Ilyan spent the evening cooking for Irene once he arranged her room as nearly as it was used to. He had picked up the torn pages that he had earlier found out and pocketed them. Irene had been mostly on her couch, too gloomy to be willing to do anything.
She had earlier planned to prepare dinner by the time he would descend from her room but her heart kept shattering every time she thought she pieced it together. She had been able to do none of what she had planned. None.
She had planned to stop crying and not let a single drop escape her eye but she had failed.
She had planned to not let Ayden affect her and forget his every vicious accusation but she had failed.
She had planned to start fresh and not allow her past to ruin her present that she had hoped to be able to make beautiful but she had failed.
She had failed. Brutally.
