Breaking Mr. Cold (Giselle and Donovan) novel Chapter 234

In the days that followed, the cops spared no effort in searching for Giselle's body, but there was still no sign of her, alive or dead.

On top of that, they launched a full-scale hunt for the kidnappers. Yet after reviewing all available surveillance footage, it was discovered that the ringleader and his four accomplices had fled the country using illegal means. Capturing them would be difficult, and based on past cases, catching them within a year would already be considered a miracle.

The only one left behind was a gunman who'd been shot and collapsed at the scene. His injuries were severe, and he had yet to wake from his coma in the ICU. The cops urged the hospital to save him at all costs, hoping he could provide information about where the others had fled.

The tragedy had already happened. Donovan no longer cared about catching the kidnappers.

Even if the cops caught every single one of them, what difference would it make? Giselle was gone, and nothing could bring her back.

For an entire week, he had been drowning in the darkness of her absence, unwilling to take a single step out of it. Every day felt dark and bleak.

This time, losing her felt more real than ever before. He had truly, completely lost her. In this lifetime, perhaps even in the next, he might never see her again.

Yet every detail of what had happened between them felt like it had only happened yesterday. Her face, her voice, every part of her lingered in his mind, playing on repeat.

Losing her had shattered him completely. He no longer cared about anything, trapped in a state where life felt meaningless. He didn't have the strength to blame or hate anyone, only an endless plunge into a black void with no way out.

Night after night, he drowned himself in alcohol and chain-smoked, letting his life fall apart. All he wanted was to numb his senses, to blur his memories. He would rather get into a car accident and lose all his memories forever.

Now, she had vanished completely from his life. And only now did he realize just how terribly wrong he had been in this game. If only he could start over… No, that was impossible. He would never have another chance.

He lay back on the couch in his living room, picking up a freshly opened bottle of strong vodka. Tilting his head back, he drank straight from it like it was water, ignoring the burn in his throat, the fire in his lungs.

He couldn't stop. He just wanted to get drunk as fast as he could.

He needed his mind to go numb so that the crushing weight on his chest would ease, the memories would fade into a blur, and the despair and guilt would loosen their hold on him. That was when he could stop feeling suffocated.