I slamthe front door behind me, the echo ricocheting through the cavernous foyer. The cold marble floor clicks beneath my heels as I storm forward, each step heavy with fury. My fists are clenched at my sides as my lungs burn as I struggle to catch my breath.
I hate it here; the thought of being back inside this prison makes my stomach twist.
Nothing has changed in these past six months.
Not the sterile silence that swallows every sound, or the walls still lined with bland, overpriced art. Not the hideous black marble countertops in the kitchen, or those gaudy, oversized gold chandeliers hanging above like they’re trying to impress God himself.
It’s all still heinous, still fucking vile. So far removed from reality, its a fucking joke.
I find him exactly where I expected him to be, perched at his custom-built bar, pouring himself two fingers of whiskey like he’s earned the indulgence. The soft clink ofglass against crystal breaks the stillness as he turns toward me, his expression already souring.
“Stop being fucking dramatic for once in your goddamn life,” he spits. “And be thankful for what your father is doing for you.”
I stop cold. I turn to face him, slowly at first, and then with a snap so sharp it feels like my neck might crack. “Thankful?” I hiss, my voice low and shaking with rage. “I’m not some pawn in your pathetic little game. I’m not your leverage or your bargaining chip. I’mdone.I can’t do this anymore. I’m at my fucking limit.”
He brings the glass to his lips, taking a slow, indulgent sip of whiskey. An icy smile curls at the corners of his mouth like he’s savoring victory.
“You think you’re worth being a pawn?” he says, swirling the amber liquid in his glass with a casual flick. “Please.”
He leans into his glass, his voice dropping to something sharp and venomous.
“I couldn’t care less what you do with yourself. You could be rotting in a ditch somewhere, and I’d sleep better knowing I never had to deal with your bullshit again.”
He chuckles under his breath, then downs the rest of the whiskey and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.
“This deal makes me unstoppable. And if using you gets me what I want?” His eyes narrowed, the glass tapping once against the table. “Then I’ll use you however the fuck I please.”
My lungs burn from the sudden rush of air, and my throat tightens as the tears rise. I swipe them away quickly, refusing to let him see them fall.
“I was finally happy,” I whisper, my fingers trembling as they clutch the fabric at my chest. “I did what you asked. Ilearned to be independent. I fell in love with my life again. And you ripped it away—so that you could fill your fucking wallet.”
He scoffs without hesitation, brushing invisible lint off his sleeve like my pain is an inconvenience. “You were draining my fortune,” he snaps. “Drinking, partying, doing drugs—turning my name into a fucking joke. Everything I built, you dragged through the mud. You were, and still are, a goddamn embarrassment of a daughter.”
The rage bubbles up, and my hands slam against my chest, fists curled like I’m trying to hold myself together. “I was and still am grieving! Drowning in pain, and you left me to fucking fend for myself! You threw money at me like it was supposed to raise me. I didn’t need your fucking credit cards—I needed a father! I needed you, but you weren’t there. You never were!”
He rises from the barstool in one swift motion as he grabs it and hurls it across the room. It crashes into a statue near the entryway, shattering it into jagged shards.
My heart jumps into my throat.
He scoffs, stalking toward me, his eyes blazing. “And now look at you,” he growls. “Crying. Screaming. Always making a scene. Still the same pathetic, broken little girl. A whiny little bitch. You haven’t changed a fucking thing.”
My jaw clenches as I dig my nails into my palms. I refuse to cry in front of him again. I won’t waste another tear.
He stops in front of me, towering over me like a crazed lunatic. His hand shoots out, his fingers dig into my chin, forcing my gaze up to meet his. His expression twists into something cruel.
“You know what you were made for, Catalina?” hespits, his grip tightening. “To be used. Just like your whore of a mother. To sit still, look pretty, and shut the fuck up.”
He leans closer, his breath sharp with whiskey. “You should be grateful for the life I gave you.”
“Fuck you.”
Those two words—the ones I’ve swallowed for years—finally burst free.
His smile fades. “There it is,” he mutters. “There’s that fucking bad attitude.”
“I’m not afraid of you anymore,” I say, my voice steady despite the quiver in my chest. “I’m done staying quiet just to keep the peace.”
“Oh?” he mocks, caging me in. “You’re not afraid? Then why are your hands shaking?”
