She Died With My Name on Her Lips novel Chapter 13

“Louisa, I’m sorry. I can’t do it. I can’t let you go and have you cremated.”

“Your body, your heart, your soul—they all belong with me. I just can’t bear to let you leave.”

Stephen’s eyes were soft and full of longing. He reached out, his slender fingers brushing the icy glass of the casket, as if he was gently touching her cheek one more time.

He downed bottle after bottle of liquor, but no matter how much he drank, he couldn’t get drunk. If anything, the more he drank, the more awake—and painfully aware—he became.

The bloodshot eyes and the dark shadows beneath them said everything: he hadn’t slept in ages.

He simply couldn’t. Every time Stephen closed his eyes, all he could see was Louisa, standing there on the edge of the bridge, her eyes filled with that heartbreaking determination.

The grainy footage from the security camera was burned into his memory. In his mind, he’d reached for her a thousand times, screamed her name, tried desperately to pull her back. But every single time, he was powerless.

It didn’t matter how many times he replayed it—he could never save her.

His heart was already in pieces.

Stephen stared out into nothing, drinking with a numb, empty look on his face, muttering quietly to himself:

“Louisa, did you ever know? Every time I hurt you, every time I made you suffer, it tore me apart inside.”

“After every fight, I’d go crazy, hurting myself, punishing myself—because it was the only way I could breathe again.”

“Look at me. The scars I have aren’t any fewer than yours.”

He let out a bitter, twisted smile and started unbuttoning his shirt.

His strong waist was covered in scars—old wounds, new ones, all tangled together.

And it wasn’t just his waist. His arms, his back, everywhere you looked, there were scars.

Every time he hurt Louisa, he’d turn off the lights and grip her hands tight, making sure she’d never notice anything was wrong.

Whenever she was in pain, he felt it too, just as deeply.

Back then, he never wanted her to know.

After what felt like forever, Stephen finally pulled himself together. His face was frozen, blank as ice, as he made his way upstairs.

He dug out the remains of Louisa’s mother’s bracelet—the one he’d thrown from the fourth floor in a fit of rage, shattering it to pieces.

Louisa had loved that bracelet so much she’d risked her own life for it, jumping after it without a second thought.

The memory made Stephen’s chest ache, but he had still gathered every broken fragment.

Making sure he had them all, Stephen took the box to the most famous restoration expert in the city.

“Mr. Turner, if you can fix this bracelet, I’ll pay you whatever you want. Anything.”

He set the box down in front of Mr. Turner and opened it.

At first, Mr. Turner looked interested, but as soon as he saw the tiny, shattered pieces inside, his expression changed to frustration.

“Mr. Barker, are you serious right now? I know emerald bracelets are valuable, but you’re not hurting for money. You could buy as many as you want. This one, though—look at it! It’s in pieces. Fixing something like this is nearly impossible. Why put yourself through all this?”