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I tuck the duvet under her chin.

And I wait.

Chapter 38

Camila - Aged 23

“Happy fucking birthday to me,” I mutter, shoving an old flimsy dumbbell back under the bed. I managed to swipe one from Luke’s collection two years ago. The dumbass hasn’t even noticed it’s gone missing. Five years ago was when he revoked my freedom of going to pole dancing and gym, which caused me to lose all the muscle I’ve trained hard to build over the years. Parties aren’t a rare thing in this depleted house, so I took the chance while he was high off his head to sneak into his makeshift gym in the conservatory and steal a set of dumbbells. The reason he hasn’t noticed is because he’s stopped working out. He barely has any muscle on him anymore. All he wants to do is get high—it doesn’t matter what he gets high on, as long as he is—and deal drugs.

He’s been getting worse over the last few years. Somewhere along the way, he stopped loving me. He never looks at me anymore. Not unless he wants sex. And even then, most of the time he presses my face into the pillow so he doesn’t have to see me. Every time I mention breaking up, he explodes, and I bear the brunt of it. He lets his mates take advantage of me if he gets high to the point he’s barely awake. He has a new girl over every week, and he makes me watch him fuck them. Something that used to result in me running into the bathroom and vomiting up my dinner, or what little of it I get, since he doesn’t let me out of the house. I eat whatever there is, which is mostly nothing. Now, I’m just numb to the girls. He brings them in, drags me into his room, makes me watch, and I leave. Then I sit on my bed and think about what it would be like to be truly loved by someone. That all-consuming love where your partner would do anything for you. But Luke’s made it clear to me that I’m unloveable. He reminds me every day. By his actions and by his words. I didn’t want to believe it at first… but eventually, you really start to see it yourself.

Who could love a pole-dancing whore, right? A good-for-nothing-but-sex bitch.

Sweat trickles down the side of my temple as I straighten from the floor, pulling out a clean pair of underwear and an oversized top from my flimsy chest of drawers. As I slide it back in, the right side cracks off its hinges.

“Shit,” I hiss as it drops from my hand onto the floor with a loud bang, bending my fingers in the process. Half of my clothes spill out onto the ground, and I just stare at them.

I don’t have the energy to deal with that. My muscles are already starting to get sore from my workout, and all I want to do is shower off the sweat and get into bed.

After showering, I push the broken drawer to the corner of the room and throw my clothes haphazardly inside it. I climb into bed and turn off my bedside lamp. I don’t know what time it is. I assume it’s about ten at night. Cuddling into my sheets, the ringing in my ears from another lonely day starts fading out, and the sounds of a party get louder.

I don’t think Luke forgets my birthday. I think these parties specifically on my birthday are his way of reminding me that he does remember, but he just doesn’t give a shit and he only wants to torment me.

I don’t hear female voices for a change, though. It’s just deep male voices, hooting and hollering. Thunks and thumps from their rough banter of pushing each other around or even getting into real fights. That sofa has more DNA on it than Luke’s dick.

The bass of the music rattles my floor, empty bottles of water rolling around on the splintering wood.

I growl, grabbing the other pillow next to my head and slapping it over my face, muffling the sounds of Luke’s ruckus. I fix my gaze on the moonlit wall, the net curtains casting shadows on the peeling paint as they blow with the chilly breeze.

I stare, and I stare, and I stare. Numb with anger.

Until I let the tear fall.

And another. And another. And another.

Until my pillow becomes wet, soaking up every heartbroken tear. Until the lump in my throat constricts and I can no longer breathe. Until a sob finally shudders out of me, years’ worth of held-back tears hitting me like a train wreck.

I want to scream. But I can’t.

I want to make myself as invisible as possible. I don’t want Luke or his mates coming in here like they do every year and having their way with me while I’m completely unconscious from whatever shit they’ve given me.

I’m weak. Powerless against him. Against them all.

But a sweet, feminine voice echoes in my ears.

‘The only weakness inside you is giving up.’

“What is there that I can do?” I whisper to myself through sobs like a crazy person. It’s been so long since I had a friend to talk to. A shoulder to cry on. Now my head is conjuring up my dead mum to keep me company.

Thanks, brain.

I don’t know how long I lay here, but my face is stiff from crying. Dry tears stain my cheeks, and my eyes sting. I try to breathe through my nose, but it’s completely blocked up.

I stare at the drawer in the corner of the room, the jumper sleeves hanging out of it almost intertwined with each other.

And that’s when I spring into action.

I shove on a pair of leggings and pull a jumper over my head. I brush my still slightly damp hair up into a thick bun, all the while making sure I make as little noise as possible so they can’t hear me downstairs.