Eventually, he leaves the room too, leaving me alone with her.
I march up to her and grab her hand on the wound.
“Are you okay?”
“I told you to be careful,” she whispers shakily. “I told you not to go against him.”
I push her back against the glass table, grip her waist, and lift her up onto it. I slide between her legs and reach for her wound.
“Let me go,” she says, pushing me back.
“Let me see it,” I say, shoving her hands away. Carefully, I raise her bloody top and take a look at the wound. “It’s just a scratch.”
“But he did it,” she says quietly, her feline eyes softening as they search mine. “He’s more willing to kill me than he is to protect me.”
I shake my head. “Nah, he’s just a control freak, desperate for attention.”
She grabs my hand, and time seems to stop as her gaze captivates me and everything else fades to silence.
“Stay,” she breathes, almost pleading.
My eyes drop to the ground. “I’m not who you think I am, little orchid. I’m not a good person. Besides, you just met me.”
“Yet I feel safer with a stranger than with my own family,” she says as a tear runs down her cheek.
My heart is hammering against my ribs. What am I supposed to do? Stay here and doom us both, or walk away and doom her alone? Since when do I care about anyone else other than me?
“Please. Just stay,” she repeats as more tears run down her face.
I raise my hand and wipe the tears from her cheek.
“You need to find someone else, Isabella.”
“No,” she mutters, giving into her tears.
“I’m not your hero here.”
I turn around and walk away without looking back.
Stronzo!Asshole!
He left! He fucking left when he saw in what kind of hellhole this was.
My eyes burn from the endless tears I’ve shed throughout the night. My head is pounding, and it feels unbearable to lift.
I didn’t sleep. Not even for a second. My heart was racing to the point I thought it’d shatter into pieces. My ribs are killing me from the bullet.
I checked it out, though. It turns out it’s not nearly as bad as it feels, but it still hurts like hell.
I can’t even wrap my head around it. My own father shot me becausehedidn’t play the obedient little dog. His own daughter. All because he couldn’t handle hearing “no.”
And he … He just left! He watched everything go to absolute hell—a hell thathecreated—saw what he’d done, and still turned his back and walked away.
Ugh …
Who am I kidding? Why would he stay? He’s just a stranger that I tried to drag into my shit, wishing he’d be stupid enough to play the hero. Maybe all I wanted was company. Someone who would understand me. Perhaps I’m just a spoiled brat who wanted a new puppet to play with—likehesaid.
Perhaps I’m just losing my mind here. Dad never loved me; he never even tried to fake it. The only things that ever mattered to him were money, power, and his own damn ego. That’s it. He has no heart or soul. He’s just a cold-blooded bastard in a polished office who thinks everything—people, loyalty, even family—has a price tag. And if you can’t be bought or sold,you’re useless.
