Lucian’s POV
Lucian’s head was swimming as he made his way up the stairs. The alcohol had dulled his senses, but the pain the deep, aching hollowness inside was sharper than ever. Tonight had been a big night, a turning point, and he could feel the weight of it pressing down on him. He had finally decided to leave it all behind: his family, Avey, everyone. He was done chasing love that was never returned.
Done with trying to get people to see him.
“Lucian,” a voice called from behind him.
It was his mother. He heard her, but he didn’t stop. He couldn’t. Not after everything.
“Lucian, please,” her voice trembled this time, but he kept walking. His heart, already heavy, sank further, and a part of him wanted to laugh at the absurdity of it all. His mother, the woman who had ignored him his entire life, was suddenly calling out to him as if she cared. But Lucian was too tired to play along. Too tired to hope that this time would be different.
“Son, please hear me out. I need to talk to you,” Olivia’s voice cracked, but Lucian didn’t want to hear it. He didn’t want her pity.
He kept his pace steady, determined to make it to his room and shut the door on the conversation he knew would never bring him peace. But then, unexpectedly, he felt a hand grab his wrist, pulling him to a stop. The sudden jolt caused him to grunt in pain as her fingers pressed into the tender spot where his wrist was bandaged.
“Ah… my wrist…” Lucian muttered, his voice slurring as he tried to pull away from her grip.
Olivia, startled by his reaction, loosened her hold but didn’t let go. She stepped in front of him, her face a mix of confusion and concern. The smell of alcohol hit her, but it was the flash of pain in Lucian’s eyes that caught her off guard.
She looked down at his wrist, noticing for the first time the faint red stains on his white shirt. Her heart raced, a sinking feeling in her chest as she gently pulled up the sleeve of his shirt. Her breath caught in her throat.
Olivia’s POV
Olivia’s hands shook as she lifted Lucian’s sleeve higher. Her eyes widened in horror as she saw what lay beneath. red lines crisscrossed his wrist, some fresh, others faded, marking his skin like a grim testament to his suffering. A small amount of blood had begun to seep through the fingers she was holding with where she had unintentionally reopened the wound with her grip.
“What… what is this?” she whispered, her voice barely audible as panic set in. Her hands trembled uncontrollably as she stared at the cuts, trailing her eyes up his arm. They weren’t just on his wrist there were more, running up his forearm, disappearing beneath his shirt. Some were old, almost healed, while others were fresh, as if they had been made recently.
The realization hit her like a punch to the gut. Lucian had been hurting himself. Her son, her baby, the boy who had always looked at her with wide, adoring eyes, had been suffering right under her nose, and she hadn’t seen it. She hadn’t even noticed.
Her legs felt weak, her breath shaky, and tears began to spill down her cheeks, hot and unstoppable.
“How did I never see this?” she thought, her mind racing. “How could I have missed something so important? What kind of mother am I?”
She remembered Lucian as a child his bright, innocent smile, his eagerness to please her, the way he had clung to her every word. How had things gotten so bad? How had she failed him so completely? The weight of her guilt pressed down on her, suffocating, overwhelming.
She looked up at Lucian, who was watching her with half-lidded, drunken eyes, clearly not fully aware of what was happening. But she could see it now the pain, the exhaustion etched into his face. And she knew, in that moment, that this wasn’t something new. This had been happening for a long time.
“Lucian…” she whispered, her voice breaking as she gently touched his arm again, tears blurring her vision. “Why… why didn’t I see this? How could I have let this happen to you?”
Lucian’s POV
Lucian blinked through the haze of alcohol, feeling his mother’s fingers brush against his arm. She was saying something something about why she hadn’t noticed, why she hadn’t seen what was happening to him. But it didn’t matter. It was too late for all that.
He tried to pull his arm away, the pain in his wrist throbbing where the bandage had come loose, but Olivia’s grip was trembling, and she didn’t let go. Her eyes were filled with tears, and Lucian almost laughed at the irony. His mother, who had barely looked at him his entire life, was suddenly crying over him.
“Let go,” he muttered, his voice low and detached. “It doesn’t matter.”
He turned to leave again, but Olivia’s voice stopped him once more.
Olivia’s POV
Olivia’s mind was spinning, her heart shattering with every passing second. She could barely comprehend the sight of her son’s wounded arm, let alone the implications of what it meant. Lucian had been in pain for so long, and she had been too blind too consumed by her work, by her responsibilities to see it.
As Lucian tried to walk away again, she was hit with a sudden rush of memories. She remembered Lucian as a little boy, no more than five years old, looking up at her with those big, hopeful eyes.
“Mother, will you protect me? Will you love me like I love you?” he had asked, his tiny hand reaching out to grasp hers.
She had laughed at how serious he looked, and she had promised him, with all the love in her heart, “Of course I will, my darling boy. I’ll always protect you. I’ll always love you.”
“Pinky promise?” he had asked, holding up his little finger.
She had hooked her pinky around his, sealing the promise with a kiss on his cheek. She had meant it back then meant it with every fiber of her being. But somewhere along the way, she had lost sight of that promise. She had let the demands of the world, of the family business, of life, pull her away from him.no somthing more then that…it was like somthing was blocking her eyes to look at Lucian
And now, looking at him this broken, hurting version of her son she realized she had broken that promise in the worst possible way.
“I broke my promise,” she whispered, her voice trembling as the tears flowed freely. “I promised to protect you, but I didn’t. I wasn’t there when you needed me the most.”
Her chest tightened, the guilt weighing heavily on her, making it hard to breathe. “How could I have been so blind? How could I have let this happen?”why wasn’t i even aware of this situation
The memories of Lucian’s childhood flashed through her mind, each one like a dagger to her heart. His laughter, his questions, his endless need for her love and approval all things she had brushed aside, too caught up in her own world to realize how much he needed her.
And now, here he was, standing in front of her, covered in scars that she hadn’t even noticed.
“I’m so sorry, Lucian,” she whispered, her voice thick with emotion. “I’m so, so sorry.
Lucian’s POV
Lucian heard his mother’s words, but they felt distant, like they were coming from underwater. She was crying, apologizing, saying things he had always wanted to hear. But now, after everything, they felt hollow. Meaningless.
“I’m sorry.”
How many times had he wished she would say those words? How many times had he begged, silently, for her to notice him, to see the pain he was in? And now that she finally was, it felt too late.
am i drunk? Lucian thought so
Lucian turned, his back to her, and began to walk to the stairs again. He didn’t have the energy to engage in this conversation. Not now. Maybe not ever. His head was spinning, and all he wanted was to lie down and forget forget everything.
As he was walking , he paused, the sound of his mother’s quiet sobs echoing in the hallway behind him.
For a brief moment, he felt a pang of something regret, sadness, guilt, he wasn’t sure. But then it was gone, swallowed by the numbness that had settled in his chest.
“It’s just a dream, isn’t it? Am I really that drunk, seeing and hearing things out of nowhere?”
Lucian still couldn’t be sure if this was real or not; it was just too surreal.
His mother, who had never even bothered to call him, let alone look for him.
In his past life, he could count on one hand the number of times his mother had reached out to him over the years.
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