Lyan Chandra stood outside Angela Mayer's door, his heart pounding with anticipation. His hands were slick with sweat, but his grip on the small velvet box was firm. Six years of love, laughter, and shared dreams had led him to this moment. Tonight, he would ask her to be his forever.
He rehearsed the words in his mind for the hundredth time, chuckling nervously at how clumsy they sounded. Angela always teased him about overthinking. "Just say what you feel," she'd told him once, her green eyes sparkling with amusement. He could almost hear her voice now.
Taking a deep breath, he turned the handle and stepped inside.
The room was silent, eerily so. A faint citrusy scent of her perfume lingered in the air, but something felt... wrong.
"Angela?" he called out, his voice uncertain. She didn't respond.
And then he saw her.
She lay motionless on the bed, her golden hair fanned out like a halo. Beside her, a crumpled piece of paper caught his eye—a note, hastily scrawled, and a bottle of pills tipped over on the nightstand, its contents scattered across the floor.
The world seemed to tilt. The velvet box slipped from his grasp, hitting the floor with a soft thud. His knees buckled as he rushed to her side, shaking her gently, then more urgently. Her skin was cold, her lips faintly blue.
"No... no, no, no," he whispered, his voice breaking.
The note was simple, almost cruel in its brevity: I'm sorry. I can't do this anymore. I am sorry I chose the easy way to handle everything I carried on my shoulders! Please take care of yourself. Yours forever.
Lyan cried out loud. Not accepting what happened. "No Angela, you can't do this to me. Wake up and tell me it was a prank."
Without waiting for a second, he called 911.
"911, what's your emergency?"
The dispatcher's voice was calm, professional, but all he could do was choke out desperate words.
"My fiancée—she's not breathing. I think she—she took something. Please, you have to hurry!"
"Sir, stay with me. Is she responsive at all?"
"No, she's cold. She's—" His voice cracked. "Please just send someone!"
"Help is on the way. Stay on the line with me."
Lyan barely heard the instructions. He dropped the phone onto the bed, his fingers moving on their own as he pressed against Angela's chest, attempting CPR. His breaths were shaky as he leaned over her, whispering broken pleas between compressions.
The front door slammed open. Two paramedics rushed in, their movements swift and practiced. Lyan stumbled back, his body numb as they worked over her. One of them injected something. Another set up a defibrillator.
"Come on, come on," one muttered under his breath.
"Sir, I am sorry. But she's gone," A paramedic said.
Before he could take a seat, two policemen approached. "LADP. Souzan, Darsa." The woman in the police uniform said. As the policeman tapped his shoulder.
"Can we ask you a few questions?" The man asked.
Lyan's tears were flowing as he responded, "No…" His voice cracked as he shook his head, stepping away from the police officers. His breath was ragged, as if his chest had forgotten how to inhale without her there beside him. "I can't do this... I can't.... I don't wanna talk to anyone. I wanna be alone!"
"Please, we would like to talk to you even for a moment," Sousan said respectfully.
Lyan stood frozen, his body shaking violently, but his mind was numb.
Souzan, the woman officer, stepped forward, "I understand, sir. But we need to ask you a few questions to understand what happened. We're just trying to help."
"What are you trying to know? Are you suspecting me?" he said, picking a small velvet box from the floor, "Look," Lyan's voice was raw, his hands trembling as he held up the velvet box. It was small and simple, the kind of box that would hold an engagement ring.
"This… this was for her. I was going to ask her to be my wife tonight. I loved her. How dare she leave me? I told her that she was my life, that without her, there was no me. Look what she did to me. Angela, you are bad! You broke my heart!."
"I don't care about the facts right now. I just… I just want her back. She can't be gone, not like this." His voice cracked, breaking into a strangled sob.
"We know this is hard," Souzan continued gently, her voice low and steady, "but right now, we need to ask you a few things. It'll only take a moment."
Lyan stared at her, his eyes wild with grief, and then he exhaled sharply, as if deflated.
"What is your name and what's your relationship with her?" Souzan asked.
Lyan was now angry. "Are you dumb? I just told you I came here to propose. What do you think is my relationship with her?" He was angry and sad. "I know, both of you know me. so stop asking the damn fake questions!"
"Sir, we know your name, but we want you to say it." Darsa said with professionalism.
"Lyan... Lyan Chandra." Lyan finally said.
"Do you think of a reason she would take her life?" Souzan asked.
Lyan shook his head, "Not really. She was happy. We even met in the morning."
Souzan nodded thoughtfully. "And how about her personal life? Friends, family? Was there any indication that something was wrong?"
"No... she has only one friend, Majesty. Her mother is in the mental hospital." Lyan said, "She had no enemies...." before he could finish the sentence. He started thinking about anyone who would want her dead.
"Sir... Sir... You were saying something."
Lyan quickly stood up and said, "This is not my house. I am leaving. Ask me questions after I have buried my fiancée. Right now, I want some time alone.
After two days, he held a funeral for her. It was a blur of tears, condolences, and unbearable emptiness. After all the guests had left, Lyan found himself alone. He asked his mother-like maid, Mrs Jones, to leave because he wanted some time alone.
"Dear, I don't want to leave you alone. You are giving me a leave at most times I don't want it."
He turned to face her, his face expressionless, but his heart swelled with the grief he couldn't express. Mrs. Jones had been like a second mother to him.
"Mrs. Jones, I need to be alone," Lyan said, his voice hoarse. The words felt wrong coming out of his mouth, but he needed space. He needed to breathe.
Mrs. Jones, however, didn't move. She stood there in the doorway, her usual sternness softened by the worry etched on her face. "Lyan, love... I know you're hurting. I know you want to shut yourself away from everyone, but I'm here for you. I'll always be here for you, no matter what. Please don't push me away. At least let your friend Sam come and help you."
"He's the worst of all people I don't want to hear." Lyan said, "Please, for once Mrs Jones. Leave me alone. Even if it's for a week."
Mrs Jones nodded, and approached him. She hugged him tightly to comfort him. Lyan however, broke into tears the more Mrs Jones hugged him.
"I just… I don't know how to do this, Mrs. Jones. I don't know how to keep going," he admitted, his voice breaking. "She was everything to me. I was going to ask her to marry me, and now… now I don't even know how to breathe without her. It hurts, it hurts so much." he said, beating his chest.
He couldn't believe any of this was real. Angela wasn't the kind of person to end her life. She'd always been so full of life, always the one comforting others. "What happened to you? Why would you choose to leave me with such a wound on my once perfect heart? He thought." He murmured.
Mrs Jones let go, and said, "Take care of yourself son. I am giving you three days to mourn alone. I'll be back." she said before taking her bag and left the villa.
The next day, Lyan was now starting to think properly. The questions consumed him, gnawing at his sanity. He needed answers—answers that the note and his memories couldn't provide. "The suicide letter isn't enough evidence that she took her life." He thought.
Picking up his phone, he called a private investigator he trusted, a man he had once called a friend: Mark Queens.
Mark answered on the third ring, his voice gruff but warm. "Lyan? It's been a while. What's going on?"
Lyan's throat tightened, but he forced himself to speak. "Mark, I need your help. Angela... she's gone."
"What? Angela is what? When how?" Mark asked in disbeleif.
Lyan sighed as he took a sip from the whisky glass in his hands, "Surprised, right? Yeah! I am too. I found a suicide letter to her desk, but I don't believe she could have done that to herself. That's why I desperately need your help."
Mark's tone immediately shifted, his professionalism kicking in. "I'm sorry for your loss, Lyan. Tell me everything. Start from the beginning. Why are you convinced that she did not kill herself?"
Lyan recounted the events, his voice trembling as he relived that terrible night. Mark listened without interrupting, only asking occasional questions to clarify details. When Lyan finished, Mark was silent for a moment, then spoke with quiet determination.
"Lyan, if you think there's more to this, I'll find out. But you have to prepare yourself. The answers might not be what you want to hear."
"I don't care," Lyan said, his voice firm despite the tears threatening to spill. "I just need to know the truth."