When Love Turns to Ashes Chapter 15

Her hand still had an IV line, trembling with effort. The wounds on her palm hadn't healed, the touch bringing sharp stings.

"Ethan... Ethan..." Her breath came weak, voice shattered yet desperately urgent. Her eyes locked on him as if trying to carve his image into her soul. "I'm sorry... I was stupid... I was blind... I was such an asshole..."

Tears poured uncontrollably from her red-rimmed eyes, sliding down her pallid cheeks, soaking the pillow.

This woman—so commanding in business, who'd never bowed to anyone—was now fragile as a lost child.

"I was wrong... I know I was so wrong..." She repeated it like a mantra, consciousness seeming to blur, immersed in crushing grief and delusion. "If I could do it over... if I could do it over just once... I'd never... never betray you... Ethan... I wouldn't look at anyone else... wouldn't let you suffer even a little..."

Her voice choked with infinite regret and desperate pleading.

This was perhaps the confession she'd rehearsed endlessly during her days of unconsciousness, finally spilling out uncontrollably in this moment of awareness.

Ethan listened quietly without struggling or responding.

His wrist hurt where she gripped it, but he only frowned slightly, calmly watching Victoria's face contort with emotion as she wept and rambled.

After a long while, when Victoria's strength seemed depleted and her breathing somewhat calmer, he slowly but firmly pulled his wrist from her grip, bit by bit.

"Victoria," Ethan spoke, his voice calm as deep water, utterly without ripples—without even hatred. "There are no do-overs."

He watched her face instantly drain of color, then continued, each word clear and steady: "You saved me. I'm grateful. I owe you that. But we're even now."

He paused, his gaze drifting to the bright sky outside, his tone holding settled-dust relief: "Once your condition stabilizes, Sophia and I are leaving Manhattan. We're moving to Europe to start fresh."

"No... don't..." Victoria shook her head violently, tears flowing harder. Massive panic seized her. She tried sitting up but pulled her severe back wound, making her groan and break into cold sweat. But she didn't care. Using an almost debasing, dignity-stripping tone, she begged: "Ethan... don't go... please... don't leave me..."

She even said things that shocked even herself in retrospect: "I was wrong... I know I was so wrong... You can hit me, curse me, whatever... just don't abandon me... even... even if you stay with her... I'll be your mistress... be whatever you want... just don't disappear completely from my life... don't make it so I can never see you again..."

These words from the once-proud, controlling Victoria Hayes were both absurd and heartbreaking. This was the lowest, most desperate plea she could imagine.

Ethan heard this and slowly turned back, his gaze settling on her face once more. Those eyes held no disgust, no mockery, not even pity—just transparent, almost compassionate calm.

He shook his head gently, as if sighing over a lost soul.

Then he stood, walked to the bedside, and carefully tucked in her disheveled blanket with the same gentle care he'd shown moistening her lips—but even more distant.

"Victoria," he looked at her one final time, his voice soft yet final as judgment: "Take care."

With that, he stopped lingering, turned, and walked toward the door with steady, resolute steps.

His shoes struck the floor in clear, rhythmic beats—each one like stepping on Victoria's fragmenting heart.

She helplessly reached out, trying to grasp something—catching only cold, empty air.

She watched his figure disappear behind the door. That door slowly closed, completely severing her vision and all her faint, unrealistic hopes.

The room held only her agonized breathing and the machines' cold, indifferent beeping.

Sunlight remained bright but could no longer illuminate the barren wasteland of her heart.

Time passed like rushing water. In the blink of an eye, five years had gone by.

Austria, Vienna.

Inside the Golden Hall, lights blazed brilliantly. Every seat was filled.

Tonight marked the final performance of internationally renowned Chinese-American pianist Ethan Brooks's world tour—a highly anticipated musical feast.

In an inconspicuous corner of the audience sat two figures.

Victoria Hayes wore a well-tailored dark coat. Time had etched lines on her face, stripping away her former sharp intensity, adding quiet weariness.

Beside her sat a boy around seven or eight with features somewhat resembling hers but looking timid—her son with Luke, Victor Hayes.

She'd insisted on that name—like a silent, pathetic brand of repentance.

The child had grown up in the Hayes family estate. Victoria rarely visited. Their mother-son relationship was distant as strangers.

Today, inexplicably, she'd brought him along.

When stage lights focused and Ethan walked confidently toward the Steinway at center stage, the entire hall fell silent.

Victoria's gaze, like magnetized, couldn't leave him.

Onstage, he was radiant.

His eyes were steady and confident. As his fingers touched the keys, the notes flowing—sometimes mournful, sometimes passionate—were filled with life's strength and emotional power, completely conquering every listener.

Victoria stared transfixed, her heart a maelstrom of emotion.

Pride, joy, but mostly profound, inexpressible loss and pain.

This man who once played only for her now stood at the world's pinnacle. His brilliance illuminated everyone—except it had nothing to do with her anymore.

The concert ended to thunderous, sustained applause.