Chapter 8 Chapter 8
Chapter 8
"Do you still get those late-night panic attacks?” Dr. Lui asked.
He was a calm man in his late forties Chinese, soft-spoken, with small round glasses that made him look even more patient.
He had been Ethan’s therapist for over a year now.
Ethan sat across from him, elbows resting on his knees, his fingers rubbing his temple slowly.
“I don’t know, doc,” Ethan said quietly. “I still feel that way anytime I try to close my eyes. I hear the screams.
Dr. Lui nodded, jotting a few notes. “You still take the pills?”
“Yes.” Ethan leaned back, pressing his head against the chair, his eyes fixed on the ceiling. His tone was sharp defensive even.
“You misuse them,” the therapist said calmly.
“No.” Ethan’s answer came fast, too fast.
Dr. Lui stopped writing and looked straight at him.
“I know you misuse them, Ethan. The dosage you take is not what I prescribed. You’re numbing the pain, not healing it.”
Ethan ran his hand over his face, exhausted. “I just want to get over that guilt. I don’t want to feel it anymore, Doc. It’s like it sits in my chest every day. I think I killed her.”
Dr. Lui sighed softly. “You didn’t kill anyone, Ethan. You’re punishing yourself for something that wasn’t in your control.”
Ethan’s jaw tightened. “It doesn’t feel that way.”
“You need rest,” Dr. Lui said, his tone firmer now. “Excessive rest. And stop overdosing those drugs. They’re not helping you.”
Ethan stood up. “Have a nice day, Doc,” he said, tapping the table lightly before leaving.
---
His black Lamborghini stood outside, shining under the streetlight. It was one of the most expensive cars in Monterey.
Anyone who saw it already knew who it belonged to — Ethan Castellan.
He checked his wristwatch. “12:30 a.m.”
The streets were mostly empty, only a few cars moving under the pale streetlights. The sound of the engine filled the silence as he drove past the familiar corners — the same routes he usually takes.
His phone kept lighting up on the passenger seat. Missed calls all from Mom. He ignored them.
By the time he reached Castellan Villa, the guards were already at alert. They had learned to recognize the roar of his car from far away.
The massive gates opened slowly. The mansion looked grand even in the dark — old money, heritage, and pride written all over it.
The villa stood tall and wide. Every corner of it screamed old money — the glass walls, the marble floors, the long driveway lined with trimmed hedges.
Anyone who saw it knew billions sat inside that house.
He parked by the veranda, removed his jacket, and walked to the main door.
The night breeze brushed against his neck. He looked tired, not just from the day, but from years of carrying something he couldn’t name.
He stepped into the house. The place was dark, quiet. Only the sound of his shoes echoed softly. He thought everyone must have gone to bed.
He headed for the staircase on the right side that led to his room.
He was halfway there when—
Click.
The lights came on.
“Where have you been, Ethan?”
He froze.
She looked at him, hurt. “You can’t keep living in the past.”
He didn’t reply. He just turned and walked up the stairs slowly.
“Ethan,” she called again, “you have to change your ways.”
He paused for a moment, one hand on the railing. “Maybe when the past changes too,” he said quietly, then disappeared up the stairs.
Maria stood there for a while, watching him go, her expression cold and tired.
Maria Castellan stood by the left staircase, wearing her robe. Her hair was perfectly tied back, her arms folded across her chest.
He sighed and loosened his tie, too tired for another argument. “It’s late, Mom. We’ll talk tomorrow.”
“I see,” she said slowly. “You ignored my calls.”
“Mom—”
“I texted you,” she cut in. “Amelia and her family were here for dinner tonight.”
He didn’t answer.
“They were all here,” she continued, her tone rising slightly. “Do you have any idea how embarrassing it was to wait for you all evening? The dinner was for you two.”
Ethan ran a hand through his hair, still facing the stairs. “I never asked you or Dad to invite them over. I had a lot on my desk.”
Maria walked closer, her slippers making soft sounds against the marble. “You’re always busy, Ethan.
Always working. You’ve forgotten how to live.”
“I’m fine, Mom.”
“No, you’re not,” she said, her voice breaking slightly. “You’re ruining everything your health, your relationships.
Amelia still cares about you. She’s good for you, and you keep pushing her away.”
He turned to her finally, his expression blank. “You think Amelia can fix what’s wrong with me?”
“I think she can love you,” Maria replied. “And I think you’re too blind to see it.”
" You need a life, Ethan," Maria said calmly. " You need to settle down, be happy again. You weren’t like this before."
He stood there, his hand still on the railing, not saying anything.
" Everything about you changed, Ethan. You hardly smile, you hardly talk, you barely even come home on time. You turned into someone else," she said, shaking her head slowly.
He sighed, tired already. " Maybe people change, mom."
" Not like this," she said. " You don’t have to push everyone away. You need someone who makes you happy, not those pills of yours and there's Amelia but you kept pushing her away."
He looked down briefly ."I'd never depend on anybody for happiness I'm happy on my own Accord " He said.
" Don’t say that," she said, voice soft now. " You’re my son, I raised you better than this. I just want to see you live again."
" I’m living, mom," he said coldly.
" No, Ethan," she said. " You’re just breathing."
He didn't responded he slightly climbed the stairs.
“Ethan,” she called again.
He stopped for a second, not turning around. Then he continued walking until he disappeared upstairs.
Maria sighed deeply and turned off the lights.
Upstairs, Ethan entered his room and sat at the edge of his bed.
His phone was full of unread messages, mostly from Amelia. He opened one.
You can’t ignore me forever.
He put the phone down.
He placed his pills on the nightstand, staring at them for a long time. Then he picked up one, rolled it between his fingers, and whispered to himself
“Ju
st one more night.”
He swallowed it dry and leaned back on the bed. His heart raced again.
He didn’t want to sleep.
Because when he did… she always screamed.
He turned to the side, covered his face with his hand, and whispered again, “I didn’t kill you.”
The room stayed quiet. Only his breathing filled the air.
