“Please,” he begs, sounding like a broken record. “I just want to go home. I want to see my family!”
They all seem programmed to say the same fucking thing. Each man I’ve killed gave zero thought to their family; each had secret affairs, some even juggling multiple at once. They disrespected their wives, abused them, and wiped their feet on them, thinking they were untouchable gods because of their money.
I’m no hero, but honestly, it feels good to give them what they fucking deserve.
When I was younger, I thought my dad had cursed me. Not many twelve-year-olds get to witness torture and blood, and then go to school as if nothing happened. I kept thinking how wrong and unfair it was. While my peers worried about whether their crush liked them back or about the upcoming math test, my mind was consumed with thoughts of men I’d seen like this.
But over time, I got used to it. More than that, I started to enjoy it. There’s a twisted satisfaction I take from this process. Not that I ever got off on it, no. It’s more about mental relief—finally being able to stop thinking about how miserable your life is and how alone you feel, immersing yourself in the torture instead.
Knowing that tomorrow is a pivotal day, I let myself lose track of time in the process tonight.
“Fuck him and fuck this plan,” I mutter, crumpling the paper with the speech my dad gave me in my trembling hand.
He tries to stop me, shielding me with his body as if he’s afraid someone will see how composed Venetia Ross is about to lose it. But I’m done with this. I’ve already waited twenty minutes for my idiot fiancé. According to the brilliant plan our parents devised, the first step of the campaign is to deliver a scripted speech to the crowd. Everyone has been waiting for us, and each person there knows we’re supposed to come together. It was my job to flood my social media with posts about how excited we both are to share some news—I’m the one witha massive media following, while West prefers to lurk in the shadows.
I’ve done all the work, and he has the nerve to be fucking late. I don’t know where he is, and honestly, I don’t give a shit. After all, I’ve been handling my responsibilities alone this entire time, so it won’t hurt to do it again today. It’ll be his problem to figure out what to say when I appear alone.
“I’m going alone, and I don’t need this,” I snap, tossing the crumpled paper into the trash can before turning toward the exit.
But in the next moment, my arm is caught in Dad’s grasp, his grip painfully tightening. A sharp hiss escapes me as the ache of an upcoming bruise fuels my growing irritation.
“You calm down right fucking now, or I’m done being nice, Venetia,” he spits through clenched teeth, forcefully pulling me closer. “I’ve had enough of your antics. You’ve been giving me a headache the entire drive here, and now, just seconds before you speak in front of a huge crowd, you’re acting even worse.”
Maybe it’s because you’re forcing me to do something that fills me with nothing but disgust. Or maybe it’s because my Xanax has stopped working now that West is involved. I don’t feel calmer—it’s the opposite. I’m ready to scream and stomp like a child because I’m so furious.
This isn’t me. It doesn’t feel right. The funniest part is that this is just the beginning, and I’m already fed up. I have no idea how I’ll survive.
“Let me go,” I say, trying to wrench my hand free, but it’s pointless. He tightens his grip even more, and I squeal, despair clawing at my throat. “Dad!”
“Stop it, Venetia, or I swear I’ll?—”
“What? You’re going to hit me?” I challenge, not realizing I’ve crossed the line. “Go ahead. Then everyone will finally see what kind of father you really are.”
The world falls silent the moment the words leave my mouth, and it feels like a heavy weight has been lifted from my shoulders. My mouth drops open, eyes widening in shock as I blink at him, realizing I’ve just talked back to my dad. More so, I’ve hit a nerve. There’s a subtle darkness in his eyes and a frown that takes over his face as he begins to process what just happened.
When he finally releases my hand, I stifle a groan of relief, feeling pleasure flood the bruised area. Taking advantage of the moment, I storm past him, driven by the lingering fear that he might regain his senses and catch up with me. It’s probably not the best idea to face the crowd so soon after this encounter with him, but I can’t bear to spend another minute in his presence.
I kick my boot against the surface to slam the door open, and harsh daylight pierces my vision. Squinting, I raise a hand to shield my eyes, savoring a brief moment of peace. Something must’ve shifted in the universe—there’s no way I would confront my dad like that on a normal day. It feels strange, like I’ve embarked on a true rebellion against him—even though I know that when I see him again, I’ll mumble an apology and promise it won’t happen again.
But I won’t lie—it feels exhilarating to indulge in a bit of fantasy.
I try to set aside my nagging thoughts as I make my way toward the stage—though calling it a ‘stage’ seems dramatic for the small platform where I’ll perform, set in the middle of the park with a crowd gathered behind a fence.
The mix of cheerful screams pulls me out of my thoughts, leaving them to scatter into thin air. A smile spreads across my face—one that’s perfectly crafted, a performance accessory. I wave at them as I approach the microphone, savoring the increasing chorus of their excitement.
No matter how much I dislike wearing this fake persona, I can’t deny the satisfaction the attention sometimes brings me. I love being the main star. It was daunting when I first started, but over time, I’ve grown accustomed to it, confident that I won’t do anything to tarnish my image.
I halt before the mic and lean in closer. “How’s everyone feeling today?” I ask, injecting cheerfulness into my voice. A mixture of voices fills the air, each with the same predictable answer, and I nod, keeping a smile fixed on my face.
“Where’s West?” a guy shouts, his question triggering a wave of discomfort in me. Does it really matter? I’m here, and I’m taking care of business. It’s irritating that, withmestanding before them, some still manage to think about fucking West.
“He’s—”
I’m cut off, along with the crowd, when the roar of an engine ripples through the space. Everyone looks behind me, and I automatically do the same, surprise etching itself across my features. Smoothly, he speeds closer, the loud sound of his bike making the muscle under my eye twitch.
I fucking hate bikes. They’re loud, dangerous, and just plain annoying. And the funniest part is that he knows that.
Fucking asshole.
