My Guardian's Cruelest Love Game

ian, Kendrick Page. He was my pro

called my love "unheal

mories before revealing their engagement was a "charade"-a cruel game

lty was asking me to

me; he had orchestrated my complete humilia

illiant, intense mentor who saw the pain I tried to hide. But just as I

s voice low and urgent. "W

pte

Holla

ut as the anchor of my fragile existence. My love for him wasn't a slow burn; it was an explosion, an immediate, all-consuming fire that lit up my world. Every glance, every touch, every word from him was like oxygen, sustaining this desperate hope inside me. I was twenty-tw

art. His response wasn't anger, not even pity. It was worse. Cold indifference. A dismissal so absolute it felt like an amputation. He didn't just reje

y? My entire life had been defined by him, by us. What was unhealthy was the way he could stand the

Maxing out his credit cards, racking up trouble with the law, getting calls from angry landlords in cheap apartments I barely stayed in. Each stunt was a desp

d. Not Kendrick. Just a crisp, polite email warning that my 'allowance' would be severely curtailed if I didn't sho

magined him rushing over, furious, worried. But no. The next day, a junior lawyer handled everything, paperwork and a stern

sharp words, his irritation, anything. Instead, his voice, calm and distant, simply said, "I've sent a car. P

the way I needed, not in any way that truly mattered to him. The realization hit me like a physical b

was adrift, without an anchor, without a purpose. The city lights outside my window no longer held their magical glow; they just reflec

, a perfect match for the dull throb behind my eyes. This time, it wasn't about provoking him. It was just an accident, a stupid, clumsy mistake that

right, honey? Looks like you've had a rough night." Her words, simple as they were, felt

the linoleum floor. It was a rhythm I knew intimately, a cadence that used to signal safety,

luntarily. He was here. After all this time, after all my desperate bids for his attention, he was finally

out of place in the sterile environment, accentuating his controlled elegance. His dark eyes swept over the ro

ward," "misunderstanding," "paperwork." Within minutes, the atmosphere shifted. The kind officer offered me a bottle of water, her smile apolo

ze. The silence stretched, heavy and suffocating. I felt small again, a child caught with

d, his thumb brushing over a small, fading bruise on my knuckles, a remnant from that bar fight. "What happen

sperate whisper, but in his presence. My eyes welled up, a wave of unshed tears thr

t imperceptibly. "Let's go home, Amirah." It wasn't an

tic doors slid open, revealing the cold, dark streets of New York. My heart was a dul

past that had shaped this agonizing present. I remembered the first time he'd said 'home' meant with him. I was fifteen, newly orphaned, my world sha

wn life, clinging to the only constant I' d ever known – his hand. But his hand was cold, unresponsiv

dy a successful corporate lawyer, stern and sharp to the outside world, but to me, he was a beacon. He promised to take care of me, to be my guardian. He moved me into his sprawling, minimalist penthouse, a world away

t that I mistook for something more. Seven years where the warmth of his hand on my cheek morphe

left was a constant chill. Kendrick had filled that void, unintentionally, completely. He was the parent, the friend, the confidant I never truly had. And

ife I couldn't imagine facing alone. How could I not love him? How could I not mista

r glass and steel façade towering over us. The silent jo

ahead. "Amirah," he began, his voice flat, "we need to be clear. My responsibility to you is as your guardi

te that you conduct yourself with dignity. No more credit card stunts. No more

bitter lump in my throat. My head bowed, a silent acknowledgment of his decr

y love. He wanted my obedience. And in that moment, something shifted inside me. The fire that had burn

ited for his call. Every buzz of my phone was a tiny jolt of hope,

he was testing me, that he was busy, that he was just waiting for me to come t

ding a frantic rhythm against my ribs, and drove back to his building. I stood across the s

ents. His face was a mask of concentration, his brow furrowed, but not with worry for me.

e he simply was. I wasn't a part of his emotional landscape. I was a responsibility, a duty, a problem to be managed. The thought was a chilling hand on

r brushes with trouble. Anything to shatter that impenetrable calm, to force a crack

l, a quiet instruction. Never the anger I craved, never the worry I se

ice, to see him look at me with something other than that blank, assessing stare. The bruise on my hand, the one

h raw, unfiltered pain. "Why don't you love me, Kendrick?" I slurred, tears streaming down my face, "Why can't

and the difference between dependency and love. It's time for you to grow up. Truly grow up." He spoke those words to me, a gir

my bed, the world outside a blurry, distant hum. My body felt as hollowed out as my heart, a constant exhaustion settling o

found a part-time job, and tried to become the 'grown-up' he demanded. It was a tedious, lonely existence, but it was m

me for someone else. It escalated quickly, and suddenly I was defending myself, not with anger, but with a cold, detached instinct I hadn't known I possesse

ck. My guardian. My tormentor. My inescap

His questions were purely procedural, aimed at minimizing his inconvenience. "Are you hurt?" he a

was about his image, his responsibility, his control. The last fragile thread of hope, the one that had secretly persisted despite all the

settled over me. There was a light on in the living room, a soft, unfam

terile perfection of his home. It felt... feminine. Out of place.

small, almost imperceptible gesture, but it sent a fresh

ulders and eyes that sparkled with an almost predatory confidence. She was wearing one of Kendrick's shirt

ound him, her face buried in his chest. He held her close, a soft, tender gesture I' d never s

to process the scene unfolding before me. This couldn't be real. Not after

rely recognized. "Chrissy," he said, his tone laced with a tenderness that t

sitive, landed on me. A slow, knowing smile spread across her face. "Oh, K

Hi there," she chirped, "I' m Chrissy. Chrissy Castro. It' s

, reassuring squeeze on her shoulder. "I' m his fiancée," she announced, the words echoing in the silent h