“Don’t call me that.”
She checks at her fresh, fire-red manicure. “I heard you brought a pet with you last night.”
I cross my arms. “You’re mistaken; it wasn’t a pet.”
“Then what was it?”
I scoff, letting the bitterness drip from every word. “A man more capable than the pathetic yes-men Dad thinks he can leash with a fat check.”
Mother’s lips curl into a cold, bitter smile. “Of course. Always so impressed by scraps that you defy your father like a dog that bites the hand, and suddenly you think it’s noble.” She steps closer, crossing her arms. “You think you’ve found someone strong? No, darling. You found someone just reckless enough to pander to your rebellion.”
I don’t react; I merely stay there looking at her, trying to hold back the tears in my eyes. Besides, say what? He left, and I have nothing to prove or be proud of.
He did the right thing. I was the fool, thinking a stranger might play the hero or even protect me. But no one signs up to martyr themselves for a lost cause, especially not one cursed from the start. Not even God dares to touch what poisons the air in this place.
So why the hell would he?
She huffs out a satisfied giggle, like she won the world’s toughest argument, and proudly turns her back.
Sometimes I think she hates me.Actuallyhates me. I’m guessing I remind her of my father and the life she’s trapped in, forced to fake a smile and pretend it’s something she didn’t grow to hate long ago. I know she doesn’t like it here; I just don’t know how she ended up being one of my father’s puppets. It’s not difficult to guess, though.
They’re both incapable of loving anyone but themselves. It takes one to know one.
I don’t want to look at her face anymore, and I don’t want to give her the satisfaction that she’s broken me once again.
I can’t bring myself to admit it. Not even most days. But the truth is, the only thing I’ve ever wanted is the one thing I’ll never get. I want them to love me. Just love me, and not out of duty. Like I’m worth something.
But no. Even that is too much to ask. And the worst part is that, after everything, I still fucking want it.
I walk down the corridor, heading back to my room. All I want to do is lock myself in there and hide from the world.
As I pace, lost in my thoughts, I catch a glimpse of Wes heading toward my father’s office. Someone’s behind him.
It’s him.
Adam.
He’s walking behind him, screaming confidence in his leather jacket and perfectly styled hair. He glances at me with those piercing brown eyes, solemn and serious, like a soldier heading to his commander.
There’s a small wound on his cheekbone. He didn’t have that the night before.
My heart slams against my ribs, and a smile that I can’t hide crosses my lips.
Did he come back?
A few hours ago
Ididn’t go home last night. I couldn’t sit still, couldn’t lie down. I couldn’t do a damn thing without feeling like my skin was too tight. There was too much crap rattling around in me. Adrenaline still spiking, panic hanging on like a bad high.
And guilt.
That sneaky, gut-rotting kind that digs in and won’t shut the hell up.
I took off on the bike, wishing that speed might rip it all out of my head. I punched a couple trash cans, I went for a run till my lungs burned, I had a drink—or maybe three.
None of it worked.
Her eyes. Those damn, tear-filled eyes staring right at me, begging me not to leave.
