“I was nice enough to let you have a day off. Maybe I shouldn’t have if you can’t appreciate everything I do for you.”
Do for me?What the fuck do you do for me, Tommy? Because I’d absolutely love to know.
I was given a credit card I’m not allowed to use. If I get groceries, I have to show him the receipt. If I need a dress for an event, his assistant gets it for me. If I want to visit Dad’s memorial, I need permission—and he always says no. If I breathe too loud, I get yelled at. If I blink too much, I’m glared at.
The only thing Tommy has ever done for me is hate every single aspect of my existence.
I stare blankly to the side, the knife’s plastic handle taunting me, orange carrot residue pebbled along the serrated edge.
Speak when spoken to. Bend over when told. Spread my legs when he wants.
He doesn’t want a wife. He wants a servant.
Dad would be disappointed to see what I’ve become.
I clench my jaw, trying to stop my body from trembling.
“Do you know how many girls want to be in your position? I could have my pick from a hundred of them, but I choseyouto be my wife. And you’ve been nothing but ungrateful.”
Then why did you do it, Tommy?Was it the brightness in my eyes when you found me fresh from university? Or did you decide I would make the perfect victim when you discovered I had the skills required to elevate your business?
I had dreams, Tommy. Hope. Real talent. I could have made a difference, saved lives. I was meant to soar.
I would have been everything without you.
But you killed me, Thomas Gallagher.
You and your brother, John, buried me alive.
He slaps my cheek, and my head whips to the side as the sound of skin colliding with skin ripples through the plain room. Red blossoms along my cheek, burning a path straight to my still-beating heart. “You would be nothing without me, Kristy.”
I despise hearing those two syllables on his lips.
Kristy.
That name used to hold such fond memories—how my father used to say it, the way the etching of “Misty” gleamed on his bike’s gas tank. Now, I hate it. I never want to hear it again.
“Nothing,” he yells.
Tommy is a piece of shit in an expensive suit. His whole family is—criminals with deep pockets and an even deeper hold on the police. Everyone turns a blind eye to the heinous acts carried out within theirenterprise—gang, group, organization, whatever they want to call themselves. The effect is the same.
I could kill Tommy, and I wouldn’t shed a tear. His entire family could drop dead at my feet, and I wouldn’t bat an eye. They’re all monsters, the worst dregs of society, hidden behind diamonds and gold.
My lips twitch, and I have to fight back a sneer. I just wanted to mourn my dad today. Was that really too much to ask?
His fingers wrap around my throat, cutting off my oxygen. Pain swells around my neck, worse where his skin touches mine. My flesh is still raw from when he did this two nights ago. It pales in comparison to the rest of my injuries.
I don’t struggle or fight. He prefers it when I do. The last thing I want is to bring him more pleasure from my suffering.
My watery stare flicks up to his putrid green eyes. His pupils are blown out, the corners of his eyes are creased. His mouth is curled down. There’s a rosy tint to his tanned cheeks. The tendons in his neck strain, but not from exertion.
I know what will happen next. It’s what always happens when Tommy looks at me this way. He’ll turn me around and take me. If I’m lucky, I’ll be able to sit tomorrow.
I hate him.
I hate him. I hate him. I hate him.
God, I fuckinghatehim.
