part 14 : never made me cry ?

Dominic clenched his jaw, his fists tightening at his sides as he watched her best friend help her onto a rented horse. It was ridiculous. A rented horse. Really? Was this some sort of romantic comedy that he didn't get the script for? Meanwhile, his heart felt like it was being shredded by the sight of her—his Fiona—smiling, free, laughing with someone else, someone who wasn't him.

Damien stood beside him, his posture tense, his face a storm cloud. When he saw them dancing barefoot on the beach—her bare feet brushing against the sand, her laughter light and unburdened, floating through the warm night air—it was like a blade twisting deeper into both of them. Her laughter was a curse—a reminder of the joy they couldn't give her, of the silence they had left in their wake.

And the worst part? She didn't even look at them. Not once. It was as if they didn't exist in her world anymore. She was too busy living her life, finding new moments of happiness without them.

But they saw it all.

The carefree smile on her face. The way her hand rested in his best friend's, the warmth between them that they couldn't touch, couldn't even come close to. It was like they were ghosts, and she was... well, she was everything they'd lost.

Until one night, when neither of them could take it anymore.

Dominic took a step toward her, his voice low, almost a growl. "Why him?" he asked, his eyes narrowing with the unspoken accusation. "What does he have that we don't?"

Damien, too, moved forward, his frustration written on every line of his face. "Yeah," he snapped, his voice more venomous than he intended. "What's so special about him?"

Fiona didn't react at first. She simply stood there, her gaze cold and distant, the calm before the storm. When she finally looked at them, her eyes were the kind of empty that made their chests ache. And then she spoke, her voice quiet but cutting—like a surgical knife.

"He's never made me cry."

The words landed like a punch, sharp and unforgiving.

Her best friend, watching quietly from the background, simply reached for her hand and squeezed it gently. "Ready to twist the knife one more time?" he whispered, his voice teasing but knowing the damage would be catastrophic.

Fiona's lips curled into a smile—one that was both soft and sadistic at the same time. "Always."

And in that moment, it was clear. She didn't need them. She had a choice now—a better choice—and they were just two ghosts clinging to the remnants of something they'd broken beyond repair.

The knife was already twisted. They'd been bleeding for weeks, and she wasn't looking back.

The silence between them was deafening.

They hadn't just lost her—they'd lost everything she was willing to give.