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CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO

THE MUSIC FROM the bar drifted through the walls, muffled and distant, like it was coming from another world entirely. It wasn’t just noise; it was a reminder. A cruel, pulsing throb of laughter and rhythm that didn’t belong in this room anymore. Not with me. It was too alive. Too loud. Too normal.

I sat on the edge of the bed, knees drawn up tightly to my chest, arms wrapped around them, hands buried deep in the sleeves of the sweatshirt still clinging to the shape of him. Mystic’s sweatshirt.

It somehow still smelled like him—faint but unmistakable. A mixture of soap and worn leather, grounded by that hint of cologne I’d breathed in deep when he held me close enough for the world to disappear. I pulled it tighter around me and leaned back against the wall, letting the cool plaster anchor me. My eyes drifted shut, and I focused on breathing.

In.

Out.

In.

Out.

Keep the rhythm. Keep control. Don’t cry.

I had cried enough already.

I could still hear her speak his name— Kain —like it was a weapon. Not Mystic. Not the man I thought I knew. Not the man who let me into his silence, into his scars. But Kain, a stranger hiding behind the pieces he let me see.

And it hadn’t been him who told me. It had been her .

His wife.

Not his ex-wife. Not his past. His secret.

The truth had come from her lips, not his, and every word she spoke had twisted into something sharp, something cruel—because he hadn’t told me himself.

I thought I was safe with him.

I thought I could be his.

I thought he could be mine.

But I was wrong.

Again.

And not for the first time.

The hurt didn’t explode in me like it used to, not like when Drago raised his voice or when silence in a locked room became a threat. No, this heartbreak had arrived differently. Quiet. Precise. Like winter seeping through cracked tiles.

It reminded me of Istanbul.

I was seven when I dropped my grandmother’s teacup. It had been the last one left of a set, painted in soft blues and lined in gold, something she rarely let anyone use. But that day she made tea just for me. I held it too tightly, nervous and proud. And then I slipped. The porcelain shattered against the floor, the pieces skittering across the worn tile like broken promises.

She didn’t yell. Didn’t even speak. Just turned away slowly, gathered a broom, and swept it up.

That silence haunted me for days.

This one felt the same.

A knock at the door pulled me out of the memory, loud and unexpected. My body tensed instinctively, shoulders drawing in, breath caught halfway. I didn’t move. Didn’t speak.

Then came his voice, rough, unraveling, full of a kind of ache that hit me like a bruise.

“Zeynep. It’s me.”

Of course it was.

Even now, even with everything cracked and bleeding between us, my heart stuttered like it still believed in him. Like it hadn’t learned its lesson. Like it didn’t remember what betrayal tasted like.

“Please,” he said, quieter now. “Just… open the door.”

I stood slowly, feet silent against the floor, and crossed the room with that same mix of hesitation and longing I hated myself for still feeling.

I pressed my hand flat to the wood. I didn’t open it. I couldn’t. Because if I opened it, if I saw his face, if I let myself fall into that voice and those eyes again… I didn’t know if I’d survive it.

I wanted to scream. To ask him why he didn’t tell me. Why he let me be the fool again. Why he stood in front of me, kissed me like I mattered, while hiding someone else's name under his breath.

But I didn’t scream.

I didn’t say anything.

Because I’d learned a long time ago that silence was safer than any answer a man could give.

Silence couldn’t be twisted.

Couldn’t be turned into guilt or weaponized into regret.

Silence belonged to me.

His voice came again—softer now, broken around the edges. “I know I fucked up. I should’ve told you. Should’ve handled it before it ever got this far. I didn’t. That’s on me.”

My fingers curled against the doorframe. I pictured him on the other side, maybe leaning forward the same way I was, his hand against the wood, his head bowed. So close we could feel the same surface.

So far we could’ve been worlds apart.

He said she was gone. That he ended it.

But it didn’t matter. Not the way he thought.

It should’ve been over before I gave him my heart. Before I looked at him and thought maybe this time I wasn’t just something to protect or possess. That maybe I was enough—just as I am. Bruised. Quiet. Still learning how to live in a world without cages.

“She’s gone,” he whispered. “I swear it.”

The pain that bloomed in my chest didn’t come from my throat, though it burned there, too. It came from somewhere deeper—where belief used to live.

He had meant something. Meant everything. And now I didn’t even know who he was, or who I was to him.

I wanted to believe him. But I’d wanted to believe before.

I believed the man who said I was special right before he defiled me in the most horrific way possible. I believed the one who smiled as he gave me to another man to watch me be abused. I believed the one who swore he loved me—right up until I asked to be free.

Belief had cost me too much already.

Footsteps shifted. He was still there.

“Alright,” he murmured finally, voice retreating like the tide slipping away from the shore. “I’ll give you space.”

And then he was gone.

I didn’t move until the sound of his footsteps vanished completely, each one dragging farther into distance.

When the silence took hold again, I sank down slowly, my back against the door, my knees to my chest, arms wrapped around them. I rested my cheek against the wood and whispered nothing.

Not even his name.

But the silence I gave him was full of everything I couldn’t say—everything I couldn’t let myself feel.

It was heavier than any goodbye.

***

THE BOOK IN my lap had long since blurred. I wasn’t reading. Just… staring. The words danced on the page, mocking me with their quiet beauty, something I no longer felt. I traced the corner with my fingertip until it curled.

Lucy sat on the edge of the bed again. Like she had the day before., and the day before that. Just sat with me in the silence. I hated how loud it was in here, even when no one said a word. The kind of silence that presses against your ribs, heavy and wet, like drowning from the inside.

“Zeynep,” she finally said, her voice low and careful, like she thought I might shatter if she breathed too hard. “You’ve got to talk to someone.”

I blinked once, slowly, but said nothing.

“He made a mistake. A terrible one. But you don’t know the whole story.”

I do not want to know. I didn’t say it, but my body must have. I curled inward, like the words themselves burned.

Lucy exhaled, frustration twisting her lips. “You love him. Don’t you?”

I closed the book. Set it aside on the nightstand. My fingers trembled. Yes, I love him , I wanted to say. Still feel his touch like a ghost against my skin. Still wake up hoping this is all a dream and I will find him sitting in that old chair, watching me like I’m the only thing in this broken world that makes sense.

But I could not give voice to any of it. My throat refused me.

“You can’t let this eat you alive,” Lucy whispered. “You’ve fought too hard, Zeynep. You got out. You lived. Don’t let a mistake be the reason you fade again.”

I turned my head away. The wall was easier to look at than her pleading eyes.

“I know what it feels like,” she pushed, firmer now. “To trust someone, to believe they see you—not the pain, not the past—but you . And then to find out there’s more… secrets… lies…”

A single tear rolled down my cheek, slow and traitorous.

She noticed.

Her voice softened again, breaking. “He never meant to hurt you. He’s just… broken too. Maybe worse than you think.”

I hated that I understood. Hated that the ache inside me wasn’t just heartbreak, but recognition . Mystic was scarred. Not just on his skin, but deep. Like me.

But he still had a wife. A secret. A chain he didn’t cut before pulling me into his arms.

“Please say something,” Lucy begged. “Even if it’s just a nod. Or scream at me. Throw something. Anything. Just… come back.”

I looked down at my hands. They were folded neatly in my lap, like I was made of glass. But inside… I was dust.

I forced one word, jagged and dry from my throat. Barely a whisper. “Why?”

Lucy’s breath hitched. “Why what?”

“Why did he… not tell me?” I closed my eyes. “Why did he let me believe…?”

She didn’t answer. Maybe there was no answer.

Maybe some men don’t mean to ruin you—but they do anyway.

Lucy didn’t speak. She just reached for my hand encouraging me to continue talking.

“I haven’t felt this empty,” I whispered, “since the day you came… and told me they were gone.”

Her head dropped slightly, like the weight of that memory hit her too.

“I kept hoping you were wrong. That you’d made a mistake. That maybe they were just—just lost, or moved, or… something.” My throat tightened. “But you stood in the doorway, and I saw it in your eyes. My parents were dead. And so was that part of me.”

She squeezed my hand, hard. “Don’t do this to yourself.”

“I am not doing anything,” I said quietly. “It is already done.”

“I know,” she said, her voice thick. “I know what you’re thinking, but Mystic—he’s not like Drago. He didn’t lie to keep you trapped. He didn’t lie to control you.”

“No,” I murmured, eyes on the ceiling. “He lied to keep me close.”

Lucy blinked. “What do you mean?”

“If he had told me,” I said, the ache pouring into every word, “I would’ve walked away. I would’ve protected my heart.”

“But he didn’t think—”

“No, he knew ,” I snapped, my voice rising for the first time. “He knew what I had survived. What men had done to me. He knew I had nothing left. And still… still he let me fall.”

Silence thickened the room.

My voice dropped again, softer, more hollow. “Do you know what it feels like, Lucy? To finally trust a man again after years of surviving, only to realize that he was like all the rest—a liar?”

Tears slipped down Lucy’s face, quiet and steady. She didn’t wipe them.

“You are the one constant I can count on,” I said. “When you told me about my parents… when I collapsed into your arms, and you held me, even though I screamed and cursed and blamed myself. You didn’t leave.” I took a deep breath and continued, “and when Fang did those horrible things to you because of me, you were still my friend and helped me.”

“And I’ll always be here,” she whispered.

I finally turned my eyes to her, something fragile burning in my chest. “Then help me, Lucy. Because I do not know how to come back from this.”

She wrapped her arms around me without hesitation, pulling me close. “You don’t have to come back all at once,” she said, voice shaking against my hair. “Just… don’t give up. Not on yourself. And not on him—not yet.”

I closed my eyes, letting myself lean into her warmth. But deep inside, where the pain sat thick and unmoving, I couldn’t make promises. Not to her. Not to him.

Not even to myself.