to it. More than anything now, I need stability, comfort, and peace. I need to get better and go back to Mom and Dad.
With a sigh, I swipe away from his message and put the phone down. The truth is, I don’t want to see anyone. I don’t have the energy to pretend I’m okay, to smile and nod, and feign excitement for my newly married life that already feels like a disaster.
My thoughts drift back to Charles’s message. For a fleeting moment, I wonder what might have happened if I’d married him. I would have found out that he is no longer wealthy, far from it, and he couldn’t live to his side of the bargain. Would I have left immediately after he had broken my trust, or would I have stayed? Even though he was an ass to others, he was always kind to me.
Would I have ended up in this mansion anyway, trapped in a loveless marriage? I might have stayed with him, but not with him and his mother. I was really dreading living with her. None of that matters now. I’ve made my choice, and there’s no going back.
A sudden chill runs through me, and I realize the blanket has slipped off my shoulders. I sit up, the room spinning slightly as I do. My stomach growls a sharp reminder that I haven’t eaten all day. I know I need to, but even the thought of food makes me nauseous. My limbs feel heavy, my head foggy, and for a moment, I wonder if I can muster the strength to get out of bed at all.
Eventually, I force myself to move. The bathroom feels like a mile away, but I make it, clutching my phone as I go. The light is harsh, and I squint against it, leaning against the sink for support. My reflection in the mirror is not a pretty sight. Blotchy skin, dark circles under my eyes, and hair sticking to my damp forehead.
As I stare at my sickly, unattractive countenance, my mom calls.
I answer quickly, forcing my voice to sound bright and cheerful. “Hi, Mom.”
“Hello, sweetheart,” she replies. “You had your big Gala last night, didn’t you? How was it?”
“It was great,” I lie cheerfully.
“Are you not well? You don’t sound too good.”
“I’m fine,” I invent. “Just had a bit much to drink. Maybe I’m tired too.”
She pauses, and I can tell she’s debating whether to tell me something.
“What is it, Mom?”
She takes a deep breath. “Raven, I wanted to let you know... your father’s not doing too well.”
The words hit me like a punch to the gut. I grab the edge of the sink and hold on tight. “What do you mean? What happened?”
She hesitates, her voice trembling. “His treatment... there are complications. The doctors are concerned about his heart. They think it’s related to the stress on his body from the thyroid cancer and the medication. They’re adjusting his treatment plan, but...”
“But what?” I ask, my chest tightening.
“It’s serious,” she admits softly. “They’re doing everything they can, but they’ve warned us to prepare for the worst, just in case.”
For a moment, I can’t speak. The space feels too small, the air too thin. “What?”
“I’m sorry, honey, I didn’t?—
“Why didn’t you tell me sooner?” I whisper, my voice breaking.
“I didn’t want to worry you,” she says, and I can hear the guilt in her voice. “You’ve been through so much lately... I thought we could handle it. But now... I think you should come.”
I nod, even though she can’t see me. “I’ll be there as soon as I can.”
“Take care of yourself first, Raven,” she says gently. “You don’t sound well, and the last thing we need is for you to get worse.”
I promise her I’ll rest, but as the call ends, I know I won’t. My father is all I can think about now, his stubborn pride, and his refusal to seek help until it was too late. The thought of losing him is unbearable, and for the first time in years, I feel truly helpless.
I sink to the floor, my back against the wall, tears streaming down my face. Not this too. This is just too much. The phone slips from my hand, and I bury my face in my knees, wishing I could do something to fix everything that's wrong.
Eventually, I wipe the tears from my face, the motion shaky and clumsy as I try to gather myself. My chest feels tight, each breath shallow, but I force myself to stand. Be strong, I tell myself. Be strong for him.
I wipe the tears from my face, forcing myself to stand despite the weakness in my legs. The cold bathroom tiles feel like they are freezing my feet as I quickly return to my room. My fingers tremble as I call for a taxi. I’m in luck, there is a taxi cruising back from another job and can be with me in five minutes. Grabbing my purse, I pull on a coat and rush to the door. My heart pounds in my chest, each beat a mix of desperation and exhaustion. I don’t care how late it is or how weak I feel. My father needs me.
As I cross the foyer, I feel the chill of the house rush into my open coat and seep through my thin nightgown. My mind is in a haze, too frantic to think clearly, but as I reach the front door, something clicks. Something is not right. I stop in my tracks, glance down and realize with a sinking feeling that I’m still in my house slippers—no proper shoes to shield me from the wintry wind blowing outside.
For a moment, I hesitate. My fingers clutch my purse and I consider going back to grab my boots. But the thought of going all the way up those stairs again in my condition. No. Anyway, the taxi has arrived outside, and every second feels like a wasted eternity.
As I open the front door, Nora’s voice stops me. “Mrs. Jackson!” she calls out.
I grip the doorknob tightly and turn to face her. “Mrs. Jackson, where are you going? You’re not dressed for this weather!” Her voice is laced with concern, her eyes wide as she approaches.
“I’m fine, Nora. I’m just going to see my dad. He’s not well,” I say with as much bravado as I can muster, but my voice sounds hollow, unconvincing, even to my own ears.
“Mrs. Jackson, wait?—”
But I don’t give her a chance to finish. Pushing the door open, I step into the biting cold. The wind hits me like a slap, harsh and unrelenting. My slip and open coat do nothing to shield me, and I shiver violently as I rush down the steps. I hear Nora calling after me, but I don’t stop. I can’t.
The driver steps out gallantly to open the door for me. “Are you all right?” he asks, frowning at my state.
“I’m fine. Please just drive as quickly as you can to the hospital,” I plead, climbing into the backseat.
The warmth of the car is a relief, but the cold has already seeped into my bones, and I can’t stop trembling. I clutch my purse tightly in my lap, my fingers stiff and numb. The driver pulls away and I let out a shaky breath and try to steady myself.
I don’t want to arrive in such a state that my mother starts worrying about me.
The streets are eerily quiet, the wind howling as it whips through the town. Snow flurries dance in the air. I watch them through the window with a strange detachment.
A harsh cough escapes my lips, and I press a hand to my chest, wincing at the sharp pain that follows. The cold has settled deep, each breath feeling heavier than the last. I ignore it, willing my body to cooperate. There’s no room for weakness now.
The driver glances at me in the rearview mirror, his brows furrowed. “You sure, you’re okay, Miss?”
“Yes, just a little cough. Don’t worry it’s not catching,” I reply with a small smile.
But I’m not fine. The truth is, I feel worse with every passing second. The chill in my chest spreads, a suffocating feeling that makes it harder to breathe. I try to focus on the countryside flashing by, anything to distract myself from my growing physical discomfort.
I think of my poor father, his face, lined with age and worry. His hands, calloused from years of hard work. The thought of him lying in a hospital bed, fighting for his life, makes my chest tighten further.
The idea of losing my father is unbearable.
Tears blur my vision again, and this time, I don’t bother to wipe them away. Let them fall. Let the cold take me if it must. All that matters is getting to him. All that matters is being there.