Happy Divorce, My Husband! - Chapter 48: Chapter 48

— VALERIA —
The whiskey burned as it slid down my throat, but I welcomed the fire.
It wasn’t enough.
Not even close.
I grabbed the bottle, pouring another glass, the golden liquid swirling like the chaos in my mind. The private bar was empty except for me, but I liked it that way.
Silence was better than the voices in my head.
Better than the memories.
Better than the emptiness.
Amara’s justice had been served. Isabella was dead. Lorenzo was rotting in a hospital bed.
I should have felt peace.
Then why the hell did I feel like this?
Like something was missing.
Like I was still waiting.
For what?
For Isabella to wake up and beg for my forgiveness? For her to drop to her knees and scream that she regretted everything?
She never did.
She died like the coward she was, taking her sins with her to the grave.
I exhaled sharply, reaching for another bottle when a hand snatched it away.
“Enough,” Darius said, his voice edged with irritation.
I scoffed, leaning back against the bar. “Since when do you control how much I drink?”
“Since you started drinking like you wanted to forget your own damn name,” he shot back, placing the bottle out of my reach.
I met his gaze, eyes heavy with exhaustion.
“Why do you care?” I muttered, grabbing another glass instead. “I’m fine.”
Darius let out a humorless laugh, shaking his head. “You’re sitting here alone, drowning yourself in alcohol, and you think you’re fine?”
I lifted the glass to my lips. “Yes.”
His fingers wrapped around my wrist, stopping me.
“Don’t let your guard down like this,” he said, his voice low, serious. “Your enemies haven’t disappeared just because Isabella is dead. You’re still a target, Valeria.”
I yanked my hand free. “Let them come.”
Darius clenched his jaw. “You don’t mean that.”
I laughed.
A bitter, broken laugh.
“No? And what do I mean, Darius?” I asked, my voice laced with sarcasm. “That I should keep fighting? Keep running? Keep killing?” I leaned closer, my breath heavy with whiskey. “Tell me, what’s left for me now?”
He stared at me, his blue eyes searching mine.
I wished he wouldn’t look at me like that.
Like I was something worth saving.
Like I wasn’t already too far gone.
I shook my head, gripping the edge of the bar. “Amara’s gone, Darius.” My voice cracked, but I forced myself to keep talking. “Isabella’s dead. Lorenzo… he’s as good as dead. So tell me—what the hell am I still doing here?”
Silence stretched between us.
Darius sighed, rubbing a hand down his face. “You think killing Isabella was supposed to fix everything?”
I didn’t answer.
Because I didn’t know.
Maybe a part of me thought that once she was dead, the nightmares would stop. That the hole in my chest would seal itself shut.
But it didn’t.
The ache was still there.
The grief.
The emptiness.
I reached for the bottle again, but the moment my fingers brushed it, my foot stumbled.
The world tilted.
Before I could hit the ground, Darius caught me.
His arms wrapped around me, holding me steady. I could feel the tension in his muscles, the quiet frustration simmering beneath the surface.
“You’re a damn mess, Valeria,” he muttered.
I snorted.
“Tell me something I don’t know.”
He sighed, shifting me so I was leaning against him instead of the bar. His warmth seeped into me, grounding me in a way I didn’t want to admit.
“Come on,” he said, his voice softer now. “Let’s get you out of here.”
I could have fought him. Could have pushed him away. But I was too tired. Too empty.
So I let him hold me.
For now.
***
I don’t know when the shaking started.
Maybe it was when Darius wrapped his arm around me, leading me out of the bar.
Maybe it was when the cold air hit my skin, numbing me from the outside while the fire inside burned me alive.
Or maybe it was when everything I had been holding in for so damn long finally cracked open, spilling out like an unstoppable flood.
I gripped his shirt, my breath ragged, my vision blurred.
“It should have been me,” I whispered, my voice breaking.
Darius stilled. “Should been, what?”
“It should have been me, not Amara,” I choked out. “She was innocent. She didn’t deserve this—I did.”
The weight of it all crashed over me, and before I could stop myself, I collapsed against his chest.
And I broke.
Sobs wracked my body, raw and violent, years of pain and loss ripping out of me in waves.
Darius didn’t say a word.
He just held me.
Strong. Steady. Silent.
He let me cry, let me fall apart, let me pour every ounce of grief, regret, and rage into his arms.
I don’t know how long we stayed like that.
Maybe minutes.
Maybe hours.
When my sobs finally quieted, exhaustion weighed heavy on me, the alcohol dulling everything into a hazy blur.
Darius carried me to his car. I barely noticed.
By the time we reached his house, my body felt numb.
He placed me in the guest room, pulling the covers over me. His face was unreadable, but his eyes—those sharp blue eyes—were soft.
“Get some rest,” he said, turning to leave.
But I didn’t want to be alone.
I couldn’t be alone.
My hand shot out, grabbing his wrist.
“Stay,” I murmured.
Darius exhaled. “Valeria…”
I pulled him closer. “Please.”
His hesitation lasted only a second.
Then he sat beside me on the bed, his warmth so close, so dangerous.
The alcohol buzzed through my veins, making my skin flush, my body heat.
I met his gaze, my fingers trailing up his chest, gripping his shirt.
“Kiss me…” I whispered.