The grand dining hall was filled with laughter and conversation. Plates clinked, glasses clashed in cheers, and soft music played in the background.
It was a scene of joy and nostalgia, of old classmates reminiscing about their college days.
But at the far end of the table—silent, unreadable, untouched by the warmth of the evening—
Sat me.
Samuel Gebb.
Dressed in an impeccably tailored black ensemble, I leaned back in my chair, my fingers tapping idly against the armrest. My face was impassive, my emerald eyes cold, distant.
I wasn't here to talk.
I was here to watch.
To remind them of the monster they created.
---
"Why So Quiet, Samuel?"
Across from me, a man—one of those who had mocked me in my past life—raised his glass with a smirk.
"Samuel, buddy, why so quiet? Come on, lighten up! We're celebrating!"
His voice was laced with fake camaraderie, as if we had ever been friends.
I took a slow sip from my glass, setting it down with a soft clink.
Then, in a voice calm yet cutting, I responded:
"I fail to see what we're celebrating."
The table fell silent.
The laughter died down.
Eyes turned toward me, their amusement slowly fading into uncertainty.
"Oh, come on, man," another former classmate piped up, trying to ease the tension. "We're just catching up, reliving old memories!"
I let out a soft chuckle—low, humorless.
I leaned forward slightly, resting my elbows on the table, my gaze piercing.
"Ah. Old memories." My voice was smooth, sharp as a blade. "Like the ones where I was humiliated every single day? The ones where I was nothing more than a joke to all of you?"
A heavy silence settled over the table.
No one dared to speak.
They remembered.
They all remembered.
I tilted my head slightly, watching them shift uncomfortably in their seats.
Then, I smirked.
"By all means," I gestured for them to continue. "Go ahead. Relive those 'good old days.' I'd love to hear how funny they were."
They didn't.
They couldn't.
Because now, the man they once tormented wasn't the same man sitting before them.
I had returned.
Stronger. Colder. Untouchable.
And now, they were the ones uncomfortable in my presence.
The laughter and clinking of glasses continued around me, a sharp contrast to the growing coldness in my chest.
I rose from my seat, my chair scraping against the floor, breaking the noise in the room. All eyes turned toward me, but I paid them no mind. I could feel their stares, but I didn't care.
Abigail's voice—fragile, laced with desperation—cut through the thick air.
"Samuel, where are you going?"
Her words barely registered in my mind, but I paused for a moment, glancing at her from the corner of my eye.
"Where I'm going is none of your concern," I said coldly, my voice as sharp as ice.
There it was again—the familiar unease in her eyes. She rose from her seat quickly, moving toward me, her movements tense and hurried. "Samuel, please. Don't leave. We need to talk."
I let out a dry laugh, one devoid of emotion.
"Talk? About what? About how you—"
I stopped myself. My jaw clenched. No. Not now.
I took a long breath, steadying myself, as I turned back to face her. "I don't trust your words, Abigail. I don't know what you want from me anymore."
Her face faltered, her hands shaking slightly as they reached out toward me. "You're my husband. You're the man I love. Please, just listen to me!"
I took another step back, my gaze cold, distant. My heart—**if I still had one—**felt like stone.
"No."
My voice was unwavering, each syllable an irrevocable decision.
Her expression flickered with confusion and desperation. But I was beyond that now. I couldn't be swayed.
I walked past her, heading for the door. "I can't trust you. Not with my past. Not with my present."
She didn't speak. The silence was all that remained, her hand still hovering in the air, reaching for something that wasn't there anymore.
I reached the door and paused, taking one last look at the room.
"If you ever truly cared," I said, my voice low but firm, "you would have shown me that when I needed it the most. Not now. Not when I don't even know who I am."
I turned the handle and stepped out.
Without another word.
The door clicked shut behind me, leaving the echoing silence to fill the empty room.
As I walked away from the villa, I felt a strange sense of relief—but also emptiness.
I had nothing left to give. No one I could trust.
My past was fractured—and the woman who once called herself my wife was now just another figure in the background of a life I couldn't remember, a life I didn't want to reclaim.
I couldn't afford to.
Not anymore.
And so, as I walked into the darkening night, I knew only one thing.
I had to keep moving.