Who calls their own daughter a whore?
I can’t picture forming that word with my mouth, let alone aiming it at Emma. Ever.
But Graham Collier is a different kind of man. A man who believes his money is a force field, making him untouchable. Who thinks he can say anything, do anything, and the world will just politely look away.
Well, he was fucking wrong.
My anger that took over in that moment…it wasn’t like anything I’ve ever felt. One second I was wiping a tear from Annie’s cheek and the next, all the oxygen left my brain. There was no thought, just motion. A red haze, and then the satisfying, shocking thud of his body hitting the wall. The look in his bulging eyes wasn’t anger anymore. It was fear.
The last time I got into a physical fight was in ninth grade, in a locker room after a baseball game. Some kid named Derek Houser had spent a full inning making comments about my mom’s accent, saying she should just “go back to being a cleaning lady.” I broke his nose and got suspended for a week. My mom was furious, and then she cried. I remember feeling justified and sick to my stomach all at once.
Tonight, I don’t feel sick. Looking at Annie now, small and silent on my couch, I know I’d do it again. A hundred times over. I’d break every bone in that entitled bastard’s hand if it meant I never had to see this hollowed-out version of her.
I stir a spoonful of honey into her tea, the way I know she likes it. The quiet is the worst part. It’s not a peaceful quiet. It’s the quiet of something that’s been…broken.
I walk over and sit on the coffee table in front of her, our knees almost touching. I hold the warm mug out.
“Here,” I say, my voice rough. “It’s hot.”
She blinks, slowly, as if coming back from a great distance. Her eyes focus on the mug, then drift up to my face. She doesn’t take it. She just looks at me, her expression so lost it cracks something open in my chest.
Finally, she whispers, her voice scraped raw, “You choked my dad.”
It’s not a question. It’s just a stunned statement of fact.
I hold her gaze. “Yeah,” I say quietly. “I did.”
She’s still staring at me, her eyes wide and searching. And fuck, she’s pretty. It’s a ridiculous thing to notice right now, but some people are just pretty criers, and Annie is one of them. Her cheeks are flushed a warm pink, her lips are a little swollen, and her eyes are their usual luminous, heartbreaking hazel. Her hair, with all these silky layers, is still mostly perfect, falling in soft waves around her shoulders and down her back. The lavender dress is stunning. It’s officially my new favorite color on her, joining the ranks of butter-yellow sundresses and mint-green and anything denim. And I like her drowning in my suit jacket. I like her in anything of mine.
She still hasn’t taken the tea. It’s like she doesn’t even see it.
Her gaze hasn’t left mine. She swallows, and her voice is small but clear. “Good.”
The word hangs there for a second.
“No one has ever…no one has ever done anything like that for me,” she says, and her voice breaks on the last word.
I set the mug down on the table with a soft clink. Then I move, sliding onto the couch beside her and gently pulling herinto my lap. She comes easily, folding into me. She smells like an expensive, floral perfume she must have put on for them, and a faint trace of hairspray. Her body melts against mine, all the tension draining out in one long sigh. I start to stroke her hair. It’s as soft as it looks, slipping through my fingers like cool silk.
She’s quiet for a long moment, her face tucked into the curve of my neck. Then, her voice muffled against my skin, she asks, “Do you think they’ll ever talk to me again?”
The question is a small, shattered thing. I wish, more than anything, that I could tell her yes. That I could hand her a neat, happy ending, just to stop the pain in her voice. But I’ve never been in the business of lying to people I care about. I won’t start now, with the woman I love.
I press a kiss to the top of her head. “I don’t know, sweetheart.”
Her shoulders give a tiny, almost imperceptible shake against my chest. Damn it.
She sits up a little, wiping at her cheeks with her fingers. A few stubborn tears cling to the ends of her thick, dark lashes like tiny glass beads. She looks at me, her expression so lost it makes my throat tight. “What did I do,” she whispers, “to make them hate me so much?”
I reach up and brush a tear away with my thumb. “Hey. No. Look at me.” I wait until her watery eyes meet mine. “You didn’t do a single thing wrong. Do you hear me? The problem isn’t you. It’s them.”
She tries to look away, but I gently tilt her chin back.
“Listen to me,” I say, my voice low but firm. “Just because they can’t love you the way you need them to—the way you deserve—doesn’t mean that you’re unworthy of love. It doesn’t mean you should be anyone other than exactly who you are, because that person is…she’s my everything. They’re the oneswho are missing out, Annie.” I wipe away another tear. “Their inability to see you is their failure. Not yours.”
Annie doesn’t say anything at first. She just looks at me, her eyes still shining, and for a second I think she might start crying again. Then she leans in and presses a soft, quick kiss to my lips. It’s over before I can really process it.
“Thank you,” she whispers against my mouth.
