Seven Years Secret, I Stopped Chasing - Chapter 2: Chapter 2
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Stephanie leaned in with a sly grin, her voice just loud enough to carry. "Albion, what do you think—any chance those two will patch things up?"
As expected, Serena's head snapped up. When she spotted me nearby, a flicker of guilt crossed her face before she quickly defended herself. "I'm not getting back with him. He's just wasted, so I'm helping him out."
I offered her a calm smile and shrugged. "I get it, Serena. Cyril's barely conscious—why don't you take him home?"
Her brow twitched at my tone, but she didn't argue. Instead, she nodded and hauled Cyril toward the door, pausing only to toss a warning over her shoulder. "You two should head out soon. Don't stay out too late."
As they disappeared down the hall, a sharp, stabbing pain shot through my chest.
All I could do was laugh—bitter, hollow.
In my past life, I'd gotten what I wanted. Serena became mine. But happiness? Never followed.
On my birthday, all I'd asked for was a quiet evening with her. Instead, she'd snapped, "I'm busy with work. Stop bothering me."
Later, I saw the photos on Cyril's friends' feeds. They'd gone skiing in the mountains that day.
And when I was doubled over from a stomach ulcer, begging her to take me to the hospital? "I'm not a doctor. If it hurts, go. Why are you telling me?"
Yet there she was, weeks later, hovering over Cyril in the ER—for a cold.
Then came our anniversary. I'd planned a surprise, but on the way home, I got into an accident. The doctors called her, frantic, needing her to sign for my surgery.
Her response? "Is he dead? If not, don't bother me."
Cyril's voice had been bright in the background: "Serena, look! The Northern Lights are incredible. This trip was worth it!"
By the time the call ended, half the hospital bed was soaked in my blood.
Even now, the memory choked me.
Clutching my chest, I let out a ragged laugh. Fine, Serena. If my love's such a burden, I'll never love you again.
Stephanie and I left soon after.
The next morning, I grabbed my phone, still half-asleep—only to see a message from Cyril.
A photo of Serena, passed out on his couch.
[Cyril: Serena stayed over last night. Kept me company.]
I stared, numb, and typed back: [Me: Oh.]
He wasn't done. Another photo popped up—breakfast.
[Cyril: She made me heart-shaped eggs this morning.]
Serena, who'd never set foot in a kitchen for me.
"I'm my family's princess," she'd said. "I don't lower my standards for anyone."
So I'd learned to cook—mastered every dish she loved. Made sure she never ate a cold meal.
And now? The joke was on me.
I set my phone down and finished my breakfast in silence.
Five minutes later, Serena texted. No mention of last night. Just:
[Serena: Those meatballs you made last time? Make them again. I'll be at the office.]
A second followed:
[Serena: And no cilantro.]
As expected, Serena's head snapped up. When she spotted me nearby, a flicker of guilt crossed her face before she quickly defended herself. "I'm not getting back with him. He's just wasted, so I'm helping him out."
I offered her a calm smile and shrugged. "I get it, Serena. Cyril's barely conscious—why don't you take him home?"
Her brow twitched at my tone, but she didn't argue. Instead, she nodded and hauled Cyril toward the door, pausing only to toss a warning over her shoulder. "You two should head out soon. Don't stay out too late."
As they disappeared down the hall, a sharp, stabbing pain shot through my chest.
All I could do was laugh—bitter, hollow.
In my past life, I'd gotten what I wanted. Serena became mine. But happiness? Never followed.
On my birthday, all I'd asked for was a quiet evening with her. Instead, she'd snapped, "I'm busy with work. Stop bothering me."
Later, I saw the photos on Cyril's friends' feeds. They'd gone skiing in the mountains that day.
And when I was doubled over from a stomach ulcer, begging her to take me to the hospital? "I'm not a doctor. If it hurts, go. Why are you telling me?"
Yet there she was, weeks later, hovering over Cyril in the ER—for a cold.
Then came our anniversary. I'd planned a surprise, but on the way home, I got into an accident. The doctors called her, frantic, needing her to sign for my surgery.
Her response? "Is he dead? If not, don't bother me."
Cyril's voice had been bright in the background: "Serena, look! The Northern Lights are incredible. This trip was worth it!"
By the time the call ended, half the hospital bed was soaked in my blood.
Even now, the memory choked me.
Clutching my chest, I let out a ragged laugh. Fine, Serena. If my love's such a burden, I'll never love you again.
Stephanie and I left soon after.
The next morning, I grabbed my phone, still half-asleep—only to see a message from Cyril.
A photo of Serena, passed out on his couch.
[Cyril: Serena stayed over last night. Kept me company.]
I stared, numb, and typed back: [Me: Oh.]
He wasn't done. Another photo popped up—breakfast.
[Cyril: She made me heart-shaped eggs this morning.]
Serena, who'd never set foot in a kitchen for me.
"I'm my family's princess," she'd said. "I don't lower my standards for anyone."
So I'd learned to cook—mastered every dish she loved. Made sure she never ate a cold meal.
And now? The joke was on me.
I set my phone down and finished my breakfast in silence.
Five minutes later, Serena texted. No mention of last night. Just:
[Serena: Those meatballs you made last time? Make them again. I'll be at the office.]
A second followed:
[Serena: And no cilantro.]
End of Seven Years Secret, I Stopped Chasing Chapter 2. Continue reading Chapter 3 or return to Seven Years Secret, I Stopped Chasing book page.