Destiny's Game*-Chapter 61: Voices

Bill’s POV

He buried himself in work after that.

More hours behind his desk, drowning in documents, schedules, signatures—anything that kept his hands busy and his mind quiet. The cameras loved him; the media loved him even more. Every news clip showed the same thing:

Louis Alvara—collected. Powerful. Unshakeable.

A king holding his empire together with flawless poise.

No one could see the cracks forming just beneath the surface.

He appeared on screens almost daily—interviews, charity visits, meetings with foreign dignitaries. The Alvaras were thriving in the public eye, glowing with the kind of influence that made entire cities bow.

But I saw the truth behind the polished suits and perfect speeches.

He wasn’t thriving.

He was hiding.

Every time he stepped off a stage, he exhaled like he’d been holding his breath for hours.

Every time he removed the mic from his collar, his hands shook—just a little.

Every time he walked past a mirror, he didn’t look at himself. Not even once.

He was running from something only he could hear.

And he hoped—desperately—that if he worked enough, smiled enough, performed enough...

No one would notice the war inside his head.

But we did.

I did.

And Charles?

Charles noticed more than anyone—but he was too busy slipping into rebellion, too busy searching for air—to see just how fast Louis was breaking.

At some point, Charles’ tantrums started to fade.

Not because he had suddenly grown wiser, or calmer, or less rebellious—

—but because he was tired.

Tired of fighting ghosts.

Tired of shouting into silence.

Tired of pretending he didn’t care that Louis was drifting further and further away.

He still sneaked out sometimes, still came home smelling like alcohol or smoke or the city at midnight. But the wildness had dulled. The edge softened.

He wasn’t spiraling anymore.

He was searching.

For Louis.

He’d linger in doorways, pretending to check the time.

He’d hover by the staircase whenever he heard Louis’ footsteps.

He’d wait up late, lying on the sofa with a book he wasn’t reading—just in case Louis walked by.

But Louis?

Louis could only oblige.

He’d give Charles a tired smile, the kind that didn’t reach his eyes.

He’d sit beside him for a few minutes, shoulder brushing shoulder, before being pulled away by work, by duty, by expectations that had turned into chains.

Sometimes he’d brush Charles’ hair back with a soft hand—gentle, fleeting.

Sometimes he’d kiss the top of his head like he used to—but lighter now, hesitant, almost guilty.

And every time Louis stood to leave, Charles’ fingers twitched, as if he wanted to reach out and hold him there.

But he never did.

Because even though the tantrums had faded—

the yearning had not.

Charles was growing, changing, learning the weight of longing.

And Louis was unraveling quietly, step by step, pulled further from the boy who needed him and closer to the man the world demanded him to be.

And between them—

a distance neither of them knew how to close anymore.

I wasn’t too involved in the preparations.

Louis took control of everything—every detail, every decision. He made sure Charles had everything he needed:

The tailored suit from the eastern district.

The gold-trimmed invitations.

The music Charles liked.

The security doubled—then tripled.

On paper, it looked like love.

But underneath...

it felt like control wrapped in silk.

The mansion was glowing that night. Laughter echoed through high ceilings, guests moving like bright colors across polished marble. Cameras flashed. Glasses clinked. The world watched the Alvaras shine.

But unfortunately—

at the very peak of the coming-of-age ceremony,

the moment everyone had been waiting for—

I walked straight into a scene I will never forget.

Anna’s voice hit me first.

High.

Sharp.

Terrified.

"LOUIS, STOP! PUT HIM DOWN!"

I turned the corner—

and froze.

Charles was suspended in the air.

Louis had him lifted off the ground by the throat, one hand wrapped tight around his neck, knuckles white with pressure. Charles’ fingers clawed weakly at Louis’ wrist, eyes wide, face flushed dark red, feet kicking against nothing.

For one split second—

Louis didn’t look like Louis.

His pupils were blown wide.

His jaw clenched so tightly it trembled.

His expression was empty—utterly empty—except for the cold, merciless fury the voices poured into him.

"Louis!" I shouted.

He didn’t hear me.

Anna rushed forward, grabbing at Charles’ arm, but Louis jerked him higher with inhuman strength. Charles gagged, choking on air he couldn’t reach, a broken sound tearing from his throat.

"L—Louis—" Charles rasped, barely audible.

Something about hearing his name—

that name—

cut through the noise.

Louis froze.

His grip loosened just enough for Charles to drag in a shattered breath. For a heartbeat, hope flared in my chest.

Then the voices surged again.

Louis’ fingers tightened.

Charles’ body went limp.

"LOUIS!" I moved without thinking, shoving past guests, guards, everything.

And then—

Louis blinked.

Once.

Twice.

Like a man waking from a nightmare.

His hand dropped.

Charles collapsed to the floor, coughing violently, gasping like his lungs were burning. Anna fell to her knees beside him, shaking, pulling him close.

Louis didn’t look at him.

Didn’t look at anyone.

He stepped back slowly, staring at his own hand like it didn’t belong to him.

Then he turned.

And walked away.

No apology.

No explanation.

No glance back.

Just silence.

But I knew.

Whatever had just snapped inside Louis Alvara—

it wasn’t going to heal quietly.

I couldn’t help but be concerned.

Anna was already on her knees beside him, hands shaking as she cradled Charles’ face.

"Charles—hey, look at me," she whispered urgently, brushing hair away from his damp forehead. "Charles, please—open your eyes."

He didn’t respond.

His chest rose, shallow and uneven, each breath sounding like it hurt. His lips were tinged blue at the edges, throat already darkening beneath the collar of his ruined suit.

Panic bloomed fast and ugly in my chest.

"Get space," I snapped at the nearest guards. "Now."

They hesitated—because Louis wasn’t there to command it anymore—but then they moved. The crowd backed away, murmurs rippling like poison through silk and champagne.

Anna tapped Charles’ cheek lightly. Then harder.

"Charles," she said again, voice breaking. "Come on, sweetheart. Don’t do this—please."

Nothing.

I dropped beside them, fingers immediately finding his pulse.

It was there.

Fast. Erratic. Too light.

"He’s breathing," I said, more to reassure myself than anyone else. "He’s breathing."

Anna let out a shaky sob, pressing her forehead to Charles’ shoulder.

"He looked at him," she whispered. "Louis looked at him like he didn’t recognize him."

I didn’t answer.

Because I had seen that look before.

Not often—but enough to know what it meant.

The voices had taken the wheel.

"Medical," I barked into my comm. "Now. And clear the east corridor."

As if summoned by my words, Charles suddenly sucked in a sharp breath—violent, desperate—his body jerking as he coughed hard, curling in on himself.

Anna cried out in relief. "Oh—oh thank God—Charles, that’s it, breathe, just breathe—"

His eyes fluttered open.

Glass-blown. Confused. Drowned.

"An... Anna?" he croaked, fingers curling weakly into her sleeve.

"I’m here," she said immediately, voice thick. "I’ve got you. You’re safe."

Charles blinked again, gaze unfocused, then drifted past her shoulder.

Searching.

"Louis?" he whispered.

The name landed like a blade.

I felt something hollow open in my chest.

Anna stiffened. Her grip tightened protectively around him. "Don’t—don’t move," she said softly. "You need to stay still."

But Charles tried anyway, struggling to sit up, wincing as pain lanced through his neck. "Where did he—"

"He left," I said quietly.

Charles froze.

Something in his expression shifted—not shock, not anger—

hurt.

Raw and silent and devastating.

"Oh," he breathed.

The medics arrived then, kneeling beside us, checking vitals, slipping oxygen under his nose. Anna moved only when they gently guided her back, though she never let go of his hand.

Charles let them tend to him without protest.

Too quiet.

Too compliant.

As they lifted him onto the stretcher, his gaze stayed fixed on the doorway Louis had disappeared through.

Like he was still waiting.

Like part of him believed—stupidly, desperately—that Louis would come back.

I knew better.

And as they wheeled him away, the echo of Louis’ retreating footsteps still ringing in my ears, one terrible truth settled in my bones:

This wasn’t just a fracture.

This was the moment everything began to bleed.