The Slap That End 18 Years novel Chapter 4

**Inside the Fading Emerald Shadows: Quiet Storms**
*by Livia T. Rynn*

The moment I slammed the door behind me, the motion-sensor light in the entryway flickered to life, illuminating my path with a harsh glow. I stormed into my room, my heart racing, and began to tear through my drawers with a frantic energy that felt almost foreign to me. Clothes flew through the air, landing in chaotic heaps around the room, as if I were trying to erase every trace of him from my life.

On the top shelf of my bookcase sat a delicate figurine, a remnant of happier times, while in the depths of my closet lay the pink hoodie Joseph had gifted me, buried beneath layers of denial. I rifled through the drawer, pulling out faded movie ticket stubs, each one a painful reminder of our shared laughter and whispered secrets. Everything that bore Joseph’s mark was hastily shoved into a cardboard box, my emotions spilling over in a violent wave.

With a resounding crash, a glass jar filled with paper stars tumbled from the shelf, shattering into a thousand sparkling shards that scattered across the floor like lost dreams. These were the stars Joseph had painstakingly folded for my eighteenth birthday—365 in total, each one inscribed with “Joseph loves Lucille.”

I stood there, staring at the glimmering fragments, and a laugh escaped my lips, a sound that felt both alien and liberating. I dragged the heavy box outside and unceremoniously dumped it into the trash, startling a couple of sparrows that had been perched nearby.

With my parents still absent, I finally picked up the phone, the weight of what I was about to do heavy on my chest. “Mom,” I said, my voice eerily calm, “call off the engagement. Joseph and I are over.”

When my mother returned home, I was perched on the edge of the couch, an ice pack pressed to my face. The moment she laid eyes on me, her breath caught in her throat, and her elegant hands trembled as she asked, “Who did this to you?”

I buried my face in her shoulder, inhaling the familiar scent of laundry detergent that enveloped me like a warm blanket. In that moment, I was a child again, sobbing against her, the world’s burdens crashing down upon me—Joseph’s coldness, Yvonne’s sneers, the judgmental stares from colleagues at the office.

After I recounted the entire story, my mother, usually so composed and graceful, seemed to shed her calm demeanor. Without a second thought, she stormed out the door, her expression fierce and unyielding.

When she reached Joseph’s house, Fiona Shaw opened the door, still wearing her apron and clutching a bouquet of flowers. “What’s going on?” she asked, her brow furrowed in confusion.

“Your son hit Lucy because of some intern,” my mother snapped, her voice as sharp as ice. “Fiona, to be honest, our family has always treated yours with nothing but respect. I’ve never once raised a hand to my own daughter, not in all her life…”

Fiona hesitated, her voice faltering. “Joseph would never do that on purpose. I’m sure it’s…”

My mother cut her off, her resolve unwavering. “There’s nothing more to say. The engagement between our families is over.”

That night, as we sat together on the bay window, my mother held me close, her presence a comforting anchor amidst the storm of emotions swirling within me. The scent of roses clung to her, a reminder of the nights when I was a feverish child, cradled in her arms until sleep finally claimed me.

“Mom,” I mumbled, pressing my face into her shoulder, “am I being too selfish? Will this ruin our family’s business?”

She gently combed through my hair, her touch soothing. “I’d be lying if I said this won’t shake things up. But, honey, that’s nothing you need to worry about. All I want is for you to be happy every single day. And if the world comes crashing down, your dad will be there to hold it all up for you.”

*****

The following day, the sound of Joseph hammering on my door was relentless, each knock echoing like a storm raging outside. When I finally opened the door, he stood there, drenched from the rain, breathless and clutching the sodden box I had discarded.

“Lucille,” he rasped, his voice raw and strained. “What crazy stunt are you pulling this time?”

I tilted my face upward, allowing him to see the ugly handprint marring my left cheek. A whole night had passed, and the mark had only swelled and darkened, transforming my face into a canvas of humiliation.

His eyes widened in disbelief, pupils contracting in shock. “How…?” he stammered, his voice dropping to a trembling whisper. “How come…?”

He reached out, fingers trembling, but hesitated just before touching my cheek. “I swear, I didn’t use that much force.”

A cold laugh escaped me as I pulled away from his hand. I remembered the days when even a tiny paper cut would send me running to him, pouting and whining, “Joseph, blow on it for me.” He would always tease me about being a drama queen but would still carefully apply a band-aid, his touch gentle. Yet here we were, and he was the one who had struck me.

Joseph had never seen me like this before. His expression morphed into one of confusion, shock etched across his features. “I’m sorry, Lucille. I didn’t mean to. When I saw you treating that intern like that at work, I just lost my temper…”

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