She sighs.
We sit in silence while she makes her decision. Then finally, she speaks.
“He didn’t touch me. I promise,” Her eyes close as I pull my forehead from hers. “He said something that triggered me,”
I leave space hoping she will fill in. But she doesn’t. Her mouth wants to leave it there, but when she awards me her focus again, whatever hides behind begs me to push for the truth. Like the darkness within wants to finally find the light.
So, I push.
“Rue,” I pull her even closer. “I don’t know about you, but I felt so much lighter after our conversation the other night. Maybe opening about whatever triggered you, will loosen its hold on you,”
She opens her mouth before closing it again. A look of guilt passing over her.
“Trust me, whatever it is, I won’t judge,” I chuckle. “The skeletons in your closest have nothing on mine,” I smile, and she returns one. The small action warms my chest and I watch as another barrier falls.
“He didn’t touch me,” she repeats. “But his words, they reminded me of someone who did, once upon a time,”
Rage washes over me like a cold wave, but I clamp it down. She doesn’t need my fury; she needs to keep breathing, to keep the story loose enough to pull apart. I nod for her to go on.
She looks away but stays curled in my lap. “My father has a lot of colleagues at the house for meetings and parties,” Her fingers press together between us until the knuckles pale.
“One night when I was sixteen my father had a party. One of his associates got lost,” she says, disdain curling the word. “He somehow found his way into my room,” The air thins. I can feel where this will land, and the knowledge of it makes my chest go hard as stone, because when she names what happened, I will cross a line I won’t be able to take back.
“Everyone was busy downstairs. My room was on the third floor. No one even heard me scream,” A tear slips free. I don’t reach for it; I let her carry that small, private grief. She sits with it until my fingers give a light squeeze. She wipes the tear away herself and straightens as if gathering a frayed thread.
“He got lost a lot over the years,” she continues, as if reciting something ridiculous. “Whenever he was at the house,” She shrugs, as if it could erase the nights.
“And you never told your parents?” I ask.
She shakes her head. “No. They wouldn’t have believed me,”
Something in me sharpens. I thought my family was broken, but this is different. She truly believes it was pointless to speak.
“He eventually stopped coming. But afterwards, every time he left, he’d say the same thing,” Her mouth twists. “Mr. Chapman said it innocently, but it triggered me,”
“What was it?” I press.
“Our little secret,”
My jaw clenches so hard it aches. The word lodges like a stone. I see, with a clarity that is almost violent, the long line of men who have carved ruin through other people’s lives. Part of me wants to burn everythingdown. If I weren’t so utterly obsessed with her, I might wish for the eradication of men altogether. But I need her. I need her like my lungs need oxygen.
“What’s his name?” I ask.
Her eyes find mine and, for a moment, something softens there, like a tiny weight has been lifted from her shoulders. It is barely perceptible, but it steadies me.
“It doesn’t matter,” she says, shaking her head. A faint, brittle smile ghosts her lips.
“It does. What’s his name?” I shift her slightly, just enough to grab my phone out of my pocket. Once I have this piece of shits name, I will get Bishop on to find his location. I smile to myself at the horror I have planned.
“Why?”
“Because I am going to kill him,”
She chuckles. “You are not going to kill him. What would dear old daddy think? Heir of the Vander legacy, locked up for murder,”
I chuckle back. “Haven’t you learned already that a name like mine is a get out of jail free card?” I smirk. “I have, and can commitanycrime I want to, and walk away with barely a slap on the wrist,”
Instead of a little fear like I expect, I watch her hold back a smile of her own.
