Standing at the threshold of the room, his hand on the knob, Chris's eyes lingered on the bed where Nolan had slept the night before. The blanket stirred, as though the bed itself remembered his presence. The house, once filled with laughter, clinking glasses, and the screeching of chairs, was now eerily still—its silence suffocating.
Something had been ripped from Chris's heart, and his chest tightened, his grip on the doorknob tightening with it. The stillness pressed on him, gnawing at his insides. The loneliness, the ache, was a constant pain.
A sharp, stinging sound rang in his ears. His suitcase slipped from his hand, and he clutched his head, the room spinning. His heart hammered in his chest, his pulse racing. A low grunt escaped his lips, and he staggered toward the bed.
Collapsing near the bed, one hand gripping the bedspread, Chris's mind screamed for it to end. To end the curse. To end the bad luck. He shut his eyes, the drum of his heartbeat echoing in his ears.
I should die too. I should leave too...
Seven years earlier...
Tapping his fingers on the steering wheel to the rhythm of a hip song, Christen gently stepped on the gas pedal, causing the car to speed up slightly on the highway. He languidly increased the volume of the music and sang along in his masculine yet soft voice, his mind light, his heart at peace. A few minutes later, Christen was hurtling toward his house but slowed as the blaring of an emergency siren cut through the music. A frown creased his forehead.
What's going on? I hope no one's hurt.
He tilted his head when he saw a fire truck, its red lights flashing like warning beacons. A crowd had gathered, their shouts rising in frantic waves. Hands clutched heads in distress. Christen's grip on the steering wheel tightened as an acrid scent curled into his nostrils, seeping into the car's interior like a sinister whisper. He rolled down the window, and the smell of burning wood struck him harder, like a slap to the face.
His stomach twisted. No…
He looked up. Thick black clouds billowed into the sky, swallowing the sun.
No... no, no, no...
Christen slammed on the brakes. The car screeched to a halt, but his ears registered only a deafening silence. His heartbeat thundered in his chest, drowning out every other sound. The firefighters were spraying torrents of water, but it wasn't just any house they were trying to save.
It was his.
Or what remained of it.
His home—a smouldering ruin.
His breath hitched, his body refusing to move for a split second. Then, with trembling hands, he unbuckled his seatbelt and shoved the door open. The heat hit him instantly, wrapping around him like a suffocating shroud. The crowd blurred around him as he stumbled forward, his gaze locked on the ravenous flames still licking the remnants of what had been his world.
Stacy...
The name barely formed in his mind before his body acted on its own. He lunged forward, but strong hands gripped his arms, dragging him back.
"Let me go!" he choked out, his voice unrecognizable, raw with panic.
His sneakers scraped against the ground as he fought against them. He didn't hear their shouts. Didn't see their faces.
My wife is in there!
His mind painted the image for him—the fire wrapping around her fragile body, her screams muffled by the crackling inferno.
"NO!" He thrashed wildly, his entire being straining toward the house. But the men holding him were unyielding, their desperate grip forcing him back.
Then, through the blinding panic, another image surfaced—Stacy's smile that morning. The way she had watched him jog down the stairs, amusement twinkling in her eyes. The warmth of her embrace. The softness of her lips against his. A warmth that was now being devoured by the flames.
His vision blurred.
His trip to the mall replayed in his mind, so painfully clear it felt like a cruel trick. He had wandered through the shopping aisles, carefully selecting a gift for his wife, basking in the joy of finally having a family. He had found love after years of rejection. After losing his beloved parents, and his uncle's daughter—after being left alone like discarded trash. He had felt like nothing, but Stacy had picked him up. She had cleaned him, embraced him, and shown him that he had worth. That he was not a burden, not a curse.
I had found the love of my life, Christen had thought, his smile widening as he picked up a pink and white teddy bear with a tiny scarf around its neck. Its pearly black eyes reminded him of Stacy's.
I found the perfect gift... He added a bouquet of red roses, stroking his jaw.
She looks just like Stacy... He had chuckled at his own silly thought, comparing the teddy bear's eyes to his wife's as he approached the checkout counter.
I'm back, Stacy. Christen wanted to scream, but his throat was too tight even to whisper. I'm back with a gift...
She'll love this... he had thought, chuckling as he added a bouquet of roses. He had wanted to surprise her. To make her smile. To remind her that she was his home, his family.
But now… His breath hitched, his throat too tight to even whisper her name.
A broken sound bubbled from his lips—laughter. Choked. Bitter. Twisted with agony.
Then another memory slammed into him, one he had buried deep. A young boy, running up the stairs, his voice light with excitement. "Mum! Dad! I'm home!"
But his uncle's face had stopped him cold. Lips quivering. Eyes brimming with tears.
"Uncle...?"
"Steven..." His uncle had pulled him close, his shoulders trembling, his heart pounding against Christen's own.
"I'm sorry..."
That was the day he learned his parents were never coming home. They had promised to watch his football game, but instead, they had died in a car wreck—burned beyond recognition.
And his uncle's daughter? He had died the same way two years later he took him in. A fire. Another wreck. Another loss. And his aunt... she had looked at him that day, her face twisted in fury and grief.
"You brought this upon us!" she had screamed. "You're cursed! You bring death! You should have died with them!" She had slapped him, shoved him to the ground, spat on him.
And now, Stacy— You lied to me...
His body went slack. The men holding him hesitated.
You should have run from me... You should have spit on me...
His knees buckled, hitting the pavement. His fingers dug into the ground. The laughter continued, strangled between sobs.
You should I have told me I bring bad luck.
Tears streamed down his face, mixing with the soot. His chest heaved. His vision blurred. The weight of his past and present crashed over him like an unrelenting tide.
You should have run.
...…..
Under heavy rain, with dark clouds swirling overhead, Chris stood before a grave. His hair clung damply to his forehead, water trickling down his face. His black suit was soaked, pooling in his shoes.
His arms hung at his sides, his almost translucent eyes fixed on the name carved into the tombstone.
Anastasia Hart.
He stared blankly, his red-rimmed eyes vacant. His lips pressed into a tight line, standing rigid like a soldier at attention. The wind whispered through the trees, and the rain hammered the ground, splashing against his shoes.
Suddenly, a hand grabbed Chris's collar from behind.
A woman in her thirties, dressed in a long black gown with a black scarf over her head, shook him by the collar. Her voice trembled with fury.
"It's your fault! You killed her!" She slapped him, but Chris remained motionless, his eyes distant, his soul seemingly gone. The only movement came from the woman's grip on his collar, shaking him.
"Everyone died because of you!" she screamed. A young man, barely in his twenties, rushed to her, pulling her away from Chris. She struggled to break free.
"You killed Stacy!" she cried. Her scarf fell as she struggled, but her brother held her back, pulling her further away.
"My sister was warned, but she didn't listen. You killed her, just like you killed your parents and your uncle's daughter," the woman sneered, her gaze dropping to Chris's clenched hands, gripping his suit pants.
"You think no one knows about you? The cursed CEO—the cursed child!"
Chris let out a pained cry, his hands pressing against his face, fingers tangled in his hair. His chest rose and fell with heavy breaths, his defences crumbling. His heart shuddered as tears finally broke free, streaming down his face. He could no longer deny it.
He knew he was dying. He knew he was alone. But he'd always lied to himself, calling himself an introvert—a man who valued his space. But Nolan had proven him wrong.
He needed someone. Someone to fill the silence with laughter, with voices, with smiles—not just the hollow sound of his shoes on the floor, the rhythmic splashing of water in the shower. Even among his staff, he always felt alone. They lowered their eyes when he looked at them, stuttering and fidgeting in his presence.
He had no one. He had lost everyone—those he loved and those who loved him—taken by death. No one wanted him.
They called him cursed. He could have denied it, but everything had proven it true.
His uncle lost his daughter two years after Chris entered their lives. Isa lost her father just months after he entered hers. His parents died in an accident, and his wife—the one person he had prayed would pull him out of the darkness—died just three weeks into their marriage.
"Why?" Chris roared, slamming his fist against the bed frame. "Why does everyone have to die because of me? Why do they have to lose their loved ones?" He smashed the bed frame again. "Why can't I live like everyone else? Why was I born cursed? Why was I born at all?" He struck the wood harder, his palm cutting and bleeding, but he kept hitting.
His blood smeared the bed frame, dripping onto the floor, the sharp metallic scent filling the room. He didn't stop, as if the pain in his hands was nothing compared to the pain in his heart.
"Just let me die! I should die too! I just..." His voice cracked, and he buried his face in the bed, tugging at his hair. His shoulders shook with sobs, tears soaking the sheets beneath him.