shuhaige
63
Los Angeles, Sebastian
The silence hung heavy in the air as Patrick and I landed in Los Angeles. It was late in the evening, and the city’s lights glow dimly beneath us, a stark contrast to the chaos that had unfolded in our lives. The truth had finally emerged, and it was more unbelievable than anything we could have imagined.
Our mother, the woman who had raised us, nurtured us, and watched us grow, was now detained in a police station, exposed as a part of the sinister conspiracy that had tormented Mia and I for so long. It was a chilling revelation, one that had already made headlines, as the media hungrily latched onto the shocking story.
But as the paparazzi and news outlets clamored for details and sought to uncover every sordid detail of our family’s turmoil, I found myself strangely apathetic to their relentless pursuits. The truth was out there, and it was a relief to see our tormentors exposed for who they truly were.
Patrick and I drove to the nearby police station in a somber silence, each lost in our own thoughts. The weight of the day’s revelations bore down on us, leaving us with an eerie sense of detachment. It was as if we had entered a different reality, one in which our family’s darkest secrets had been laid bare.
As we pulled up to the police station, I noticed my father’s car parked in front. It was a rare sight, given our strained relationship and the emotional chasm that had grown between us. Together, Patrick and I entered the station, our footsteps echoing in the stark, fluorescent-lit corridors.
Our father sat in the waiting area, flanked by his lawyer. The tension in the room was palpable, a reflection of the turmoil that had engulfed our family.
“Father,” we both greeted, a strained acknowledgment of our shared ordeal.
He nodded in response, his features a mix of resignation and weariness. It was an unfamiliar sight, one that spoke of the gravity of the situation. The man who had once held such authority in our lives now seemed diminished, a mere shadow of his former self.
“I’ve been briefed,” our father stated, his voice hoarse. “We should proceed with the necessary legal steps. I’ll ensure Elena has the best representation.”
Patrick and I exchanged a glance, understanding that this was a matter of necessity rather than compassion. Our mother’s arrest was not only a personal blow but also a matter of public interest, given her involvement in the torment we had endured.
“I agree,” I said, my voice steady but devoid of warmth. “It’s crucial that the legal process unfolds as it should.”Text © by N0ve/lDrama.Org.
Our father’s lawyer nodded in agreement, taking note of our collective decision.
The tension in the room reached its breaking point as my mother was escorted in. She entered with an air of indifference, her demeanor unshaken by the gravity of the situation. Her eyes, devoid of remorse, met mine.
I couldn’t contain the question that had been burning within me. “Why did you do this, mother?” I asked, my voice a mixture of disbelief and anguish.
She regarded me with an icy detachment. “I will not let you be with that devil girl,” she hissed, her words laden with spite. “I only want what is best for you, Sebastian.”
My father, who had been quietly observing, shot her a glare. “Keep quiet, Elena,” he admonished, his tone laced with frustration. “You have already tarnished our name.”
But she was far from cowed. A chilling, humorless laugh escaped her lips. “Tarnished? Me? It’s your son who tarnished our name when he slept with that whore,” she spat out, her voice venomous. “Now she carries the devil’s spawn.”
The room seemed to freeze as the venomous words hung in the air. Her accusation, a cruel and unfounded assault on Mia, incensed me. I couldn’t let such slander go unchallenged. “You will not talk like that about my wife!” I hissed, my anger barely contained. “You are a cruel person. You are the devil!”
My father, unable to bear the tension any longer, abruptly intervened. With a single motion, he threw a stack of papers onto the table in front of my mother. Her eyes flicked to the documents, her expression a mix of confusion and disbelief.
“What is this?” she inquired, a hint of nervousness finally creeping into her tone.
My father regarded her coldly. “These are divorce papers, Elena,” he stated with a determined finality. “We are getting a divorce.”
It was as if the world had shifted on its axis. My mother’s haughty demeanor faltered for a brief moment, replaced by genuine shock. The words reverberated in the room, a stark confirmation that our family had irrevocably fractured.
The revelation seemed to seep into her, and a myriad of emotions played across her face: disbelief, anger, and finally, a stark awareness of the consequences of her actions. She had overplayed her hand, and the price of her vendetta was the disintegration of her family.
Yet, the true nature of her betrayal ran deeper than divorce papers and the crumbling of our family. My mother’s actions had torn apart the fabric of our lives and left scars that would take time to heal.