Page 222 of Sins of the Hidden

I'd imagined her taking my bat, those delicate hands wrapping around the handle while I guided her swing. The pendants would shatter like glass, ash scattering across our bakery floor—the final destruction of everything that ever made her cry. She'd be magnificent in that moment, jade eyes bright, hair wild around her face as she took her revenge. Fucking beautiful.

Seven forty-five.

The empty display case reflected my distorted image back—a man in expensive fabric holding flowers. The case I'd installed last week, sweating through measurements to make it perfect. Now dust gathered where her pastries should be. Like everything else I touched—beautiful at first, then left to rot.

Eight-fifteen.

An older couple passed by the window, holding hands in the rain, their laughter cutting through the glass. His weathered hand covered hers, fingers intertwined with the ease of decades. I watched their casual happiness, their comfortable love, and something vicious twisted in my gut. What they had looked effortless. What I wanted felt like trying to hold smoke.

The realization crept in—slow, then all at once. She'd seen what everyone else saw. That I was broken beyond repair. That love wasn't meant for things like me.

Nine-thirty.

Each tick of my watch was a nail in the coffin of whatever delusion had brought me here. A man in formal wear, practicing proposals in mirrors, believing he could be worthy of something pure. The second hand moved, marking the death of hope.

Ten o'clock.

Three hours. Three hours I'd sat here like a trained dog, waiting for scraps of affection from someone who'd decided I wasn't worth showing up for.

I looked at the sign again. In our handprints, black and lavender intertwined. The empty space below seemed to accuse me now—Summer would never press her tiny palm there.

She wasn't coming.

She'd never forgive me for drugging her. For stealing her choice. For forcing those vows past her unconscious lips while she floated somewhere unreachable. The mask of kindness had slipped away, revealing what I'd always known—no one could love a monster.

I was beyond forgiving.

I'd crossed every line, broken every boundary, violated every sacred thing about her and called it love. I'd taken her wedding day and made it about my need instead of her choice. I'd turned her into my victim and then demanded she be grateful for the cage I'd built around her.

I'd stolen her voice, her safety, her right to say no—and then sat here expecting her to show up with a smile and forgiveness I'd never earned.

She owed me nothing.

I'd played at being worthy while the truth rotted beneath the surface. Every gentle touch had been tainted by what I'ddone. Every moment of tenderness was built on the foundation of violation. I wasn't her husband—I was her kidnapper in a wedding suit, expecting absolution for sins.

I’d fucking do it again. Every twisted, unforgivable thing. Because losing her was worse than being the monster who stole her. Because I'd rather be hated by her than forgotten. Because my love was a disease that infected everything it touched, and I was too selfish to find a cure.

What replaced him was something I recognized. Something that had been waiting, patient and hungry, beneath the thin veneer of domesticity I'd tried to wear.

Then I began.

The first shelf went down under my fist, wood splintering with a crack that echoed satisfaction through my bones. No pain—nothing compared to the emptiness spreading through my chest like infection. The display case shattered under my boot, glass exploding across the floor, each shard reflecting my rage back in fractured pieces.

I tore through our bakery like the storm I'd always been. Light fixtures crashed down, sparks showering the wreckage. Cabinets ripped from walls. My fist punched through the back wall, again and again, until knuckles split and the white drywall was streaked with dark stains. I couldn't feel the wounds. Couldn't feel anything but the sweet relief of destruction.

The industrial mixer went next, my shoulder screaming as I flipped it over, three hundred pounds of steel crashing to the tiles. The sound of metal splitting and gears breaking filled the air—a symphony of ending. I dumped the velvet pouch into my palm, four pendants catching lightning through the windows. Beautiful containers for monsters I'd killed for her. Sick gifts from a sick man who thought he could buy love with revenge.

I hurled them across the ruined bakery, hearing them clatter into debris, disappearing into the wreckage of everything I'd been stupid enough to believe in.

My hand raised toward the sign—our handprints pressed together in wood, black and lavender intertwined. Summer's empty space staring back like an accusation. I could end it. Could erase the last proof that I'd ever believed in something beyond myself.

But I stopped. Destroying that would be like ripping out the last thread connecting me to what I'd briefly become. The sign would survive when everything else turned to ash. Our handprints, permanent proof of a moment when I'd been more than just a rageful appetite.

The rain drenched me the moment I stepped outside. I didn't bother covering my head. Let it wash away the formal wear, the flowers, the stupid hope that had brought me here. Let it drown whatever weakness had made me think I could be worthy of love.

I gunned my bike through red lights, engine screaming through empty streets. Not toward my apartment—nothing waited there except rooms that would echo with her absence. The clubhouse would have noise. Water cascaded from my hair to the floor when I pushed through the doors. They were all there—waiting. The room transformed with lights strung from the ceiling, champagne bottles in ice, glasses waiting to be filled.

An engagement party. For us. For a proposal that had died in my fist three hours ago.

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