My Billionaire Boyfriend Went Mad After I Left

---- Chapter 12 Gordes, Provence. It is the crown jewel of southern France, a place defined by rolling fields of lavender and sunshine so bright it almost blinds you. Trun a small flower shop here called "Renaissance." "Miss Vance, here are your meds for the week." Dr. Laurent, the town psychiatrist, handed me two brown pill bottles, his eyes filled with that uniquely French blend of concern and worry. 1 took the bottles, practicedly tucking them into my trench coat pocket, and thanked him in fluent French. It's been a year. A whole year since that earth-shattering farce in New York.

I changed my name, cut off all contact with my past, and even switched my phone number to a local one. "How have you been feeling? Are the panic attacks still frequent?" Dr. Laurent asked I pursed my lips, watching a white dove fly past the window, and spoke softly. "I'm better. At least during the day, I can function like a normal person. But at night... it's still impossible." I subconsciously touched the jagged scar on my wrist. I got it shortly after arriving here, on a stormy night when the auditory hallucinations got so bad 1 lost control and cut myself.

If my landlady hadn't found me in time, I would have already gone to join my father. "As soon as I close my eyes, I hear the flatline of the heart monitor. that *beeeeeep*..." I whispered. "I see my father lying in the morgue, his body so cold. And... [hear that man's voice." Those sounds are like a cancer gnawing at my nerves every single ---- night. I have to rely on heavy doses of sedatives and sleeping pills just to steal a few moments of peace between the nightmares.

Even in the bright daylight, if T hear a siren that sounds like an ambulance, or see the back of a man in a bespoke suit, I start shaking uncontrollably, cold sweat soaking my clothes. PTSD. That was the doctor's diagnosis. I haven't healed; I've just learned to live while pretending to be normal, carrying my wounds with me. After leaving the doctor, I returned to the flower shop. The afternoon sun was lovely, and the champagne roses in the shop were in full bloom. I put on my apron, picked up the spray bottle, and started misting the hydrangeas.

The mist refracted the sunlight into tiny rainbows. For a moment, the tranquility made me zone out. *Ding-a-ling-* The wind chimes on the door rang crisply as it was pushed open. "Bonjour. Looking for anything in particular?" I kept my head down, trimming stems, greeting the customer in French out of habit. Usually, at this time, it's just neighbors or tourists, However, the air suddenly went still. There was no response, just a suffocating pressure mixed with the familiar scent of cedar-though now, that scent was heavily laced with stale tobacco smoke. My hand jerked.

The shears sliced my fingertip, and blood welled up. My heart felt like it was being squeezed by an invisible hand. A bone- deep terror seized me, making my entire body go rigid. I slowly raised my head. ---- Backlit against the sun, a tall figure stood at the door. He didn't come in; he just stood on the threshold, as if there were an impassable chasm between us. It was Julian Thorne. But I almost didn't recognize him. 'The man who once ruled Wall Street with high spirits, who used to be exquisite down to his fingertips, now looked like a skeleton.

The expensive black trench coat hung off his frame, looking completely ill fitting. His cheeks were hollow, his cheekbones protruding sharply. There were dark circles under his eyes, and his stubble was messy. He exuded the decaying aura of a dying man. He stared at me intensely. The moment he saw me, his eyes turned bloodshot. I thought I would scream, run away, or rush up and slap him. But strangely, in this moment, I was incredibly calm. It was like looking at a ghost. "You..." Julian spoke. His voice was hoarse and gritty, like sandpaper. "Have...

have you been well?" He looked at my face greedily. His fingers trembled violently at his sides. He seemed to want to reach out and touch me, but he forced his hand back in mid-air. He didn't dare. The once arrogant Mr. Thorne didn't even have the courage to step into my shop. He was afraid of startling me, but even more afraid of the disgust in my eyes. 1 didn't answer. 1 just looked at him coldly, grabbing a tissue to press against my bleeding finger. "sir, if you aren't buying flowers, please don't block the entrance. ---- You're disturbing my business." Cold. Detached.

Like I was speaking to a passing stranger. Julian's body shuddered, and the light in his eyes shattered instantly. He opened his mouth, seeming to want to say "I'm sorry" or "I love you," but in the end, a thousand words got stuck in his throat. He knew he didn't deserve to say them. "Buying... I'm buying." He lowered his head in a panic to hide the tears slipping from the corners of his eyes. His shaking finger pointed to the most inconspicuous bunch in the bucket by the door. " Twant... that bunch of white hyacinths." White hyacinths.

In the language of flowers: unspoken love, and- atonement. Expressionless, I walked over, pulled out the flowers, and didn't even bother wrapping them. I handed them directly to him. "Ten euros." Julian frantically dug his wallet out of his pocket. His hands were shaking so bad that several large bills fell to the ground. He didn't even dare bend down to pick them up. He just pulled out a five- hundred-euro note and stuffed it into my hand. The moment he touched my fingertips, he recoiled as if he'd been burned.

"Keep the change..." He took the flowers, clutching them to his chest as if he were holding arare treasure. "Thank you... Elara." The last three words were soft as a sigh. He took one last deep look at me, his eyes holding too many emotions I didn't care to read-regret, pain, obsession, and endless despair. ---- Then, he turned and stumbled out into the Provence sun. His back was curved and desolate, like a stray dog abandoned by its owner. T watched him disappear around the street corner, then looked down at the five-hundred-euro note in my hand.

I tossed it casually into the charity donation box on the counter. *Ding-a-ling-* The wind chimes rang again as a breeze blew in, scattering the suffocating scent of cedar. I picked up the shears and continued trimming the cluster of hydrangeas. Only this time, my hand wasn't shaking anymore.