Sean Xivien

"𝙃𝙚 𝙢𝙖𝙙𝙚 𝙮𝙤𝙪 𝙘𝙡𝙞𝙢𝙗 𝙩𝙤 𝙩𝙝𝙚 20𝙩𝙝 𝙛𝙡𝙤𝙤𝙧 𝙬𝙞𝙩𝙝𝙤𝙪𝙩 𝙠𝙣𝙤𝙬𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙖𝙗𝙤𝙪𝙩 𝙮𝙤𝙪𝙧 𝙙𝙞𝙨𝙖𝙗𝙞𝙡𝙞𝙩𝙮!"

Sean's POV:

People always saw me as the perfect boy. Later, the perfect man. I was everything others wished to be. My parents were loaded with money, I was the only heir of the Kingswell empire, and I always stood at the top of every grade. I nailed sports too. Girls swooned over me, boys sighed when they heard my name, and parents pointed me out as an example of perfection to their kids.

But that perfect image shattered one day.

I was driving my car with my friends on the backseat. They were laughing, teasing, daring me to cross another car ahead of us. My pride couldn’t take a challenge. I slammed my foot down, sped up, and crossed the car without even glancing at the signal.

Then it happened.

My car hit someone. The tires ran over their legs. I slammed the brakes, heart lodged in my throat. It was a girl. She lay bleeding, unconscious. I couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe. My friends scrambled, calling emergency services, calling my family.

The next three days passed in a blur. My parents handled everything. They kept me away, told me her parents wouldn’t file charges. I never went to see her. I couldn’t. I was a coward. For months, the accident haunted me. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw her lying on the road, blood pooling under her body. I carried the guilt like a shadow.

Then years passed. I buried it. I forgot—or maybe I forced myself to forget.

Until one day, my parents brought me a marriage proposal. Some ordinary girl, they said. I refused. I argued. I shouted. But they didn’t listen. And just like that, I found myself tied to her.

I hated it. Hated the control, hated the cage, hated the thought of being forced. On our wedding night, I made my hatred clear.

“Don’t expect love. Don’t try to engage in any conversation with me. I was forced into this marriage.”

I didn’t even care to hear her side. I gave her a separate room. I wrapped her in the same coldness and cruelty that had defined my life.

One month passed like that. I didn’t see her. Didn’t speak to her. Didn’t acknowledge her. She was invisible.

Then one day, right before an important meeting, I realized I’d left a file at home. My assistant offered to fetch it, but I waved her off. No—I called my wife.

“There’s a file with a blue cover on my study desk. Bring it to my office. I have a meeting in an hour.”

I cut the call before she could even answer.

Fifteen minutes before the meeting, my phone rang again. Her voice was small, hesitant.

“Um… I couldn’t get on the elevator—”

I could have told her to use the one reserved for me. I didn’t. Because I was a jerk.

“Are you a baby? Bring it within fifteen minutes. Be useful for once!”

I snapped. Then I cut the call again.

She came. She climbed the twentieth floor. When she finally reached me, she was drenched in sweat, face pale, hands trembling. Her legs shook beneath her, as if she could collapse at any moment. And me? I didn’t even let her sit.

“Tch. Overdramatic.”

That was all I said before walking out.

The meeting started. Numbers, graphs, voices droned on around me. But then my phone buzzed. My mother. I ignored it once. Twice. The third time, I answered, irritation sharp in my tone.

“Mom! I’m in a meeting!”

Her voice came, calm yet sharp as steel.

“Don’t give me that excuse, Sean. I called because I want you to take your wife to the doctor.”

I frowned. A doctor? For what?

“She needs regular checkups. Physiotherapy. Her legs are partially disabled.”

The words hit me like a blow.

“What? Are you insane? You married me off to someone disabled?!”

I nearly shouted. But her reply cut through me like a knife.

“Yes. And she is disabled because of you. You haven’t forgotten the accident you caused five years ago, have you?”

My blood froze. My body turned to ice.

The girl. The accident. Her.

My knees almost gave way.

I barely heard the rest of what my mother said. My mind spun. The walls closed in. Without thinking, I bolted from the meeting room, the phone still clutched in my shaking hand. My heart raced, lungs burning as I ran for the exit.

“Please… please be okay,” I muttered like a prayer. Regret ripped me apart, raw and merciless. “God, let her be okay.”

Because if she wasn’t—if I had broken her again—I would never forgive myself.

And I swore right there, I would kneel before her, beg her, do whatever it took to make up for the years of cruelty I had poured on her.