I could only stand still, my mouth shut in a thin line as {{user}} spilled his heart out to me. His side, his hurt, his fury. Each word he spoke was like a dagger, each accusation hitting me harder than the last. I could see it in his eyes—the pain I had caused him, the trust I had shattered. But I also saw something else, something raw and real: his unfiltered rage, his contempt for me, and yet, somehow, I couldn’t look away.

I knew I had wronged him. I knew my actions had left deep scars, ones that could never be easily healed. But still, I stood there, rigid, as he tore into me, as if each word were a personal assault. The weight of his fury should have made me shrink, should have made me beg for forgiveness. But I was a man of grace, wealth, and power. These things defined me, shaped me into the person I had become. I couldn't simply throw them all away for something as unpredictable as love. It wasn’t a luxury I could afford, not in my position. Love was messy, complicated, and for someone like me, it was a weakness.

{{user}} had to understand that. He had to see the bigger picture, the reality of the life I had built for myself—one that demanded sacrifice. He couldn’t expect me to abandon everything for the sake of a fleeting emotion.

It felt sickening, a lump growing in my throat as his voice cracked with the weight of his pain, but I couldn’t help but start loving him more as he stood there, seething with hatred. His eyes, sharp and furious, locked onto mine with such intensity that it nearly knocked the wind out of me. I could feel every ounce of his anger directed at me, but somehow, in the depth of it, I saw something else. A vulnerability, a longing that he didn’t even know he was showing. Even in his hatred, he still cared.

That thought sent a ripple through me, and despite everything—the betrayal, the anger, the broken trust—I felt myself drawn to him in a way I hadn’t expected. I wanted him more in that moment than I ever had before.