Page 2 of Redeeming the Villain
I was taught to be the perfectly behaved daughter who never spoke out of turn or had a hair out of place. But I suppose that’s what’s expected of a congressman’s only child and the future heiress of the Briarwood fortune.
That’s all he ever refers to me as in his interviews—his sole heir, his legacy. But perhaps that’s because that’s all he truly knows of me. I’ve barely seen or spoken to him since he handed me over to his three sisters just before my senior year of high school because I had becometoo much to handlealongside his work.
When I turned eighteen on my birthday, to be exact—I was diagnosed with POTS, postural orthostatic tachycardia syndrome.
For years, my dad and doctor had diagnosed my symptoms as anxiety. But they were wrong, and deep down, I knew it all along. Do I have anxiety? Yes, frequently. But that was certainly not the entirety of what I was going through.
It didn’t matter how doctors many I went to; they all gave me the same diagnosis. When my primary doctor retired and was replaced with a new one, I’d finally felt listened to for the first time ever.
My dad was deep in his congressional campaign amid my diagnosis, and I think it was all a bit much for him to handle. At least that’s what it felt like. Because two days after my appointment, his assistant had my bags packed, and my dad informed me that I would be going to live with my aunts for the rest of high school.
With a hug and tears streaming down my face, I was gone. He might not have been the most doting dad, but he was all I had, especially after my mom passed when I was seven.
He has always been emotionally unavailable, but it got so much worse after we lost my mom thirteen years ago. She was the sunshine to his shadows, and since she’s been gone, he’s been consumed by the darkness. He became ice cold, never showing any emotion, and the man I remember from my childhood is long gone.
As for my aunts—Flora Merryweather, Fauna Merryweather, and Freya Merryweather—they are the epitome of love and affection.
They all chose to bear their mother’s maiden name rather than their cruel father’s—a similar choice I have considered many times over the last couple of years.
Thankfully, they are nothing like my dad. Although they were raised under the same roof by the same parents, somehow, the three of them turned out to be compassionate, selfless, and kind.
The media would have you believe the same about Congressman Daniel Briarwood. A mourning widower who will never remarry out of the love for his wife. A father who misses his daughter every single day, but knew she deserved a life out of the spotlight, so he selflessly sent her away.
Although if that were true, he would have called or at least texted. The only correspondence I’ve gotten over the last couple of years are bank notifications from him sending money on my birthday and a few cards that were clearly sent from his assistants.
As a teenager, “I love you”was only spewed when I had been acting up and needed to be reeled back in. He knew before I did that I thrived on praise and acceptance, and he knew exactly how to use it to mold me. He also learned over the last couple of years, that the love tactic doesn’t work on me anymore.
Most of our hugs were in front of a camera or crowd. Aside from the one on the day I left, when his assistant had to drag me from him as I cried, begging him not to send me away.
I can picture that moment so clearly. It still haunts me. The coldness in his gaze, the heartlessness in his touch. I didn’t know him anymore, not in the same way I used to.
He throws money at my aunts and me during every holiday, not bothering to attend himself—unless, of course, a news outlet is doing an exposé and he needs to once again paint the perfect family image.
Now, I am merely my dad’s asset more than his daughter, and only recently have I come to terms with that fact...for the most part at least.
Since then, I’ve been more comfortable tapping into my bank accounts and trust fund that became mine when I turned eighteen. My trust fund was set up by my mom, and no matter what, he can’t hold that over my head because he has no access to it. It’s solely mine, no guilt attached.
For the longest time, I could never treat myself or splurge because I knew the money came from him trying to buy my love. But that is just one of the many things that I’ve been working on over the last year or so.
After graduating high school, I took a year off before coming to Happily Ever After University. My acceptance had already been signed, sealed, and delivered before I was even born. I was a politician’s daughter and an HEAU legacy, so my application was more of a formality.
But I needed time first before going to school. I needed to spread my wings and try to find myself because I had no clue who I was and what I wanted out of life. To be honest, that’s still a work in progress.
But getting out of Avandale and away from the horrors of my senior year, something changed in me. I used to be shy and a pushover, taking anything the world threw at me with a smile on my face. The way my dad had taught me.
But not anymore.
If I have discovered anything this past year abroad, it’s that I’m done taking shit from anyone.
My blood boils ashisface flashes in my mind—my tormenter, the dark and twisted villain of my story. The one who made every single day of my senior year a living, breathing nightmare from the moment I transferred to Avandale High School.
Malik Ravenwell.A name I will never forget, no matter how hard I try.
If my dad taught me the lovelessness in the world, then Malik taught me the cruelness.Over and over.
He is the reason I graduated high school two months early, the reason that I spent countless nights crying, and the reason I fled the country the second I could. I didn’t even want to be on the same continent as him. I still don’t.
But I’m done hiding from the villains in my life. I’m not a princess locked in a tower, waiting to be saved by some honorable prince. I’ll wield the sword and slay the dragon myself.
