𝐘𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐊𝐢𝐥𝐥 | 𝐄𝐃𝐈𝐓𝐈𝐍𝐆

39: 𝐘𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐓𝐫𝐮𝐭𝐡

I unlocked the car door and got out, strolling into my rather empty home. With a sigh, I remove my heels and set aside my bag, walking upstairs to change into some more comfortable clothes.

After changing, I rummage through my drawer, trying to find any pills that I would've left here. I know they're probably bad by now, but I'm not interested in going to Damien's place to get newer ones.

I end up finding a pack of pills in my bathroom cabinet. They were the old ones my mother used to prescribe to me. With no choice left, I decided to take them, resting my arms on the counter and sighing deeply.

My thoughts race to my parents and I decided to give them a call. Marcus's phone rings for a minute before I hear him on the other end of the call, "hey, Ni! How's my best friend doing?"

I smile at the sound of his voice, "I'm great, dad, It's cold as hell in France. How are you guys doing?"

"We're good, Naomi. When are you coming back to California? Your mother keeps forcing me to come to brunch with her." I can hear my mom's small laughs in the background and I cackle along with them.

I suddenly hear banging on my front door and I text my bodyguards to see what's happening. Before my parents can utter another word, I hang up on them, making a mental note to call them later.

I reach onto my bedside table and grab the gun sitting on the wood. I slide the gun between my fingertips and make my way down the stairs, the door slowly opens up to an angry Damien. He throws his suit jacket on the ground and storms up to me.

I raise my gun, "what makes you think you can just barge into my home like that? Are you fucking crazy?! What the hell has gotten into you?"

He empties his pockets, and the gun and blade stored in the fabric of his pants are now laid on my kitchen counter. He snarls, "I'm putting these here because I'm going to try and have a civil conversation without shooting you."

"What do you mean shoot me? What have I done?!" I throw my gun on the counter along with his, resting my hands on my hips.

His laugh lacks humour, "what haven't you done Naomi? We're you trying to ruin my life? After everything that went on between us?"

My heart drops, "Damien. I don't know what you're talking about."

"I mean was I not good to you? I had so many plans for us. So many, then I find out you're a fucking liar." He runs a hand over his face in annoyance.

"What the fuck are you talking about?" At this point, I'm running out of patience and the pills that I took aren't making anything better.

He slowly walks over to me, "Naomi I want you to tell me what happened the night you stole from me. From beginning to end."

His voice is deadly, laced with poison and lethal energy. For some reason, I don't question him, I just start speaking.

After explaining the first part, I go on to the end of the story. "After we loaded all the bars into the truck, Scarlett left with it. I followed after her with my motorcycle."

The moment I said motorcycle, Damien gives me a look of defeat. His eyes immediately drop in agony. I continue. "As I'm driving on my motorcycle, I come across some terrible traffic. Being in a rush, I slide between two cars but come across a certain vehicle. The car looked like it was coming my way but I ignored it until I got rear-ended."

"Naomi. What type of car was it?"

I swallow the lump of nervousness in my throat. I don't know what point he's trying to prove but my anxiety is rising dearly. "It was gold plated, a really expensive car, maybe a Bentley or Rolls Royce. I wasn't feeling the best."

He slams his fist on the counter and I flinch in confusion. "Naomi what did you do after you hit that car?"

"I was in a hurry so, I got up and left. I didn't even turn back to see the scene, I was overwhelmed." At this point, I felt like pulling my hair out in frustration. I couldn't tell what Damien was getting at and I just wanted to punch a wall in.

"I should've known. You're not a good person Naomi. All you ever do is fulfil your own needs, steal from others, and lie." He runs his hand through his hair and sighs in frustration.

My eyebrows furrow, "Damien what did I do?"

His smile is missing the joy, "you're the reason why my sister is in a fucking coma."

The fuck?

My heart drops and I struggle to find the words, "I'm the reason that what?"

"It was you. You hit her fucking car, your motorcycle license plate matches, and you're a reckless driver. Naomi, you did it. You're the reason why Amelie is fighting for her life in that hospital bed. Fuck I let you into my heart." His voice breaks and a tear slips from my eye.

I reach up to him and try to grab a hold of his hand, "Damien, it wasn't me, I don't know how to prove it but I swear there was another car there. It wasn't-"

"My greatest mistake was trusting you. I'm not making that mistake again, keep your hands off of me." With what he said, tears begin to stream from my eyes, I try to hold my sobs but they just keep coming.

For once, I stay silent.

"You're sick and psychotic, I never want to see you again because if I do, I might do something I regret." He picks up his stuff from my counter and turns around.

I try to grab his shoulder but he shrugs me away, "go work on yourself, Naomi. You need all the help you can get."

And with that he leaves, slamming the door behind him. I immediately raise my hand and slam my fist into the wall, creating a large depression. I silently cry as I hear the engine of his car fade away in the distance.

I sit on the floor of my foyer and I begin to weep. Not only was I weeping for Damien, but for every single thing that has gone wrong in my life. I hug my chest and rock back and forth, my body shaking with an unbearable feeling.

Guilt.

The guilt creeps up my legs and consumes me. It swallows me whole as I sit on the floor. Everything that I've ever done comes hitting me like a brick, my life flashing before my eyes.

You could've saved your father. You shouldn't have stood there and cried. You shouldn't have been speeding. You're the reason why Amelie is in a coma. It's always me. Always me.

After what felt like hours, I stood up and grabbed a glass sitting on my counter. Anything that was in my way was getting destroyed, from cups to vases, to picture frames, they were all gone.

Glass was clouding my floor, and my feet had endless cuts from all the broken pieces I stepped in, but I still walked into my cabinet, grabbing a bottle of alcohol.

I lifted myself and sat on my counter, crying with a bottle of vodka in my hands. I wept, wept, and wept some more. The same question continued to flood my mind.

What have I done?

Lol not edited bare w me y'all