The Bigshot's Superstar Wife

Chapter 94: I Want to Forget

Later that evening, a knock echoed against her door. She froze, wiping her tear-streaked face with trembling hands.

When she opened the door, one of the ship’s officers stood there with a formal expression.

"Miss El," the officer said, saluting.

"Major General Demerin asked me to inform you that arrangements have been made for your safe passage to the Demerin estate. The escort will leave at dawn."

"Thank you," she replied, her voice hollow.

The door closed again, leaving her in the oppressive silence of her quarters. The realization struck her then, this was the end.

The journey aboard the warship, the fleeting connection with Lawrence, the quiet moments she had cherished, they were all over.

And she had to face the cold truth, the man she had fallen for did not, and would never, return her feelings.

But as she lay back down, exhaustion and sorrow weighing her down, another thought emerged through the pain.

The battle for survival wasn’t over. The war for the throne was still brewing in the shadows. Her heart might be broken, but she wasn’t defeated.

She would reach Asenus and fulfill her mission. And she would never, ever again let herself fall so recklessly for anyone, especially not a man who had so easily told her to move on.

The villa assigned to the princess was nestled atop a serene hill, overlooking the bustling outskirts of the Demerin estate.

From her balcony, she could see the glow of the city lights below and the sleek starships that glided like silent predators across the night sky.

The air here was crisp, infused with the faint, metallic tang of advanced technology, yet despite the picturesque surroundings, she felt suffocated.

The days blurred into one another. Each morning, she forced herself out of bed, walked through the marble-floored halls, and stood by the window, watching the distant city.

She had hoped that the distance from the warship would dull the ache in her chest.

She thought the villa’s tranquility might help her forget Lawrence Demerin’s cold words and the sharp sting of his rejection.

But forgetting him was impossible.

His face haunted her in ways she hadn’t anticipated.

She stopped going to the city, knowing that even there, she couldn’t escape the relentless reminders of the man who had captured her heart and discarded it so effortlessly.

The staff at the villa noticed the change. The head maid, a woman named Serah, hesitated for days before finally mustering the courage to approach her.

"Miss El," Serah said softly, setting down a tray of untouched tea. "You’ve barely eaten in days. Should I call a doctor?"

"No." The princess’s voice was barely a whisper. She sat curled in the armchair by the window, her gaze fixed on the horizon. "I’m fine."

Serah wrung her hands, anxiety etched across her features.

"You’re not fine, miss. If I may... you need to take care of yourself. Whatever’s weighing you down, it will pass. Life always moves forward."

The princess turned her head slightly, offering a faint, hollow smile. "You don’t understand, Serah. I want it to pass... but it won’t."

The maid said nothing more, only bowed her head and retreated.

The princess remained in her chair long after the stars emerged in the sky. The faint hum of the security drones patrolling the villa was the only sound that filled the silence.

She considered, briefly, sending a message to Mors. He had been the one to order her transfer here, after all.

Perhaps he would let her leave this planet. If she returned to her home world or some distant colony, maybe she could find peace.

Maybe then Lawrence Demerin’s face would stop haunting her.

But even as she reached for her communicator, she stopped herself. Her brother was fighting his own battles in the shadows of interstellar politics.

The war for the throne loomed like a dark storm, and she had no right to add to his burdens.

Instead, she stood and walked to the bathroom. The mirror reflected a ghost of the woman she had once been. Her cheeks were hollow, her eyes dull.

She turned on the faucet and splashed cold water on her face, hoping to wash away the heaviness in her chest.

It didn’t work.

The next morning, she forced herself to leave the villa again. Wrapped in a plain, hooded cloak, she walked through the city’s quieter streets, keeping her head down.

She tried to avoid the screens, the newsfeeds, the ever-present image of Lawrence Demerin.